Chapter 47
Katherine
Katherine had been pacing for hours.
Back and forth. Over and over.
She couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t think straight. Her nerves were strung too tight, stretched to the breaking point. Fear and helplessness twisted in her gut, winding her tighter with every passing minute.
Every creak of the building sent a jolt down her spine.
Every car door slamming outside had her darting to the window, heart hammering, breath caught in her throat. Each false alarm made it worse, dragged her deeper into the spiral.
Where the hell was he?
She’d showered twice. Scrubbed her skin raw. But the memory of that alley—the darkness, the choking panic, the hands that didn’t belong—still clung like a bruise beneath her skin. Invisible, but burning.
She tried sitting. Then standing. Then curling into herself on the couch, legs tucked tight to her chest like she could physically keep herself from falling apart.
It didn’t help.
The silence pressed in from every direction. Thick. Suffocating. The minutes felt like hours. The waiting—endless.
Then—a knock.
Not loud. Not frantic.
Three slow, deliberate raps.
Katherine stopped breathing.
She hadn’t buzzed anyone in. The door was locked. Her pulse spiked instantly, chest tightening like a fist had closed around it.
She stepped closer, barefoot on cold wood, heart in her throat. Her voice was tight, barely above a whisper. "Who is it?"
A pause.
Then, muffled but unmistakable:
"It’s me."
Ben.
Relief crashed over her like a wave—too big, too fast, too sharp. She felt it rush up through her ribs, into her throat, blooming in her chest like something was about to break.
She turned the lock with trembling fingers, heart pounding in her ears, and pulled open the door—
And the breath rushed out of her lungs.
Ben stood in the doorway. Jacket half-off, shirt soaked in red. Not streaked. Drenched. The white fabric was plastered to his skin, clinging to muscle and bone, dyed in something too dark to be mistaken for anything else.
Blood.
Her stomach flipped violently. "Ben—"
He didn’t meet her eyes. Didn’t speak right away.
Just let out a long, weary exhale and shrugged off his jacket like it had become unbearable.
"It’s not mine," he said.
Flat. Depleted. Like the words were routine now. Like he’d practiced them.
She stared, frozen. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the door, knuckles white.
Not his blood.
She pictured it—her attacker, flashes of violence, of Ben and Julian standing over someone who couldn’t fight back.
She didn’t want to imagine it. Didn’t want to see it. But her mind filled in the blanks anyway.
Too much blood.
Her stomach twisted.
She slapped a hand to her mouth and turned, bolting toward the kitchen. The cold tile bit into her feet, grounding her just enough to keep her upright. She didn’t throw up, but she hovered over the sink, trembling, breath shallow.
Then water. Cold. Brutal. She splashed it on her face, trying to drown the images, trying to silence the guilt and horror curling in her gut.
Behind her, she heard the door close. Footsteps. Ben.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, watching her, silent and still.
Katherine turned slowly, her face wet, her pulse loud in her ears.
"What did you do?" she asked, voice hoarse.
Ben didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
The silence was heavy enough to crush her.
And it said everything.
Kath stared at the blood on Ben's shirt, the reality of what must have happened sinking into her like a stone dropping through water. Her initial shock gave way to something colder, sharper—a clarity that cut through her confusion.
Her heart pounded, loud and relentless against her ribs.
"Tell me it's not what I think," she said, voice low, controlled. The words came out steadier than they should have, given how her insides trembled.
Ben lifted his gaze to meet hers. His eyes were dark, unreadable. He didn't flinch. Didn't look away.
"I did what I had to, Katherine," he said, calm. Final. Like he was telling her about a business meeting, not whatever had left him covered in another man's blood.
Her tone spiked, slicing through the stillness between them.
"What? You tortured a man!"
Ben didn't blink. His expression remained unmoved, as though her horror was simply an inconvenience to be weathered.
"I got information," he replied, cool and detached.
Kath's stomach lurched. She'd known Ben was capable of darkness—had seen glimpses of it in the courtroom, in the way he dismantled opponents with surgical precision. But this was different. This wasn't legal maneuvering or verbal sparring.
This was violence. Real, physical, brutal.
Katherine's hand gestured toward his ruined shirt, the crimson stains stark against the white fabric. "You're covered in blood. That doesn't look like just 'getting information.'
It's almost look like you killed someone."
Ben huffed, almost amused. Dismissive. "You'd be surprised how much someone bleeds from the smallest cut."
The ease in his tone chilled her more than the words. It wasn’t just what he said—it was how lightly he said it. Like violence was a tool, not a consequence. And if there was this much blood… it hadn’t been one cut. It had been many.
Katherine’s pulse kicked. Her stomach twisted as her gaze dropped again to the crimson stains spreading through his shirt. There was nothing precise about this. Nothing contained. No courtroom polish—just something raw, feral.
She stepped closer before she could stop herself, voice sharp and rising. "You can't just cross every line."
Ben exhaled, shoulders shifting back, like he was brushing off the entire conversation. Like her concerns were trivial, unworthy of real consideration.
"Then tell me how else to win," he said—flat, unyielding.
She glared at him, fury rising in her chest, hot and sharp.
"By not becoming them."
His mouth twitched—just barely—a corner pulling tight.
The only sign her words had landed.
"We're already past that," he snapped. “We passed fair a long time ago.”
Katherine shook her head, stepping back as if distance might help her process what she was hearing. Her breath came shallow, her chest tight with disbelief.
"You think this is justice?" she asked, her voice rising—cracking at the edges.
Ben’s reply came low and cold. "I think this is war, Katherine."
She froze.
The word hit her like a slap—ugly, absolute. War. Not a case. Not a legal battle. Something far darker. More personal.
Ben took another step closer, his voice sharpening like a blade unsheathed.
"You want to talk about being just as bad? Crawford sent someone to hurt you. You think he would've stopped at bruises? If I hadn’t walked in, he would’ve raped you.
Maybe worse. Maybe he’d have made sure you didn’t get up again. "
Katherine’s breath caught. Her spine pressed tight against the wall behind her, but it still didn’t feel like enough distance.
Ben didn’t flinch. "That wasn’t a scare tactic. That was the first move. I could've let him run. Turned my back. But I didn't. I did what was necessary. Even if I hate it.."
The room seemed to close in around them. Her voice came barely above a whisper. "If we do this... we're just as bad.
No different."
Ben’s lips pressed into a thin line—but it wasn’t anger that moved him. It was calculation. A bitter, anchored knowing.
Then, a quiet, bitter laugh broke from his chest. Hollow. Dry. "You still don’t get it."
She looked up, wounded and sharp all at once.
"You think you're clean?" he asked, eyes narrowing. "You lived a lie for years. You danced behind masks and cash tips and secrets. You let men touch you for money while your father rotted in prison. You think that’s different than what I’m doing?
You crossed lines, Katherine. You just told yourself yours were prettier. "
Katherine flinched. Her body locked tight. But she didn’t look away.
"I’m not judging you," he added, voice lower now—gravel-thick, but not cruel. "You did what you had to. You survived.
So did I."
Her stomach twisted painfully. The words landed with devastating precision, exposing the choices she'd made—choices she'd rationalized away. She could have found another path. She could have struggled through legitimate channels, endured the weight of debt, the uncertainty of repayment.
But she hadn't.
She'd chosen the mask. The club. The secrets.
Because he's right, she realized with a sickening clarity.
And she hated that he was right.
Katherine swallowed hard, her throat tight. The accusation in his words burned, but she couldn't deny the truth behind them. She'd made her choices. Crossed her lines. All while telling herself it was different—that she had no choice.
The fire in her chest didn't fade—it flared hotter, spreading through her veins like wildfire. But it was tangled now.
Twisted with guilt. With the sting of being seen too clearly, of having someone pull back the curtain on the justifications she'd built so carefully.
Ben stepped closer.
Katherine's breath caught in her throat as he moved toward her, close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him.
His presence was overwhelming, suffocating in its intensity.
She should step back. She should put distance between them. But her body refused to move.
Her pulse quickened, hammering against her ribs as the air between them thickened. The anger still burned—but it had shifted. Warped into something rawer. Sharper. Electric. Dangerous.
The space between them sizzled with unresolved tension, a live wire neither dared to touch, yet neither could look away from.
A long silence stretched between them.
She could hear her own breathing, shallow and uneven. Could see the muscle ticking in Ben's jaw, the restraint vibrating through his frame. His eyes stayed locked on hers—dark, steady, unreadable.
Then, quietly, her voice broke the tension. "Why? Why tell me all this?"
The question slipped out before she could stop it. A crack in her armor. A moment of unguarded vulnerability she hadn't meant to show.
Ben exhaled. Long. Measured. Like it hurt to admit it.
He dragged a hand down his face. His shoulders, always so composed, sagged just enough to betray the weight he carried. He looked different now. Not weak—but worn. Like someone who had walked through something brutal and hadn’t fully come back.
"Because I don’t want to lie to you," he said. Quiet. Bare.
Katherine's chest tightened. There was no performance in his voice, no manipulation. Just truth. Ugly and unvarnished.
Her gaze dropped. To his shirt. The blood. Some of it had dried. Some of it hadn't.
And then, slowly, deliberately, she reached out.
Her fingers found the edge of the crimson stain near his ribs—a spot where it still glistened faintly in the low light. She pressed her hand to it, letting the warmth soak into her skin. The gesture was quiet. Wordless. A choice.
If you're willing to stain yourself for this, she thought, then so am I.
Ben didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just looked at her, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
The space between them felt different now. He hadn’t stepped back. She hadn’t either.
The anger was still there. But now, layered beneath it, was something quieter.
A fragile kind of understanding. A recognition of the cost. Neither of them spoke.