Authors Notes: Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, your comments are always appreciated! Exploring this world of devils and the dead is a blast, and the dimensions of Negan are a great challenge to write. I do ask you readers to tread cautiously, as I am enjoying exploring a very dark beginning to this story. Understand that there should just be a standing trigger warning for violence and rape, especially in these initial chapters. Thank you for taking the time to read this story, please enjoy.

The glow of sunlight filters in through my eyelids, rousing me from the deepest sleep I have ever had in my life. I had slept dreamlessly for the first time in months. The feeling of the flannel sheets and soft, pill-covered blankets on my skin felt like heaven. Not wanting to emerge from my blanket paradise, I tuck them up higher under my chin and mindlessly pull at the little balls of fuzz on the covers. The lights are still off but the warm rays of sunshine illuminate the spacious RV. There is a comfortable looking chair in the corner, and a small array of books disheveled on the shelves next to it. The bathroom space is further down the hall, but the memory of the warm water on my feet last night made me imagine it was beautiful.

With a light cladder, the door to the RV flings open and the man who had saved me last night, Negan, walks into view with a cheesy grin on his face. "Mornin', Doll face," he calls. His boots clomp gently against the floor as he rounds the bed with a bowl of something, and a glass of water in his hands. "Drink this," he hands me the glass of water. I gulp it down greedily, wishing there was more when I finish the cup. I study his face, noticing the bluish tint underneath his eyes, the slightly tousled waves of the hair he had had slicked back last night. He had apparently changed clothes at some point in the night, the blood spattered white shirt and jeans replaced with an identical set under his leather jacket.

"Not much for conversation?" He asks as he hands me the bowl of what turns out to be oatmeal. I shake my head. Even though he seems so kind right now, I can't help but be reminded by the oatmeal of the texture he had reduced my captor's skull to last night. The terrifying bat, I could see was covered with sharp teeth of barbed wire, was resting in a little stand over by the door. "I guess that's fine for now," he allows, "now eat up, Darlin' you're gonna need your strength today."

I eat the bland, yet still delicious oatmeal slowly, unlike the water. The warm taste of it on my tongue is comforting, and the fullness that I sense as I eat almost feels alien. Negan watches me take each bite; there is something behind his eyes that I can't quite make out. When the final bite is eaten, I wish I had savored it a little longer, it was the first warm meal I'd had since before I was captured. "Thank you," I look up at the man, "thank you for the food, for everything."

He nods. "I didn't really have a choice, sweetheart," he smirks.

"What do you mean?" I question, "You didn't have to save me last night. You could've just ignored it and moved on."

"The fuck I could've," spits the man, his eyes growing darker, "you didn't hear the way your voice sounded, begging for mercy from that sick fuck. There's no fucking way I could've walked away and let that shit continue." He looks me intensely in the eyes. "I can look the other way on a whole lot of shit, but a man forcing himself on a woman like that, no fucking way can I let that shit go unpunished."

I stay silent as he gently takes the bowl out of my hands, his jaw still clenched as we both remember the scene from the clearing the preceding night. He stands up and walks over to the chair in the corner and sits, leaning his head back against the seat. "Just relax for now," he instructs as he closes his eyes, "my guys are packing up camp right now. We'll be heading back to The Sanctuary in a few minutes. There we'll be able to get you cleaned up and looked at by our doctor."

I nod my head even though I know his eyes are closed. His breathing is loud and heavy. Even though he looks relaxed, his muscular body seems tense and ready for battle at a moment's notice. I join him in closing my eyes and imagine what this so called "Sanctuary" will be like. Judging from the grandeur of this RV, I am willing to bet they are pretty well off.

I don't know how long it is before two loud raps on the door stir me from my dozing. At the sound, Negan rises, glances at me briefly, and walks to the driver's seat up front. "Hang tight a little while longer, sweetheart. You're gonna fucking love my camp," He calls back to me. His camp, I think, I had never been more excited and scared in my life.

The ride is bumpy; it jostles my aching body around, causing twinges of pain to shoot out at me from my ribs. I am certain at least one of them is broken. The sudden stop throws me forward a little. I guess we're here. I'm shaking again with nervousness and anticipation of what this place is going to look like when Negan walks back to get me. "Come on Darlin' let's get you home," he says with a wink; he holds out his hand to help me stand. The pain is excruciating as my weight rests on my screwed up feet, the cool floor stings against the tender, torn flesh.

Negan watches my grimace as I take a couple steps forward. He must feel sorry for me, or is irritated that my walking is taking too long, because he reaches over, positioning to scoop me up once more. "May I?" he asks. I nod. Even though I'm expecting his touch, I can't help but tense as he picks up my body. He looks at me, soft toffee eyes once more, and tells me to relax again, "You're safe now, Rori. I'm not going to hurt you. No one will."

The sun stings my eyes as we step outside. We are parked outside a magnificent house, surrounded by various other large buildings and a field of winter-dormant grass. The land of this property seems to stretch for miles. Encircling everything I see are gigantic walls of steel taller than the buildings themselves. My visual exploration is cut short as we enter the mansion in front of us. Up a wide flight of lavishly carpeted stairs, down a hallway decorated with exquisite art, we enter a set of large double doors into a bedroom bigger than any I'd ever seen.

I'm set down delicately once more, this time on the stunning bed, King sized and surrounded by a four poster canopy. On the short journey to this room, it doesn't escape me the way the people walking around the camp stop to kneel in reverence of Negan as we pass by, a gesture of respect or perhaps fear. Both, I think are likely. "Let's get you cleaned up, beautiful," Negan offers as he steps into the bathroom, starting some running water.

My fear is slightly abated as the sounds and smells of a bath being drawn fill the doorway of the bathroom with a light haze of steam. A shower was always a nice treat, but holy crap did a bath sound like absolute bliss. Maybe I died last night and was lucky enough to go to heaven.

"Can I help you?" he asks as he fingers the hemline of the large t-shirt I am wearing. My heart jumps into my throat at the prospect of this man undressing me. I bite my lip. "It's nothing I haven't seen before." He chortles, "No funny business, I promise."

My ribs are aching, and the man seems sincere. I whisper softly, "Okay," with a nod. His hands are incredibly gentle as he lifts the shirt over my head. I cover my breasts with one arm as he helps me to my sore feet with the other. The quick, painless way he slides off the boxers, more like shorts on my small frame, is so different from the vicious way my pants had been torn down the night before. I can smell the deep scent of masculinity against his chest as he picks up my now naked body and carries me to the Jacuzzi sized bathtub.

The warm water simultaneously stings and sooths the raw skin of my body, so unused to luxuries like this. I tip my head back and let the water soak into my hair, the lavender scented waves of suds washing away months of filth. I flinch when I feel Negan's fingertips touch my scalp, his calloused hands massaging the suds into my matted hair. He washes my hair and combs through the matting with the help of some conditioner, while I relax in the water of the bath. After my hair is clean, he moves on to my shoulders, lathering them up with a washcloth of soap and rinsing them gently. As he finishes scrubbing and rinsing my back, he hands me the washcloth, "I think you can reach the rest, sweetheart" he says as he stands to go get a warm towel. I am thankful he allows me to wash my own chest and delicate areas, still burning from the tears of constant abuse. I skip using the disposable razor beyond shaving my armpits; my body hair is relatively light in spite of the raven colored curls atop my head.

Helping me step on the plush bath mat as I get out, Negan scans my body with a mixture of anger and compassion in his eyes. "Sick fuck," he mumbles as he gently touches bite marks in various stages of healing along my chest and belly, taking care to avoid the ones on my actual breasts. I can't look him in the eyes, as he examines me, shame colors my cheeks crimson. "Can you turn for me, Darlin'?" he says with a twirling motion of his fingers. I turn around to face the brown bath water. His fingers trace over the bruising and scars, cuts and scrapes that line the skin he had just washed clean. His jaw is clenched when he turns me around once more, this time his eyes lingering on the deep purple contusions on my thighs. I finally looked up to meet his heavy brown gaze, and he once again ghosts his fingers along the deep "C" scar on my left cheek.

"C, for claimed," I murmur, the memory of the night I'd gotten the mark filling my mind.

"Claimed?" He asks.

"Like property," explains my voice, even though my mind is travelling back to evil in the woods. "Those men had a code. If you claimed something, it was yours. It went for everything, food, supplies, and sluts," I let disgust color my voice as I use the term the leader had always described me with. I was his slut to use and abuse as he pleased. The familiar taste of acid creeps up my throat.

His eyes hadn't broken from mine and I can see the brutal, murderous anger filling them as I speak. "Let's get you dressed," he says carefully through gritted teeth; I can tell he is restraining his anger for my benefit.

My clothes from last night sit on the bed, folded and clean, along with a bra that looks to be the right size as well as pairs of underwear and socks. I figure he must have had my clothes washed for me by one of his men. Without asking this time, Negan helps me get dressed, which in spite of my nerves I appreciate because of the soreness. Clothed in my giant maroon sweater, it had been my brother's before I took it, and my well-worn jeans, I actually feel like a human being again.

I let my curls hang down to dry into their fluffy spirals. They reach down to my waist; I hadn't had my hair trimmed since the world fell. Negan sits down next to me on the bed, his imposing size making it dip dramatically; I lean back to avoid gravity pulling me into him. "Rori," he speaks with a very measured tone, "I know this is difficult to ask of you, but I need you to tell me what those men put you through while you were with them."

I feel sick. I don't want to go there in my mind, and I most certainly don't want to divulge to this terrifying stranger the humiliation and pain I had endured for months. I shake my head against the memories intruding into the present. I fight to stay grounded to this moment. "Please, I don't want to talk about it."

"I know, sweetheart." His voice is so gentle; his eyes looked at me with deep concern. "But I need to know what those fuckers did. I need to know how much, and what ways I need to make them pay when my men and I go take care of them tonight." He tucks my still-damp hair behind my ear, "I need to know so I can get real justice for you."

"Why do you even give a damn?" I ask, tears threatening to spill out, "You saved me already, why do you care about justice or any of that? You've done so much for me already…" The tears that were threatening begin to drip down my face. I'm trembling now, the memories becoming harder and harder to swallow back.

He speaks to me softly, his voice dark, "I give a damn because even in this fucked world, no man should ever do what they did to you." He's growing more passionate as he continues, "Everyone has to do fucked up shit to survive in this world, but the strong have a responsibility to ALWAYS protect the weak. NO ONE should ever do what those people did to you and get to keep breathing another fucking day."

Every fiber in my being is filling with terror as the memories pull me under, chocking me with their bitter hands. I have hit my breaking point. He wraps his arms around me and I squeeze my eyes shut as I begin to tell him what happened in my captivity.

I was running as fast as I could. My battered boots were slamming into the foliage on the forest floor. I couldn't stop sobbing as I ran faster and faster away from the sounds of the dead making the people from my camp their lunch. I ran for miles, unable to stop myself until my legs buckled beneath me. The herd no longer an impending danger, I was trapped with my thoughts. I looked down and threw up when I realized I was covered in my brother's blood. He was gone. I couldn't even articulate coherent thoughts; I just cried myself dry until my choking throat seemed to close up around the dry sobs. I had nothing and no one.

I wandered in the area for a couple weeks. I was able to pop in and out of suburbs on mini-supply runs, finding enough canned food to feed myself every couple days and make a nice can-garland, to surround my sleeping bag at night. I found pencils in people's kitchen drawers, using them to keep marking in the journal I'd taken with me when the world first went to shit. I had the walkers, my journal, and my crippling guilt to keep me company. My life was reduced to fighting to keep a bite of food in my mouth and breath in my lungs for another day, day after day.

I was exhausted from almost getting devoured on a run when I set up my camp for the evening. I picked a small spot to lay down my tarp and sleeping bag and surround with the cans to alert me of any midnight walkers. I usually did a perimeter check to make sure I wasn't accompanied by anyone, dead or alive, but this one particular night I ignored my protocol and went straight to bed. I was woken by a hand over my mouth and hideously cruel eyes staring into mine. "If you scream, I'll slit your throat and leave you for the roamers," the man growled.

I was ripped from my camp that night and dragged through the darkness to theirs. They tied me to a tree as they slept and talked about how they were going to decide who got to "Claim" me. The next day the leader of the group untied me from the tree and threw me on the ground. He violently tore off my boots and my socks, with a twinkle of evil laughter in his eye. "Run, bitch," he sneered.

With a shove, I was stumbling forward with lead legs, feeling the brambles and branches on the ground slice into my feet. I ran as fast as I could, unable to keep from tripping, sliding painfully, along the forest terrain. I didn't have water, I didn't have food, no weapons either. I wondered why these strangers were sending me so cruelly to my death.

I ran for what felt like hours before I finally had to stop. I tripped over a log and scraped my knees along the ground, I simply couldn't go any further. I lay on the ground waiting for the walker that would stumble upon me, bringing my painful demise. Instead of the moaning of the dead, it's an evil cackle that greets me from above. The fat, balding leader that had released me from the tree waddles over towering over me. "Claimed!" He called out with sickening cheer. "You're mine now, slut," he spat as he pinned me to the ground for the first time.

The man had pulled out his dull utility knife and held my thrashing body to the ground as he carved the letter "C" into my face. "There, you useless whore, now everyone will know you're my claim," taunted the man as I whimpered and pleaded with him to let me go. "Now to seal the deal!" was his only response.

My clothes were torn away from my body, the first time a man had ever seen me naked. I kicked myself for clinging to my ridiculous notion of saving sex for someone truly special as my virginity was ripped away in a horrifyingly brutal fashion. The man bit down on my chest, marking me once more, slapped my face, and drilled his fists into my body as he violated me, doing everything in his power to subjugate me. He flipped me over and ground my agonized, freshly carved, face into the ground as he tore me apart from behind before he finished himself in my hair, laughing mercilessly all the while.

I was dragged back to their camp and my boots weren't returned. I was tied up and forced along with them wherever they went. They fed me enough to keep from passing out regularly, took turns whipping and beating me whenever the leader felt like sharing. Every night I was dragged through the woods again to privacy, where the rapist leader would brutalize and violate me again and again. I was an object, a claimed object, and for three months I was convinced I would be until the day I would finally get to die.

By the time I finish recounting my horrifying story to Negan, I am not the only one shaking. As I tremble with fear and misery from the memories, Negan is trembling with ferocious anger even more than I had seen the night before. He firmly, but with gentle strength, cups my face in his hands. "Darling…" I won't meet his eyes, so he tries again, "Rori, sweetheart, I swear to every fucking god in existence that I will make those cowardly fucks pay tenfold for everything they did to you."

I am barely coherent. I sputter, "But if I hadn't gotten caught, if I was smarter while I was on my own – "

"– NO." He cuts me off. "Rori, what you endured was not your fault. I NEVER fucking want to hear you say that again," his harshness makes me flinch but he continues, "You are so fucking strong for surviving the hell they put you through." He looks me deep in the eyes, "As long as you are in this compound you will never EVER try to tell me that you are to blame for what those sorry sacks of fucking shit did. Do you understand?"

Seeing his anger flare up in this manner scares me shitless. "Yes sir," I whisper, "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize, sweetheart," he sooths, "you have nothing to apologize for at all." His measured control of his anger has returned from its momentary lapse. He rises from the bed and stands in front of me. Good lord he is tall, I think, he has to be at least a foot taller than I am. He cups my face again and gently forces me to look up at his eyes. "I'm gonna go get our physician to come tend to you, make sure you don't need any medical treatment. I'm gonna be right back, Okay sweetheart?"

"Okay," I respond meekly.

"Good girl," he whispers as he gently places a kiss on the top of my head. The tender contact makes me tense out of reflex, but the gesture is oddly calming. I watch the powerful, calculated stride of the man as he makes his way out of the room and shuts it behind him. He locks the deadbolt and I lay down on the bed, melting into the comfort of the mattress.