A/N: Just gonna take this lil opportunity to say thank you for 1K on this fic!

It's been a little slow up until now and I apologise for that – it's a total different approach from Playing Dangerous so I'm kind of trying to adjust.

With that said, please enjoy 😊

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God knows how much time had passed since Lana had been tossed into the back of that carriage. The smothering material of the blindfold that had been tied tightly around her head meant she could not see anything around her at all – and with the evident lack of light in the dead of midnight, coupled with the disorientated rolling wobbling movements of the carriage on uneven track – she felt understandably disorientated, and sick to the pit of her stomach with frightened confusion.

The singer's vulnerability was highlighted significantly. She came to realise she was at the complete mercy of these men.

"We're almost home now, boys." The leader of her kidnapping jeered out, sounding overtly smug and confident. It was almost like his tone was perfectly tailored to strike a nerve of frustration.

The movements of the carriage around her were gradually slowed, until at last, it's rigorous tilting ceased and for a split second there was silence. Her heart still seemed to sit in the centre of her throat, completely on edge and expecting the worse. The simple act of not being able to use her sight was a thing she realised she had took for granted until it was disabled from use.

"Grab that girl, Mr Morgan." Came that brash, egotistical, pompous voice once again. Ringing deep and low, with laced undertones of excited menace. He could see Lana was frightened out of her wit and was taking some real pleasure from it.

The singer audibly squeaked in fright when she felt fingertips press into the flesh of her arm. She would not necessarily describe the touch as rough, but it was calloused, weathered fingertips that gripped her in a manner that was far from gentle.

Following the little frightened yelp, she could hear a hefty and burdened style of sighing. Lana gathered that this Morgan feller was probably rolling his eyes.

"Come along now, miss." A low, but never the less reassuring voice offered, her arm gently being guided to assist her out of the carriage.

"No one's gonna lay a finger on ya' unless you cause some trouble." He advised, guiding Lana out of the carriage in such a gentlemanly fashion – and then giving a stark juxtapose as he twisted her arm behind her back and held it there, marching across grassy, unlevel terrain like some kind of criminal.

The night's unmerciful breeze prickling against the singer's skin, raising goosebumps – she felt a sharp jab of courage. Although this situation was dire – it sent her brain coursing over the simple fact that she had nothing to lose really. She loathed her life with Harper as much as she really hated this... sorry as it was, she felt she owed her hope nothing to keep going for.

"You're all horrible, sick bastards." Lana found herself remarking, voice marked up with venom and disgust. It was an attempt to hope to remind this man of what he was putting an innocent woman through, but at this moment it seemed the singer's efforts to emotionally manipulate him were not up to scratch.

"Aint we just? You ain't the first woman to tell me that." The voice of the man keeping her captive rang out, he almost sounded amused. Desensitised. One might dare say slightly in humoured disbelief of something? Lana couldn't make it out, he seemed just about as clear as a view through a fogged up spyglass.

"We're about to head up some steps now." Mr Morgan had then proceeded to warn, and Lana did hear his muffled laughter whilst she over judged the size of the steps he was forcing her to walk up. It irked the singer more, the fact this all seemed to be some kind of joke for him?

"I assure you, Mr Morgan," Lana snapped with animosity, hoping to make the attack more personal this time by using his name, "This ain't no laughing matter. I assure you that you will all pay for what you've done tonight."

There it was again, a little sarcastic chuckle. Merely lasting a few seconds, as brief as a whistle in the wind.

"Sure. Well, Harper ain't here to protect you now. So, like I said – for your sake, best keep that pretty mouth shut."

The way his demeanour had flashed between that of a man finding amusement in her attitude – to a brute threatening a course of ill treatment upon her person was a further harsh slap of reality of what these men were clearly capable of.

Not surprisingly enough, that statement left Lana in silence – for now at least.

Soon after, her senses became aware to the fact the wind was no longer nibbling upon her skin, and the chill amid the air seemed to lessen in this environment.

Even without the use of her eyes she could sense she was inside a building. There seemed to be walls around, and the sound of the ambient slow hollow clicks of her high heels upon a boarded wooden floor.

"You can take that blindfold off now."

Hissing, Lana released a small mew of pain when the rough hands of the man keeping her hostage moments before seemed to be roughly untying the knot in the blindfold, catching her hair as he did which resulted in another curse of pain. Despite this, she was incredibly relieved to have her sight back in those following moments.

Low light meant that there was little for her eyes to adjust to – the only source of light in this darkened room was an oil lamp sat upon a crate in the far right corner of the room, casting a mulled orange glow that barely lit the corner it was in.

"Sit her down." The dark haired man's eyes gleamed in a predatory fashion, Lana's stomach given a dropping sensation when Mr Morgan had pushed her down by the shoulder's into a rather rickety old farmhouse kitchen chair. The thing creaked miserably under the force of the movement, and it sure as hell knocked the breath out of her in shock.

The tension in the air could be cut with a blunted spoon, let alone a knife. The intensity of that dark brown eyed stare had her feeling like she was caught like a rabbit in a trap.

"You're gonna tell us some things about Jim Harper, girlie." The man's baritone voice growled, the pitch of it seemingly causing stir of absolute terror in the singer's lower gut. Despite her gaze feeling like a horse in blinkers – locked onto this leader's stare; she was very much aware of Mr Morgan and another man stood lurking either side of the room, just behind the chair she was in.

A couple of moments silence passed, and she swallowed the boulder sized lump in her throat to croak out a response.

"I already told you... I don't know anything about his... his dealings, okay?" Lana argued, hands gripped nervously on the edge of the wooden seat. "I... I'm just his girl." She felt sickened to say the words, and her voice was unembellished of any niceties – instead it was plain with a cold disheartened tone – the reality.

The leader seemed to not favour this response, and he let out a frustrated scream, slamming a knife down into the creaky old wood floorboards beneath you all. The sheer pace of that gesture, and how it happened – caused you to gasp out in stunned terror.

"I don't think you're telling us the truth!" the man snapped, voice growing darker and murkier with each passing second – not dissimilar to feeling of passage in the night-time, where the hours blurred in and out, giving one this dysphoric feeling.

"Things are gonna be said, and people will start to get hurt if you don't tell the truth." The ebony haired man cautioned again, tones shaky and unstable. He wanted answers Lana clearly could not give. It was really beginning to irritate him now – all they were doing was demanding – she did not even know who they were. As far as she was aware, she owed these men nothing.

"Who even are you folks, huh?" Lana jabbed back, twisting her head around the room to give each of the three men in there with you a clearly cold glance. "You just kidnap me without a word of what this is all about? You want some money? I'll give you whatever goddamn money you want!" Her voice barrelled out with some rage that had been bottling amongst all the fear and terror.

The burst of perturb and vicious anger was met with an unnecessary, unsettling smile from the man who had been threatening her just moments ago.

"Oh, I'm sure you've heard Harper talkin' about me." The man seemed proud of this fact, "My name is Dutch Van Der Linde. And it ain't no secret that me and your lover don't get along." A falsely charming delivery then melded into menace and irritation.

However, it was true that once his name had left his lips – it instantly clicked with Lana's brain. It was by no means one of these average, every day names that could've been mixed up with something else. No... she had heard Harper screaming in his office many a time about Dutch Van Der Linde.

In fact, most recently, just days before .... About the warehouse altercation.

The look in her eyes was empty, unreadable – as she then finally prepared a reply.

"Well, Mr Van Der Linde." Lana had started, the dim light of the oil lamp forming a temperate honey glow on her rather aloof looking expression. "I hate to break it to you – but you won't get anything about Harper from me. I barely know the man myself."

"Liar." Dutch returned, as Lana looked on and could see his signet ring decked fingers fidgeting in boiling rage as he clenched his fists. "You're just coverin' for him." He snarled lowly, suddenly lashing his head around to one of his other accomplices from the mission, his structured jawline shifting in irritability.

"Bill, get her tied up to this chair." Dutch ordered, his tone far beyond giving any sort of hospitality. He was still under the pretence Lana had a lot of information about Harper to give.

His eyes then circulated back around to fix on the singer, the look he gave her was like a dagger piercing into her very chest – if it could kill, it would've ended her life in the bloodiest of ways.

"We'll try this again tomorrow, shall we?" he gruffed, leaning down to snatch his knife from the floorboards and shoving it haughtily into it's holster. The man, much like Harper was, was dressed up to the teeth in all varieties of weapons.

"Come along, Arthur." He said snappily, and Lana's ears centred on the dull and heavy footsteps of their boots leaving the room. She remained left there, currently bound tightly by the wrists, hot, whisky-stinking breath hot on your neck and raising disgust and sickness alike in your stomach.

"You better start thinkin' about what you're gonna say." The nasally voice of this man called Bill snarked in her left ear, giving a painful tightening tug on the knots of the restraints, making sure Miss Grant's wrists were securely tied behind her to the wooden structures of the distained old chair.

"Dutch ain't got no patience for time wasters. None of us do." He added with a scoff, circling around her one time over. Lana's eyes dared to make one proper look at him – he was a man who looked as cocky as he sounded, a face that was creased with years of what one would assume was pure anger and rage.

The man had some thin brown hair, slightly balding, a high hairline which had been masking earlier with a weathered old tan hat – it seemed his facial hair far made up for the lacking of the stuff on his head. Not to mention he was a rather stocky built man, not exactly huge – but it seemed he had a share of both muscle and added weight. Her hazel eyes darted momentarily across the green plaid material of his plucked cotton shirt, unbuttoned towards the top where the top of his chest was crowned with a rather unruly thickening of dark chest hair.

"Not even pretty ones." He then added, catching the last of her attention through the sheer exhaustion. It took her a few seconds to remember his previous statement... something about timewasting?

"Night, lady." He added smarmily, before her  mind could cohesively link up those testy remarks the man had left the empty room – closing the door shut behind him.

With nothing now but the pasty, barely-there light of the moon – the singer found herself drifting unwittingly between the natural darkness of the room and the darkness of her heavy lidded eyes struggling to keep open.

Before she knew it, the burning sensations of the course ropes on her sore wrists could be felt no more, the ache in her back and muscles faded – and sleep, as light as it was – took her away.

--

Morning light had broken across the thick and soupy air of Shady Belle.

Arthur had been awake hours before, worrying about Dutch's plan to try and keep this kidnapping hidden from most of the gang for as long as possible.

The man hadn't been stupid, he knew most would be in total uproar to find out Dutch had kidnapped Lana – so only a select few of the men in the gang knew about it. However Arthur had a feeling that deciding to keep the girl locked up in the unused room downstairs was not the wisest of decisions.

After scribbling something to this effect in his journal, Arthur got himself ready for whatever the day ahead would be.

As he left his room that morning, Arthur was thinking about the songstress rather a lot – feeling rather guilty for his approach yesterday. In the cold light of morning he was beginning to feel she was just a poor girl snatched from her lover, and not at all necessary to be inline from a grilling from Dutch.

For those who were staying within the house – barely a soul was awake. Mindful of this fact, Arthur crept as quietly as possible down those groaning old steps, reching the base of the steps and finding himself instantly face to face with someone who he would rather not see at this time in the morning.

"Micah-" Arthur audibly hissed, trying to get over the fact his heart was going a mile a minute from the shock of seeing the scrawny rodent of a man stood there. "What the hell are you doin'?" he snapped as quietly as humanely possible.

Cracking a delirious smirk and an unhinged laugh, Micah leaned his back against the wall, boots kicked up leisurely just above the skirting board.

"Just keen to see how the job went last night, thas' all." Micah replied, using a tone that was overly condescending. His grin was so slippery it was almost a trip hazard. "I had a peek, she's a real pretty girl, Morgan." Micah's laughter sounded more dark and intent on something other than interrogating you.

Arthur sighed deeply – it seemed Micah and Dutch were becoming more and more alike. Both trying to find some way to make a wrong job anyway even worse.

"You keep your goddamn grubby paws off her, she ain't here for that." Arthur defended, finding it rather disgusting that it was barely 7am and already Micah's blood was rushing for something debauched.

"What's she here for then, cowpoke?" Micah crooned sarcastically, gesturing his arms out and an overly patronizing look on his expression. "To sing a little song for us?"

"I'm the last person to be askin' that question." Arthur snapped in his own quiet jab at Dutch's current mentality. "I'm sure Dutch will answer that question real clear for ya'."

Tearing away, Arthur rolled up the sleeves on his black and faintly grey striped shirt, marching out in the direction of the back door whilst his spurs jangled musically with each frustrated step. As he swung the back door open, he was already met with that god awful humidity, grateful for the thin material of his shirt and the first few undone buttons.

For a few hours at least – he needed out of there. Deep down Arthur was fighting himself, being affiliated with all these crazy new ideas Dutch was hatching was not his scene at all. Yet at the same time Arthur was conflicted – he was still struggling to comprehend that the Dutch who saved him as a child all those years ago was gone.

The gunslinger tried to forget this muddle of thoughts as he swung onto the back of his Belgian Draft horse, patting her neck with a quiet mumble of praise before headed up the track in need of some fresh air and time alone.

--

The first sound to rouse Lana harshly from sleep was the chaotic bang of the room's door slamming off the wall, followed by a few heavy footed strides and a ring of murky laughter she had not heard before.

"Good morning, Miss Grant." The voice certainly sounded odd to the singer, wavering and fleeting – it appeared to her that whoever it was, was trying to hold up this demeanour of charm that his actual personality was so devoid of.

"Hopefully she'll be a little more compliant this mornin'." Now she recognised that voice, Mr Van Der Linde. Lana rolled her tired eyes, her  body ached and wrists burned with the heat burn of the ropes – and now she was angered she had to face this.

"I've asked Williamson to watch the door, make sure no folk come bargin' in, boss." The other voice responded to Dutch, as the leader wandered past the singer and assumed his place once again on the seat directly opposite her.

For a few moments he was looking over the top of  her head in contemplation, at the man who was stood obviously in a space just behind the chair.

"Thank you, Micah." Dutch cracked an electric flash of a smirk, before once again – his eyes settled on Lana, and it seemed he had slipped into his questioning mode once again. She was being made to feel like a goddamn criminal at the sheriff's office, the intensity of his hickory brown eyes seemingly burning holes right through her skin– enough to make her shift uncomfortably in her seat.

"I hope a little sleep has made you reconsider your answers from last night, miss." It was clear to see he was opting for a different approach, either that or he was some Jekyll and Hyde figure that morphed between man and monstrosity when day changed to night.

"It has made me hopeful you will believe me when I say I don't know anything." Lana rebuked vehemently, hearing an amused chuckle from behind her. Hazel eyes studied closely as Dutch leaned back in his chair, looking to be assessing the next moves – passively twiddling his fingers, elbow resting on the chair's arm rest and his hand resting somewhere near to his face.

Shifting behind Lana's chair, she became aware to the added weight on the backrest of the seat, hands resting on the wood as the man named Micah leered unwelcomely by the side of her face.

"I don't think that's the right answer now, is it?" he whispered, the statement once again followed up by that almost insane incessant ringing of laughter. She decided it would probably irritate less if she forced herself to not look at this Micah.

Dutch at last seemed ready to talk, shifting his position in the seat, leaning forwards ever so slightly with a piercing gaze.

"Look – I don't like doing this, not to anyone." He started, "Especially not nice young ladies like yourself." His tone was becoming very sugar coated and such a sharp juxtapose to his awfulness last night it was rather sickening.

He stood up, and immediately Lana's guard was up – muscles tightened and eyes on the floor so as not to look at him. She merely caught the last glance of his well dressed form making it's way towards her figure before averting her gaze out of worry.

"You're a beautiful young lady, there ain't no doubtin' that, Miss Grant." He praised, circling around the chair whilst that hyena of a man Micah chuckled continually from behind like he was really getting a kick out of this.

"It's just a shame how this has all worked out – I think perhaps you and I might have made a nice couple... say, if Harper weren't in the picture." Dutch mused allowed, tone dripping with fanciful suggestion.

Lana had about had it with bloody gang leaders, there was no way she was going to consider that.

"I'm going to have to politely decline." She asserted firmly, still keeping her eyes down.

"You too good for me, that it?" suddenly she felt her chin was being titled up by his index and middle finger, her eyes being forced to look into his questioning gaze.

"No, I..." she had started to say, the words fumbling into a mush on her tongue.

"Too loyal to old Jim?" Dutch then offered before she could finish, and a frown crossed her tired expression quickly.

"It ain't that." The singer retorted as sharply as ever, the way her tone really filled with animosity sparked interest with Dutch and his annoying accomplice. She witnessed as the two men shared a knowing glance, and a flicker of a smirk.

"You speak like you ain't fond a' him." Micah then interjected, stood there with a look that was suggestive of a man mentally undressing you. "You know – this might work out okay with you stayin' here." His smirk was so twisted, like a mauled set of iron bars.

"You look like you could make a feller real happy. I bet you know how." He was looking directly know at the rather smudge punctual red lipstick on her lips (a consequence of the chaos kidnapping), and his slightly lidded eyes indicated the untamed fantasies going on in the animal's head.

That really riled her – she was not at all some sex object. If they thought she would do things like that to save her own skin, they were wrong.

"I don't owe any of you nothin'." Lana spat back, using the heel on her shoe to jab it aggressively straight into Micah's boot.

The cry that left him was of great satisfaction, for about a few seconds – before Lana found his hand around her slim throat, like a viper attacking, he had been as quick as anything.

He stared at the songstress with dilated, cold blue eyes that were similar to that of a deranged beast.

"I'd think twice before doin' things like that, sugar-" he snarled, there it was again – the shaky tones that seemed very unsteady. He was like a coiled spring, ready to ping truly off his hinges at any moment.

"Micah." Dutch called like a dog owner cautioning his pet, reminding Micah he was in the room. Gradually, Lana felt Micah's bony fingertips release their death grip on her skin. Once he had fully let go, she extinguished a slow breath of relief, and pursed her lips together in a defeated silence.

Dutch could see the look about Lana, that she was backing off for now – cooling down. He cocked a brow at her, hand resting at his weapon lavished belt.

"Sure you don't want to let us know anythin' about Harper?" he asked again, coming full circle to his original intentions. Miss Grant decided it best to keep her mouth shut, quite literally. Maybe if she didn't fuel their fires, they would soon get bored and throw her out.

So instead, she defiantly shook her head in a confident no.

Dutch scoffed quietly at the childish approach, clicking his heels off the floorboards momentarily as he took his first steps back towards the door with Micah.

"Suit yourself, perhaps we'll try again a little later." He hummed, taking his exit, the sounds of his footsteps making their way back towards the door.

"Just me and you, next time, perhaps."

There was a smugness delivered on that line that had Lana's stomach knotting in disgust. She kept her mouth shut, fought back the urge to scream and cry all the same.

She had now given herself a weakness for them to work against by the fact she had let it be known she did not want any of their affections. Lana had a feeling deep down, that Dutch was not going to relent easily...

Or anytime soon.