Soon the whisper of the girl in the back room had quickly spread among the camp like wildfire. How this truth had inked out was not exactly clear, Arthur had half expected maybe Sadie had said something in her moment of anger – but another half of him knew the prospect of Micah blabbing was just as likely.

Weeks had gone by, the summer sun just as torrid as it tried to burn through the smoggy haze of humidity collating over Shady Belle. No sign of Harper. Not once.

Arthur knew he would be lying if he said he did not feel sorry for the singer, locked up in a room all day with no escape – and no contact. Apart from the same individual.

See, as the weeks had been trailing by – as cunning as a fox, Dutch had been very much making himself the only contact to ever make his way into the backroom. If Bill, Micah, or Arthur had been guarding the door – Dutch had been keen to set it in early a few weeks ago that the person on guard duty was not to enter the room, not to make conversation with Lana... not even bring her water or food.

"If she's wantin' anything, you call me to get it."

Bill and Micah may have lapped it up like thirsty Labradors', but Arthur had known Dutch far too long and cottoned onto his little scheme. It was so blatantly obvious he wanted to make himself seem like the only option to a vulnerable, susceptible, impressionable young woman. Cooped up in a box room all day, Arthur assumed she was probably delirious by this point.

But... this was Dutch's idea, and considering he seemed to adamant about all his little guidelines and rules then it was clear he was latched onto achieving whatever goal he wanted.

Bittersweet, but Mr Morgan knew any attempt to disconcert the gang leader would be futile.

-

Lana ruled the passage of the days by the way the light crept up the distained old walls and dusty boarded floor, before melding into another seemingly endless nightfall – all for the cycle to repeat again.

Firstly, she had been glad that it no longer seemed mandatory to be tied up to a chair like a violent madwoman. Yet this room was still very much a prison, as she was not allowed to set foot outside of that door.

Dutch had gotten a small bed put into the room for the singer, a plucked and tattered old fabric armchair, a small table and a metal basin for washing– not to mention a small notebook and pen upon a conversation Lana had had with him recently about missing writing.

This whole set up was the oddest predicament she'd been in, but in the sweltering heat and stifling stuffiness the girl's head seemed to whir and dizzy, mind going on complacently with what seemed to be her new reality.

It had been strange, looking back on how quickly a small, polite conversation and being untied from those rope cuffs had evolved into this full blown exclusive little friendship? The songsters:: wasn't even sure she wanted to label it as that, as she had not been keen to place any trust in him on those first few days.

Over the past 3 or 4 weeks, Lana saw nothing anymore of the portly, bearded Bill or the ratty, slimy Micah. She heard their voices murmur in the corridor every other day, but other than that the only gaze her hazel eyes ever came to meet were that of Dutch's.

He tended to visit in the evenings, where the day had cooled off into a pleasant heat, and the scent of the day settled into a beautiful stillness. He always brought food and a drink of some kind, appearing like this angel in the dazzling sunset light beaming through the doorway.

Following a much appreciated meal, he would always sit and chat with Lana - yet what the conversations really revolved around one could not quite grasp.

He always seemed reserved, charming, a colourful character. This presentation sent her recoiling at herself in alarm... Lana felt she shouldn't be leaning towards an inclination to trust this man, especially remembering the way he had screamed in her face the night he had taken her from the theatre.

However, remembering how intent he seemed on digging up any little fact about Harper those weeks back – she was otherwise baffled that not once in one of your recent conversations had he ever mentioned the leader of The Cobalt Jackals.

Or asked any personal information about the singer, really.

To be frank, the man liked to talk about himself a lot. He offered small chances for Lana to say things, if she wanted to – but somehow would always link the conversation back to how glorious he was, and all the notable and brave things he had done for his gang.

Dutch would become so animated when recalling these tales, sparkling hickory coloured eyes seeming alight with delight. He appeared this great enigma, not dissimilar to Harper in the way that he too shared a passion at recalling how great of a man he was. Lana assumed it was a gang leader thing.

One thing Dutch did like to talk to the singer about was literature, poetry. This was where he really liked to listen to her, head cocked slightly in interest – as if he wanted to gaze across the inner workings of her creative mind like a piece of art. It made Lana feel incredibly important, and valued. The both of them shared a common passion, and considering her music and writing was the only joy left in her otherwise miserable life – it brought a small giddy flicker of happiness to Lana's heart to have someone share such an enthusiasm.

On the fourth week was when he had emerged one night with the small notebook and pen, appearing as usual in the same casual and humble manner he always did when he initially entered the room holding the beautiful singer captive.

The notebook was pretty, red leather with gold inking detail around the edges, and a beautiful brass coloured clasp – not to mention the gold coloured fountain pen that wrote so eloquently.

"So you can write some things." Dutch had said, seeing the pleased smile on Lana's face. She had looked up at him with a humbled half smile.

"I shall. Thank you." The girl replied gratefully, examining the book. She felt how prevalently his gaze laid over her shoulder in the coming moments.

"I really look forwards to readin' what you write." His tones were low, a ring of reserved excitement dancing on the waves of his rumbling voice.

That night when he had left Lana to her solitude was the first real night she had been struck with the force of what was happening to her feelings.

Thinking it over and over, the songstress had come to realise she was actually trusting him – all whilst trying to remain wary in the back of her mind. It seemed the pleasant fact he seemed a man of the arts, an intellectual and a passionate figure of a person had all been a driving factor in making Lana believe he was more human than the monster she had previously thought him to be.

Besides, this situation was becoming far too precarious for Miss Grant to keep on being so nervy for much longer. The days she had spent stalking the floors like a stressed dog had been the most exhausting. With the long drawl of the weeks a growing figment of the past, Lana recalled a feeling of being relaxed whilst listening and making small conversation with Dutch.

If he really was planning on hurting her... why would he have gone to all this effort to make her comfortable? Talk to her with an interest? Spend copious amounts of time with her?

And no mention James Harper for one moment in a number of 28 or so days.

It was not adding up. If Dutch Van Der Linde had planned to make the singer suffer, surely he would've played his cards out long before now.

-

A/N: Sorry this was rather short & boring, but I am still just getting started.

I'm really conscious that this story is drier than a Sunday roast without gravy at the moment (this may have been the most British comparison ever), but I promise you - tea will get spilt soon.

Love you all sm x