The world was on fire and no one could save me but you

Strange what desire will make foolish people do

(Wicked Game, Chris Isaaks)

Despite having the ability to captivate an audience, Raymond Reddington was someone who could move through crowds unseen. That's what he was doing tonight, dressed in a beautifully cut but innocuous tuxedo, floating through the throng of DC's great and good marking the retirement of some agency bigwig. He had no interest in the event, or the fawning movers and shakers of Capitol Hill. He was there for her.

Her behavior since the Braxton incident troubled him deeply. She had become sullen and secretive, childish even. But her ability to dodge even the most experienced protective detail, to deceive him…those were the actions of a grown woman, an intelligent woman who was harboring a wall of emotion. Anger and resentment directed at him. And hurt. That was the thing that made her most vulnerable. And she was making it impossible for him to protect her.

He recalled that moment in the café.

"Are you scolding me? What are you going to do, take away my phone privileges?"

He bristled at the memory. He hadn't liked her tone one bit. Yes she was being infuriating, but that wasn't the end of it. When she behaved like a teenager in over her head in a high stakes game he felt the need to yank her into line, make her see the seriousness of the situation. As if she didn't know. He hated those moments because what she needed then was a father figure, and, he realized, he hadn't felt that way towards her for a long time. Whatever role he wanted to play with her, that wasn't it. Before he allowed that thought to run away with him he spotted her through the crowd and his eyes widened fractionally.

The Lizzie he saw tonight was every inch the grown, sophisticated woman he admired. She stood on the other side of the room, engaged in easy conversation, tall and slender as a lily, dressed in deep blue silk which grazed the floor and rippled over her body as laughed. The neckline of her dress was demure, skimming her delicate collar bones, her hair swept up in a relaxed chignon.

Yet when she turned he saw that the dress was backless, the dark silk skimming over each shoulder and meeting at the waist, leaving her impossibly smooth, creamy skin exposed. His lips parted as he registered the sight before him; her skin seemed to glow in the soft light of the ballroom, beckoning to him like a clean slate. He found himself pondering the irony of her revealing the one part of herself that he was afraid to show. He wondered later whether his little indulgence in these ruminations was the reason he hadn't spotted the waiter earlier.

The staff at the event were young, teenagers even, possibly college students trying to make an extra buck. They were dressed smartly in white blazers, fresh faced and energetically doing the rounds in the cavernous ballroom. So why, he thought, had he not noticed this man earlier, dressed as a waiter, but older, with a hint of stubble, and, if Red wasn't mistaken, with the ghost of a tattoo on his wrist partially revealed as he reached out to offer a glass of champagne to a woman. Lizzie.

He watched as she accepted the glass and took a healthy gulp, the first sign he had seen that she wasn't entirely at ease in the company of senior agency figures and politicians. His concern grew sharply as he observed the waiter retreat quickly, putting his tray down on the nearest table and leaving through a side door. He knew since Braxton that they would come for her again. It was only matter of time. Yet here, so soon after, and in such a public place! He cursed himself for his uncharacteristic lack of foresight. Take her quickly, quietly, from right out in the open – it is exactly what he would have done.

Liz had spotted the team on the other side of the room and, grateful for the prospect of being among familiar faces, she began to move towards them across the floor. After a few steps she began to feel a coldness snaking up the sides of her face, seeming to grip her consciousness and caused her to stumble slightly. She put her hand out against one of the ostentatious stone pillars which decorated the ballroom to steady herself, her mind whirring.

The feeling was familiar somehow and made her stomach seize with apprehension. This was chemical. She had been drugged. Shakily she looked at the glass in her hand and placed it on the floor. Fighting to stay focused she cast her eye over the room and that was when she saw him. Reddington was already on his feet moving towards her, his expression unfathomable. Painful realization crashed over her, pricking her eyes with tears. He had come for the Fulcrum – that's all he had ever cared about the whole time. Not her. A thing. She had shut him out, and now he was wasting no time in taking what he wanted.

You'll never see me again.

His last words to her echoed in her mind. She was getting foggy, and all she could think was that she had to get away from him. Moving as fast as she could without drawing attention to herself, she made for the foyer, and quickly began to climb the grand, burgundy carpeted spiral staircase which would eventually lead to the room which the bureau had booked for her for the night. Darkness seeping into her vision and nausea crowding her senses she sank against the stairs.

She had not dared to look back, but now, through the elegant wooden twists of the banister, she saw the top of his head and broad shoulders, moving quickly, purposefully, on the stairs below her. She forced herself to continue upwards, until she stumbled into her room, and locked the door behind her with the old-fashioned looking wrought iron key with which reception had supplied her earlier. Seconds later the door handle rattled. His voice when it came was calm, but stern.

"Lizzie, you need to let me in now...Lizzie."

"Please leave me alone."

Her tone was defiant but he detected an edge to her voice; she was trying not to panic. She knew she was in trouble and felt cornered. He was wretched at the thought that she was afraid of him, that she could believe that he had engineered the situation tonight to put her in this position and force her to tell him where to find the fulcrum. And yet as his mind raced, assessing the situation, he thought darkly that he had given her little reason to think otherwise.

He was a monster. She knew he had killed others for the fulcrum. Why should she trust him. And now she was in a most precarious position because of him, because he had taunted her with secrets, drawn her into a toxic web and left her believing that he didn't care for her. He knew that it was only a matter of time before the director's retrieval team moved in to claim their target.

"Lizzie listen to me very carefully. You've been drugged. You probably won't be conscious for long, you need to open the door."

He listened at the door, brow knitted with concern until a second later he heard what sounded like a sob and a muffled thud. He had less time than he thought. Ordinarily he would make quick work of any lock with his revolver but he couldn't risk hurting her in the process. He glanced down the corridor to check that it was empty, and, withdrawing a delicate brass hook-shaped tool from his jacket, worked the heavy, old-fashioned mechanism until it clicked open and he slipped inside. He entered gingerly, afraid that she had fallen behind the door. Now that he was inside the spacious hotel suite he could see that she had made it across the room, almost to the bed before she had collapsed. She lay unconscious by the bed, face down on the floor, her head resting on one of her outstretched arms.

As he walked towards her he noticed the deep blue silk of her dress pooled against the cream carpet, and the curve of her exposed back and shoulders against the luxurious material. When he reached her he quickly knelt down beside her, gently sweeping the curls of her dark hair away from her neck so he could check her pulse. Relieved to find that she was breathing normally, his mind wandered for a second, considering the scene in front of him.

The woman who had infuriated him so much. Refused to listen to him, railed at him, hated him, stabbed him in the neck with a pen and yet had somehow ignited a light that sustained him. Sweet, and beautiful, and now, he had learned, in possession of the fulcrum, the item he needed, that so many had died for already. Here she was, utterly defenseless. Just as she had been then. Twenty-six years ago, for all the pain, it had been…simpler.

Now, as she lay beneath him he recognized the power he held over her in that moment and hated himself for thinking it, hated that perhaps she was right to fear him, right to try to shut him out. For a second his pulse raced at the thought of touching her delicate skin, of making her his in every way. He could take the fulcrum and her, take everything that she has and is, utterly consume her, drink in her goodness until there was nothing left, in the vain hope that it would somehow salve his twisted insides.

Face flushed with the sting of self-loathing, he pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind and turned to assess the situation. No doubt in breaking away from the crowd Lizzie had done exactly what the Director's team had hoped. The whole thing was likely a sophisticated set-up, right down to the hotel booked for the event, this room… She was vulnerable, and alone. But she had him. God help her, she had him.

Turning her over, he slid one arm around her waist and another under her knees, he lifted her into his arms, rose from the floor and laid her gently on the bed. Then he did a quick sweep of the hotel room, checking for alternative exits, but on the top floor of the old hotel, found no viable options. The only way out was the way they came. He knew it would not be long before the director's hired band of bastards appeared - he could already hear voices on the stairs.

Raymond Reddington could extricate himself from the most sticky of situations, slink out of the tightest spots. But he wouldn't make it out of here with her. Approaching the bed again he sat beside her sleeping form and took her hand, gently stroking her scar with his thumb in the manner in which he had seen her do when she was agitated.

"Lizzie, sweetheart they are coming for you now. They are going to take you and I can't stop it, but I will be there. I won't leave you. I will never leave you."

He kissed her hand before placing it back on the bed, rose to face the door, and straightened his tie.

To Be Continued!