A/N: Paradise. Trust No One.

-

It came as no real surprise when Lana had first been spotted going upstairs at the end of an evening, instead of retiring to her own room that had been demoted down from it's 'prison' status.

It wasn't as if she wasn't already spending most of the hot summer days sprawled out by Dutch's tent, all beauty and the full essence of summer with her delicate ways and fresh-feeling nature.

What difference did it make that he had seemed to encouraged the singer to stay in his room?

Most of the camp seemed to watch on in silent disagreement, the trust that had once bridged the gang together seemed to be disintegrating in a hellish bout of flames. No one seemed to know the real Dutch anymore, not even those who had been closest – Hosea, John... Arthur.

Arthur was the one to be the most quietly concerned; for Lana, more than anybody. Since his discussion with John a week or so earlier, he had been stewing over the whole thing more than he did usually. It was an odd feeling, Arthur didn't wish to feel so concerned but there was something so naïve about the way she was so blinded by Dutch's seemingly shining exterior – vision veiled by the eloquent talk of the sharply dressed gang leader that she couldn't see his true intentions.

But above all of the worrying, there was a bitter futility to Arthur that it was not his place to jump in and intervene. Not whilst she saw Dutch the way she did, anyway.

Deep down, Arthur knew that Lana must've had a life somewhere – outside Harper, outside the glamorous singing career. He wondered whether he might be able to help her get back to that... get out of here.

The outlaw often found himself sighing in a shaded contempt for himself and the way he was such a sucker for feeling sorry for unfortunate young women. Especially when their emotions were so obviously being mauled with by wolfish men.

-

Another gorgeous day had ended, the sun long having gone and faded into the grasp of the horizon – the skies a deep shade of oxford blue, a generous spatter of glittering stars littering the canvas of the night.

Having been back to her room to simply to wash, change into her night dress and set the notebook back in its usual place on the small table – Lana's bare footed steps sound found themselves padding gently through the old plantation house, barely a soul awake.

The structure had it's usual tiresome groans as the singer tread carefully up the stairs, her hands feeling along the rough banister railings and along the cracked plaster wall to help guide the way to the summit.

The moment her hazel eyes caught onto the softest honey-glow of light coming from under the currently closed off-white double doors to Dutch's bedroom, Lana felt herself grow a little anxious with excitement.

As quietly as she possibly could, she had crossed the landing and rapped her knuckles carefully on the wood of the door, the sound seemingly booming in the otherwise sleepy silence of the house.

"Come in, dear." Sounded softly from the other side, Lana didn't waste a second longer edging one of the two doors open, and slipping inside the warming, welcoming glow of his bedroom.

It was as run down as the rest of the house, however just the few furnishings and belongings Dutch had in there seemed to give the space its element of grandeur that had probably been lost to a few decades of abandonment.

Her soft hazel eyes immediately flew down to the right, noticing Dutch looked very comfortable indeed – already settled in for the night in bed. She instantly recognised the pine green colour book in his hand; her very own poetry book.

"I thought you would have finished reading that by now." The singer quipped quietly, sitting carefully down on the empty side of the bed, an interested and proud flicker in her eyes.

Dutch's hickory brown eyes didn't leave the book, as he licked his index finger swiftly and then carefully turned the page with a gentle creasing sound.

"I sometimes like to re-read my favourite ones." He responded, eventually letting himself diverge from the book for a moment to look at his prize.

A softened smile crept onto his face, seeing Lana in those summer dresses was something remarkable – but witnessing her in the white night dress slip was something else. Her hair was a little damp still from its wash, but wavy and free. Her skin bronzed from the endless days spent lounging in the glory of the sun.

"I think it's very sweet you even have favourite ones." She replied back bashfully, looking down as her fingers played with the lace hem of the night dress, a few stray hairs falling into her face. It didn't even cross her mind to think that she might've looked so appealing to him in that moment.

"Come here." He ushered, setting the book down carefully on the bedside unit, tossing the quilt aside a little to pull the smaller woman swiftly into his lap. The sudden closeness sent her heart racing and a blush crossing her cheeks. Lana had only been staying with him overnight for a few days and so far nothing of this sort had really happened.

A couple of wordless moments passed whilst the gang leader absorbed the very image of his songbird, his hands running slowly through the curve of her waist before settling on the round of her hips.

Lana had barely let a breath leave her body in those few seconds, still a little stunned by the sudden move and the very prevalent contact between them. A shiver of excitement and nerves alike prickled gooseflesh upon her skin, eyes wide like cherry pies.

"You must be the most beautiful woman in the world." He suddenly said, looking into her eyes as he said so. Every time he complimented her and looked straight into her eyes whilst he did so; it made Lana's head swim with fancy. It did things to her already fragile mind.

"I... I'm not so sure about that." She responded awkwardly, chewing at her lip a little tentatively when one calloused hand slid down from her clothed hip, and wandered it's way under the hem of the nightdress, and began trawling slowly up her leg. Even just the faintest brush of skin on skin had the tension growing hot in her body.

"Well I think so." he murmured back, his voice sounding almost a little distracted, anyone could tell he too was interested in this new explorative territory.

Again, he pierced her eyes with that intense, holding stare. A stare that seemed to cry a million stories of passion and lust. And just as Lana swore she was about to be hypnotized in those dark eyes, he looked away again, watching his hand as it emerged from underneath the night dress. Internally she sulked at the loss of contact.

"Do you trust me?" he then asked, catching her eyes again briefly for a few moments. Another shiver crossed the singer's body, unsure whether it was the sheer excitement or breeze from the open window.

Her mind was keen to answer, to please him with allegiance – before another touch had her current course of thought racing off to the periphery of the mind. He'd moved his hand higher now, and was gently tracing the pad of his thumb over her right breast through the cover of the nightdress, drawing small circles over the nipple – which was now so evident through the rather thin material.

"Mmm..." was all she could utter, already wanting more – wanted to feel every inch of his skin against her own – the thought of it was driving Lana insane with need.

"We care about each other now don't we?" he uttered further, other hand once again sneaking it's way under her night dress to feel his way along her inner thigh. "We trust one another?"

"Yes Dutch." Lana moaned breathlessly, trying to grind down against his hand to get some form of relief.

"So how about you stop playing silly, little girl," he crooned quietly, leaning his head forward to rest by her shoulder momentarily. Eyes closed, she then merely felt his hot breath at her neck – and a whisper in her ear. "You need to tell me what you really know about Harper."

Suddenly, no touch, no kiss – no form of contact or caress to bring her any sort of pleasure.

It was like Lana had been in this glass jar, falling for weeks and finally – the glass jar had hit the floor and smashed into a million pieces. Her conscious had come back down, returning to reality.

And how it hurt, like hell.

"W-what...?" was all she could find herself saying, too stunned by the whirr of emotions to really concentrate on forming a sentence.

There was a stony look on Dutch's expression, a serious look that just firmly set into place exactly what had been going on.

"Well, you were going to have to tell me the truth at some point." He sounded so self-assured, and this felt like someone driving a stake right through the singer's chest. Her whole lungs seemed to hurt, the muscles in your chest cavity tensing and feeling like a squeeze around her heart.

This had all been about trying to break her for information she did not have. Dutch had obviously still been convinced Lana was hiding something.

So, after all that... he didn't really care. No, not at all.

For he didn't believe she had been telling the truth.

Unbelievably vexed, Lana raised her hand on impulse, to hit him. It seemed like the only suitable reaction in that moment considering she realised how he had been puppeteering her so easily for the last 8 or so weeks.

However Dutch was faster, and caught her small wrists in his large hands and restrained the singer as easily as a frail kitten.

"You fucking bastard!" She snapped loudly, not even caring if anyone heard. Right now it seemed the whole world was crumbling – not only was her heart broken, but you were so enraged with herself that she had let him blind her that easily. In that moment, Lana could not care less what happened to her.

"That's enougha' that!" He sounded angrily, dragging the songstress off the bed like a child and carting her downstairs, whilst she wrangled and writhed like an aggressive animal. Lana screamed in a fit of rage, and immediately oil lamps around the house began to illuminate with the disturbance.

Downstairs once again, her feet barely touched the floor as Dutch personally carried Lana against her will into the room. His footsteps were heavy, angered and purposeful from what was audible through the singer's disturbed screams and cries.

Soon enough he had tossed her down into her bed, roughly and without regard. Lana stared up at him for a minute, dumfounded and teary eyed. How could she have been so foolish...?

"I thought you said you trusted me, and you still you lie!" He hissed, and it felt uncomfortable for Lana as she realised how delirious this man was. Would lying to him make him happy?

"You'll stay in here til I decide what to do with ya'." His tone was scolding, and Lana had already began sobbing into her pillow as he turned to walk out, slamming the door.

Just to make matters worse, the sound of metallic clinking of keys could be heard turning in the lock.

So much for all the pretty lies he had spun, about caring for and adoring her.

After everything, she was back to being some prisoner.

-

Yanking the keys from the lock with an aggressive low snarl, Dutch had turned to march his way back upstairs – disappointed in the outcome of the night when he nearly ran into Arthur.

Stood there, arms folded across his chest and a discerning look in his eyes – Mr Morgan read the chaos on Dutch's expression, noticing his almost flighty movements.

"Arthur! Goddamnit-" Dutch snapped, alarmed to see the gunslinger standing there in such a pressing fashion.

Before Arthur could make any query with what had happened, the scratched brass key to the singer's room was thrust into his palm – and Dutch barged past Arthur in an evasive and bullish manner.

"Seeing as your awake, you watch that door." He muttered, heading his way upstairs. "Don't offer her food, water or nothin'. I'll decide what I want to do with the little whore in the next couple a' days." Dutch muttered darkly, and then disappeared up into the shadows of the landing.

Shaking his head, Arthur was a little frustrated with himself that he had since missed the opportunity to really lay into Dutch about what was happening – and instead had ended up just being used for a job as usual.

Sighing tiredly, Arthur pulled up an old chair that sat under the stairs – and dragged it to sit against the wall to the left of the door. He settled into it with a creek, and looked at the key glinting dully in his palm.

Despite the pressing negativity looming in the air like a thunder cloud, Arthur at least had the comfort that it had finally happened. The bubble had burst, the rose garden dreams had been set on fire by the fiend that had created them.

And the next few days could be his only chance to try and get Lana out this mess she had been dragged through.