Hot water cascades down my body, washing away a lather of suds and the remnants of Negan on my skin. I furiously scrub over every inch of myself, wanting to rid of all traces of him. Despite all this, I can still feel his hands roaming my form, his lips devouring my neck, the delicious feeling of his cock thrusting deep within me...

Dammit! How could I have been so naïve?

I throw the washcloth against the shower wall in absolute frustration before crumbling onto the marble floor.

I've never felt more foolish in my entire life. I hate to admit it to myself, but I was beginning to think that Negan actually cared about me – not in the context of a relationship, but as a human being. The evidence was there: him going out of his way to retrieve my mother's guitar, allowing me to literally cry on his shoulder about my mother on a couple of occasions, and making my pleasure his priority when I finally agreed to have sex with him. Those actions strongly go against Negan's character, that's why I thought they were genuine... In reality, he was just telling me what I wanted to hear in order to get what he wanted.

What would my father think? I just slept with the enemy and I enjoyed it...

What hurts most of all was that I made the mistake of trusting him with a detail of my life that I rarely open-up about – my mother. I revealed more to him about her and my struggles with her loss than I have with my father. It was what he needed to fully bait me, and it worked.

I reach up and rub my hand over the side of my now bare neck, something that I've unconsciously done since the collar's removal not even an hour ago. My fingers brush over a tender spot below my right ear, no doubt one of the many hickeys Negan riddled over my body. Thanks to him, there's no denying who I belong to; his territory has been marked.

I allow myself a few more minutes to wallow on the shower floor before rinsing off, exiting the shower, and dressing. Wanting to conceal some of the hickeys, I keep my hair down and I replace my usual basketball shorts and t-shirt with a pair of jeans and a grey TU sweatshirt. I immediately feel lighter. Covering the markings and wearing something from my pre-Negan life has me feeling more like myself and less like his property.

Any bit of positive energy that I had managed to surmise is extinguished upon stepping into Negan's bedroom.

The clothes scattered across the floor, soiled sheets on the bed, and the leather collar laying on the nightstand practically taunt me. Just the sight of the room resurfaces the inner battle that I thought I had snuffed out while in the shower. I can't get away from what I did. It has to go.

I stomp towards Negan's bed, treading over his boxers that lay strewn on the floor. Gripping the sheet in clenched fists, I give one powerful tug, pulling the material off the mattress and the mattress partially off the bed frame. The linens are furiously tossed into a corner, along with each article of clothing on the floor. My anger grows as I pick up more and more of our clothes.

I pick up his shirt and the feeling of his defined muscles comes to mind. I pick up my bra and my breath involuntarily catches in my throat at the sensations of his mouth and hands devouring my breasts. It's when I turn towards the nightstand and spot the collar that my inner furnace rages to a whole new level. With a fury unlike any other, I firmly grasp the leather in my hand. The material feels heavy, not from it's physical properties, but because of the significance and role that this hunk of leather and metal played in this game that Negan has had me playing since day one. I realize now that removing the collar doesn't mean a damn thing.

Gritting my teeth, I wrench my arm back. I have every intention of beaming the collar across the room, not even caring what it strikes along its path. My mind envisions Negan standing on the receiving end, only causing me to pull my arm back further. Just as I'm about to heave the leather through the air, I glimpse my mother's guitar out of the corner of my eye. I freeze, glancing between the collar in my hand and the guitar propped against the armchair. Words of my mother flash through my mind.

"Your anger and frustration will only worsen the situation."

"Sam, you have to learn to fight the anger itself and not the thing that is causing it."

"Don't lose control – you'll find yourself in a situation that you can't get out of it."

Her gentle voice rings in my ears, reigning in my composure with each passing second. My eyes remain locked on the piece of maple as my arm slowly lowers to my side, the collar thudding onto the carpet between my feet. I sigh and stubbornly nod my head, knowing her words to be true.

You're always right. mama, even when I don't necessarily want you to be, I think to myself.

My anger is something that I've been fighting since I was a toddler. It's easy to spark, but difficult to extinguish. During moments when I was about to implode, my mom would sit me down and help me to work towards the root of the anger. She witnessed the ill results of me acting on my frustrations on many occasions. Yet, she understood. "You're just like me," she'd say. "The best kind of heart but the worst kind of temper."

Like a child huffing and stubbornly doing their chores after a parent chastises them, I pick up the clothes and linens that I had hurled into the corner. Walking down the hallway, I carry them the short distance to the washer and chuck them in. Upon returning to the bedroom, I retrieve the collar from the floor and begrudgingly place it back on the Negan's nightstand.

Okay, mom, I did the 'right thing' and kept my cool. But just so you know, I'm still pissed off, I think as I pick up the guitar and plop down on the armchair. I wince upon landing in the seat, still noticeably sore from Negan. The wash cycle will take at least half an hour, giving me a bit of time to escape from this reality through music.

My right palm glides over the cool wood, almost petting the instrument in admiration. With ease, I place my fingers in their needed chord patterns and began to play. The song was nothing in particular, just a melodic tune that I found myself slightly swaying to as I strummed along.

With each pass over the strings, I'm carried farther and farther away from the Sanctuary. My mind is lost in the notes that seem to stem directly from my heart, the sound a warm embrace that leaves nothing but thoughts of home in its wake. Not the home that I left to come to the Sanctuary, but the home that comprised of myself, my father, and my mother. It's during moments like this – carried away by the blissful hum of mom's guitar – that precious memories of our past life roll through my mind like an old film. Since mom's passing, it's been the only thing that has had the ability to calm my wayward spirit.

A knock on the bedroom door brings the moment of serenity to an end, ever reminding me that I can never completely escape from the situation. I freeze on instinct when the door begins to open, fearing it to be Negan, until Dwight's scarred face pokes through the partially opened door. I haven't seen him since a few nights ago at the factory, when I agreed to be Negan's wife.

"Please tell me why on earth you're playing that thing at seven in the morning. I'm trying to get shit done and all that noise isn't helping any," Dwight says. He pauses and tilts his head as he eyes the guitar. "Where the hell did that come from, anyway?"

"Negan picked it up for me while he was out," I say. I stand and turn my back to Dwight to lean the instrument against the neighboring armchair. I avoid mentioning my mom. Dwight doesn't need to know the truth about her. It would only be used against me once again.

"I'll keep it down. I guess I didn't realize it was that early," I mutter over my shoulder, hoping that Dwight gets the message that I want to be left alone.

My shoulders sink at the sound of his footsteps entering the room. When I turn to face him, his eyes are locked on my bare neck. He raises a hand and brushes my hair to the side, revealing the purple splotches trailing below my ear. I move my head slightly so that my hair falls back into place, but the jig is up. Dwight sighs and drops his head.

"I didn't think you'd cave so easily," he says, pointing to my neck. There's a hint of disappointment in his tone.

My mouth opens to speak but it closes just as quickly, his words feeling like a slap to the face. Before I can respond, the washer sounds, signaling the end of the cycle. I angrily shoulder past Dwight, not wanting to deal with this right now. But the man is on my heels and follows me to the laundry room. He leans against the door frame, forbidding an escape, and looks on as I toss the damp linens and clothes into the dryer.

"I just can't believe it," Dwight reiterates, shaking his blonde mane in disbelief.

I clench a dripping sock in my hand and take a deep breath, trying to choose my words wisely.

"Did I really have a choice?" I respond after a moment, finally turning to face Dwight. Even I must admit that there was no avoiding this situation. He was bound to find a way to bait me in sooner or later. The deal of being his wife in exchange for my dad's safety was the ticket.

In that moment, I spot the rare softness in Dwight's eyes. His typical veil of disinterest vanishes as he ponders my words.

"I guess that's Negan," Dwight says in a low voice. "Making it seem like you have a choice, when you really don't." He opens his mouth to continue, but stops and sighs.

Sensing the end of our conversation, I return to loading the dryer. I'm momentarily caught off guard when Dwight places a hand on my shoulder. The touch is surprisingly comforting, one of understanding. In that moment, his silence was telling me more than his words ever could. When he finally lets go, he offers a parting nod before leaving me to return to his work.

I return to Negan's bedroom, processing what Dwight had told me. He's right – Negan is calculating in the way that he forces your hand, making you choose the selection that he wanted you to choose all along to best benefit him. My mind drifts to what Dwight had told me the other night.

"This isn't who I am. It's who I have to be to survive."

I get it now. Even Dwight is under Negan's spell, to a degree. He's a good soldier, following the orders of his superior to a 'T', but only because he's forced to do so. In his mind, following Negan, and losing a part of himself in the progress, is better than being dead.

I can't settle with a life like that. There's a way out of this and I'm going to find it. This may not be who I am, but if Negan wants a doting wife, he's going to get one. I'll play the role, making it appear as if I'm on board. But unlike Dwight, I'm not going to continue to live the lie that Negan has forced me to live. It may take me months, or maybe even years, but I'm going to find a way to get my father and I out of this situation. After that, find a way of putting an end to Negan, once and for all.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Later that evening, the aroma of crispy fried chicken, green beans, mac 'n cheese, and fresh rolls fill the apartment. The table is set and there is cold beer in the fridge. Everything is in order for Negan's return. Hell, I even changed into a revealing tank top and shorts, knowing that he would appreciate the extra show of skin.

I'm pulling the rolls out of the oven when the front door opens. Negan struts in with his usual swagger, his leather jacket strung over his right shoulder and Lucille clutched in the other hand. His t-shirt clings to his sweat clad body.

"Honey, I'm home ~," Negan playfully sings as he bumps the door closed with his boot. He lifts his nose and breathes deeply, inhaling the savory fumes. Kicking off his boots, he drapes his jacket on the back of the sofa and props Lucille against the wall.

"I figured I make you a nice meal after you've been gone all day. There's beer in the fridge, too." I point towards the fridge before drawing my attention back to the cooking.

I'm stirring the green beans on the stove when I feel the warmth of his body press against me from behind. "That looks mighty fucking good," he says, his hands caressing my hips. "And I'm not just talking about the food." His hands still as he waits for me to respond. I feel as if he is testing me after this morning.

Play the role, I tell myself.

I put the spoon down on the counter and turn around to where Negan's chest is pressed against mine. Reaching up, I glide my hand down his cheek and guide his lips to mine. Negan grunts in approval and assumes control, pressing my body against the counter as he deepens the kiss. I get lost in his touch, my own pleasures unconsciously resurfacing despite how hard I'm trying to keep them dormant.

I have to force myself to slow the kiss and pull away from him, making sure to tug on his bottom lip a bit as I do so. Negan's cheeks flush and his pants are beginning to get noticeably tighter.

"I'm glad everything has your approval," I say. Negan tries to pull me closer, but I press a hand to his chest. If I don't stop this now, I won't be able to stop myself later. "You, need a shower, badly. I need to finish dinner."

"Or we could skip straight to dessert," Negan tries to reason, with a wag of his eyebrows. When I don't waiver, he huffs and drops his arms from around me. "Fuck it. I'll get a goddamn shower."

Thankfully, Negan quickly departs for the shower. I lean my back against the counter and sigh, shaking my head. That little test-run required more effort to control the situation than I first imagined.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

My eyes flutter open as the beginning traces of dawn barely filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Negan's bedroom. I glance towards the nightstand and see that there is still fifteen minutes until Negan's alarm is set to go off. He's laying on his side, spooning me, with one arm strung around my waist. The comforter is bunched at our feet, Negan possessing enough body heat to keep us both comfortable. His chest slowly rises and falls as he dozes.

Not wanting to wake him before it's necessary, I remain still in his arms. It's common for me to wake before he does. I cherish these fleeting moments of calm before the storm that is Negan waking. My mind usually wanders, bouncing from one thought to the next, with no rhyme or reason. However, it seems that this morning's itinerary of reflection consists of the events of the previous weeks.

For the past couple of weeks, I've bitten my tongue and plastered a smile on my face when interacting with Negan. Overall, playing the role of 'wife' has not been too different than what I was doing before. I've continued to cook, clean, and obey Negan's word. However, I've made sure to do all of this without sulking, as I had previously done. I made it a priority to stay chipper and on top of things to show Negan that I was genuine in fulfilling my end of the agreement.

Negan took notice of my cooperation and responded by pulling back some of Dwight and Simon's regular checks on me. I went from being monitored every thirty minutes or so, to going a couple of hours without one of them coming to check on me. It may not seem like much, but it has allowed me more time to plan towards a possible escape.

My first priority was to determine the exact location of the Sanctuary. To my surprise, obtaining this information was easier than anticipated. One afternoon, I approached Simon, who was babysitting me for the day, and asked if he would get me a newspaper to read. My reasoning was that I had already read every piece of literature that Negan owned, even the cookbooks, and I wanted something to keep my mind occupied for a while.

In reality, I knew that a newspaper would have the name of the local county or town printed on the front page.

Sure enough, Simon was not suspicious of my request. The next morning, a copy of the King County Chronicle was laying on the kitchen counter when I got up to prepare Negan's breakfast. Upon seeing the name, I could only remember that King County was a small town about four hours southeast of my home.

Although I had an exact answer, I couldn't help but feel a bit discouraged. I had never traveled anywhere near King County before, so even if I managed to escape and find a vehicle, I wouldn't have the slightest inclination as to how to get home.

Knowing my luck, I would get turned around and find myself back at Negan's front door, I think as I hear the alarm sound.

I reach over and smack the snooze button before settling back down against Negan. Awaken by the alarm and my movement, Negan nuzzles closer to me. The scruff of his overgrown beard lightly scratching my neck.

I would like nothing more than to spring out of bed, and out of Negan's embrace, to start my day, but that is not something that a 'loving wife' would do. I allow him to pull me closer, melting into his embrace. He places a small kiss to the back of my neck and then my cheek, grinning down at me when I open my eyes to greet him.

"Mornin', sweetheart," Negan says, his voice groggy.

I turn to where I'm laying on my back, gazing up at him. The front of his hair lays in small curls against his forehead. Even in the dim light, his hazel eyes seem to emit a soft glow, despite still being slightly clouded with sleep.

This is the picturesque view that every girl dreams of waking up to. Hell, I dreamt the same thing. I longed for the lazy mornings of waking in the secure arms of a man. I would snuggle closer to him, dozing against his chest. The thought of being anywhere but there with him would be unheard of. Time would escape as we got lost in each other, wondering how on earth we were lucky enough to have the other.

That idealized fantasy begins to fade from view. No matter how hard I try to hang onto the lifelike vision, it turns to dust before my very eyes. The image lying underneath being my current view of a grinning Negan. A modern-day wolf in sheep's clothing; his charm baits you in and gets you close enough for him to sink his fangs into you.

"Hey," I sleepily reply. I stretch my arms above my head, feeling the gentle pull of my muscles as the tension built during sleep is relieved. The movement causes my t-shirt to rise, exposing my midriff.

Negan's warm, rough hand splays over my bare flesh, tenderly tracing small circles with the pads of his fingers. He lowers his head, his lips hovering just above mine and waits. Needing no direction, I tilt my chin up, meeting his kiss.

There is no such thing as a quick kiss when it comes to Negan. He likes to take things slow. His mouth exploring mine until the lack of oxygen forces him to finally pull away, before diving right back in.

I've quickly learned the little movements and kinks that pressed Negan's buttons in the best way possible.

Tugging on his hair will cause him to get a bit rougher – a dangerous move that can easily lead to more than just an innocent kiss.

Touching him back whether it's rubbing his torso, arms, or back, will cause him to return the favor; another dangerous move.

Any sort of moan or whimper, whether genuine or not, is music to his ears.

The man loves breasts. Any sort of touching, squeezing, kissing, etc. of my breasts keeps him pleased and occupied to no end.

These serve as mental notes, a strategy of sorts, for when Negan finds himself wanting a good make-out session, which is often. Thinking of it as a game plan aids in detaching me from the actions themselves. I'm not going to lie to myself – there are many times when I'm just as turned on and into it as Negan is. A mindset like that will easily lead to me sleeping with him again, a move that I wish to avoid at all costs. Thus far, doing 'just enough' has kept him satisfied enough to where I have yet to sleep with him a second time.

Playing off of him, I moan into his mouth as his hand leaves my stomach and travels underneath my shirt, palming my right breast. I inwardly smile, having successfully predicted his movements.

One more kiss and a moan or two should be enough to satisfy him, allowing me to finally get up and start my day, I think to myself.

Negan, however, has other plans as he suddenly positions himself on top of me. I can't help the surprised squeal that comes from me, muffled by Negan's lips. He positions himself between my legs and his mouth moves from my lips to my neck, greedily sucking and nibbling on the sensitive flesh. This spurs a genuine reaction from me as my back arches off the bed, electrified by his touch. When our lips touch again, it's met with an intoxicating buzz that I haven't felt since that faithful night when I gave myself to him. A feeling that I find myself wanting more of, yet at the same time, I don't.

Negan is ravenous, his groans a mixture of pleasure, desperation, and need. For weeks, he's settled for first and second base since we had sex. Now, he's at bat, staring down the pitcher, and has his sights set on a home run.

I feel myself quickly losing control of the situation. It's as if my body is on autopilot, completely disregarding the frantic screams from my conscious to put an end to this before it goes too far. My conscience works to push through the growing fog of desire that is flooding every fiber of my being.

A hand raises off the bed to push him away, but at the feeling of his hips grinding against my core, it entangles in his grey sleep shirt to pull him closer. He claws at the fabric of my thin pajama shorts, grunting in frustration when the cumbersome material doesn't easily shed off.

It's at this moment that the alarm clock begins to sound for the second time, due to me hitting the snooze button. The rhythmic blare jars my senses, lifting the veil of lust that had overtaken me. My conscience retakes its position at the helm and slams on the brakes, ceasing my actions at once.

"Negan, the alarm," I reason, gently placing a hand on his shoulder to coax him off me so I can get up.

"Fuck the alarm." Negan blindly swings his arm towards the sound and swats the clock, and his cell phone into the wall a few feet away. The square alarm clock instantly silences upon connecting with the drywall and crashing to the floor.

Negan raises off me and sits up on his knees, straddling my lower half, and shoves his navy blue boxers down. With his dick free, he starts to tear at my shorts. It seems like he's about to rip them off entirely, when I reach forward and grasp his wrists, stopping his movements.

"Negan, wait!"

"What?" he grits between clenched teeth, fed up with the delays.

"I can't, you know –," I start, glancing towards his thick, hard cock that is standing in a mass of pubic hair.

"And why the hell not?" he questions.

"I, um. Uh –," I stammer in my mental search for a viable excuse. Negan narrows his eyes at me as the seconds tick by. "I'm on my period. It didn't cross my mind until now." I was actually on my period the previous week, but he doesn't need to know that.

Negan lowers his head and releases a frustrated sigh. Crawling off the bed, he stands to his feet and sulks towards the bathroom, his boxers still hanging at his knees. "Thanks for the blue balls. . . ," he mutters over his shoulder, slamming the bathroom door behind him.

I place my hands on my face and release a long audible breath, sinking further into the bed. That was the closest I've come to surrendering to him once again. I need to do better at controlling and hiding my true desires from him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Later that day, I find myself settled in a black leather armchair in Negan's room. I am situated directly in front of the window, allowing a vast view of the surrounding scenery. However, given our secluded location, all that can be seen is the mass of trees encompassing the perimeter. Even so, it's a beautiful sight to behold.

The leaves of the canopies are beginning to turn, a peppering of scarlet and gold intermingling with the crisp green of the majority. The late afternoon sun accentuates the autumn foliage, appearing to set the trees ablaze with their vibrant hues. Thin pine trees gently sway to-and-fro, and the leaves adorning the branches perform a dance of sorts as they move in tandem with their host.

A speckled leaf breaks free from its branch, pirouetting through the air as it descends to the ground. I watch its path, playing a little game of 'guess which side of the fence it'll land on', a little something that I came up with for entertainment. The leaf hovers yards above the forest floor, an area I renamed 'the safe zone'.

That's it, stay on that side, I think.

It lingers a second or two before a breeze sends the leaf in a downward spiral towards the fence, and away from safety. I lean closer and place a hand against the window, watching intently through the glass barrier as the leaf hovers a few feet directly above the fence, drifting in and out of the two zones. Just when it looks like the leaf is about to fall within the safe zone, a final puff of air from Mother Nature is enough to skim the leaf over the top of the steel barb wire topped fence and onto Sanctuary grounds. It gracefully falls and comes to rest near the rear tire of one of Negan's box trucks.

"You trying to count the fuckin' trees?" I hear from behind, the voice startling me. "You've been sitting there for a while now." My head swivels to see Negan strolling into the room. He's without his jacket, wearing only jeans and a white t-shirt.

I still haven't gotten used to Negan being around on the meet up days with my father. Negan didn't feel it necessary to be present for the meets after I agreed to be his wife. He knew that my father wouldn't try anything, especially after the sacrifice I made. Negan now sends some guy named Fat Joey to meet my father every week, while he remains at the Sanctuary with me.

Negan takes a seat on the arm of the chair I'm sitting in. His gaze fixates on the scenery, eyes squinting in focus. "Whatcha looking at anyways? I see ya sittin' here for days now, ain't nothing out there but a shit ton of trees," he says, finally glancing down at me.

I shrug my shoulders. "Nothing in particular. It's just. . . nice."

"If you say so," Negan scoffs, redirecting his attention back to the view.

"It's better than looking at these walls all damn day," I mutter under my breath. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret saying them. My heart thuds in my chest as I stare at Negan, waiting for a lashing for back-talking him, something I had done well at avoiding since becoming a wife.

Negan's eyes remain pointed out the window, his expression neutral. Appearing to be deep in thought. It makes me wonder if he heard me after all.

Without a word, he stands to his feet and stretches a hand towards me. "Come on."

I stare at the outstretched hand, never too inclined to go anywhere with Negan. Those trips don't typically end well.

At my hesitation, Negan narrows his eyes and curtly nods his head towards his gesture in a silent command. I take his hand and slowly rise to my feet. He senses my apprehension, noticing how my bottom lip is pinched between my teeth.

"Stop that," he lightly chastises, tapping the pad of his thumb against my cheek. He grunts in approval when I release my lip. "Ain't nothing to be worried about. You're not in trouble."

He pulls on my hand, escorting me out of the bedroom and to the living room, where I'm instructed to put on my shoes that lay by the main door. Negan retrieves Lucille from her corner and waits patiently for me to finish before taking my hand once again.

"Your head stays down, eyes on your damn feet. Understood?"

It takes me a beat to process what he said. Leaving the apartment with no blindfold? He's never done that, I think. I quickly nod my head. The second Negan opens the main door, my chin presses to my chest. My gaze remains locked on the dingy laces of my black Converse as I'm led down the stairs and through a small hallway. I can hear several voices from the opposite direction, I'm assuming to be a few of Negan's men on the job. There is always at least a couple of guys here during the day.

Leading me through a final door, the concrete that was under my feet is replaced with dust and gravel. We come to a halt, though I keep my head bowed. My ears perk at the melodic mating call of a robin in the distance. The afternoon sun seeps into my pores, resembling a warm embrace of a lost friend. A breeze kisses the skin of my arms and face in a greeting from nature. I soak it all in, relishing what I have gone without nearly the past month.

Negan cups my chin, raising my head to meet his gaze. "Is this better than those fucking walls?" Though there is a playful tone to his words, my cheeks flush slightly.

"I'm sorry -."

"Goddamn, woman. I said you're not in trouble," he interrupts. "Shit, you've done everything I've asked of you these past few weeks, so you've earned a little something in return. Plus, I might've been a bit of a dick this mornin'. Point is, I'm not trying to keep you locked away in some tower like a fucking Disney princess. From now on, me or one of the boys will bring you out here for a little while. It won't be everyday, daddy still has work that needs to be done. How does that sound, darlin'?"

I want to be ecstatic at Negan's decree, overjoyed that I'll finally be outside of the confines of his apartment. However, I can't shake the feeling that Negan is waiting to rip the rug from under my feet. This is too good to be true. There must be a catch, I think to myself.

"I'll get to go outside?" I clarify.

Negan nods his head. Still holding my hand, he ushers me to the middle of the gravel yard. The warehouse is to my back and the fence a few yards in front of me. The only greenery within the Sanctuary grounds are the weeds lining the metal panels of fencing. I glance over my left shoulder and spot a black lifted truck and a motorcycle parked by the building. Other than that, the area is completely open and clear.

"Stay on the west side of the warehouse, between there," Lucille is pointed to the far corner of the warehouse, where the vehicles are parked. "And the corner of the building. Simon and Dwight are the only two who park their shit over here, so no one should bother you. And if anyone does, well. . . ," Negan clutches Lucille a little tighter. "Stay within eyesight and don't try anything stupid," he warns.

With that, Negan turns on his heels and struts the few yards to the warehouse. He hops onto a set of pallets stacked against the brick exterior, lazily swinging his feet as he watches me.

I take my time pacing my allotted space. It takes 124 strides to get from one point of the building to the next. It's only a sliver of the entire grounds, but it gives me access to possible means of escape. My gaze flickers periodically to the ten-foot-tall perimeter fence. I don't want to walk too close to it, fearing that Negan would grow suspicious, so I keep a distance of at least fifteen yards between the fence and me.

Part of me was hoping that the fence's condition would've changed since the tour Simon had given me on my first night here. Though, it's plain to see that the damn thing is still impeccable – no holes in the chain-link, no rusted over sections, and the spotlights secured to the top appear to all be in working order. It would be impossible to slip through without detection from one of the guards that Negan continuously has guarding the fence.

I reach the corner of the warehouse and turn around, pacing towards the opposite end of my makeshift rec area. Looking past where Negan is seated, I spot his men's vehicles. Stealing one is a possibility, but it would have to be the truck, on account that I've never driven a motorcycle. Even then, there is the issue of navigating back home. Plus, how would I slip away without detection? Someone would have to unlock the main gate for me to drive off the property.

Another dead end! There must be some way out of this hellhole, I contemplate as I kick at the gravel, causing pebbles to scatter.

That's when I hear it – a continuous low hum. It's barely audible, but the sound wasn't there moments before. I look to the sky, thinking it to be thunder in the distance, but there isn't one cloud in sight. As the seconds tick by, the noise gets increasingly louder as whatever it is, continues barreling at it's break-neck pace. The trees scatter the sound, hindering me from pinpointing its exact location, but it's getting closer.

I turn to see Negan leaping to his feet. "Get your ass upstairs, now!" he commands, pointing to the doorway with Lucille before sprinting towards the gate. There's an urgency and fervor in his tone that instantly has me running towards the warehouse door.

I duck inside and scurry up the stairs to the apartment, taking them two at a time. My lungs are burning by the time I reach the window in Negan's bedroom. Staring out, I spot Negan opening the main gate to allow a grey hatchback to drive onto the grounds. Negan motions to a Savior to close the gate as the driver gets out of the vehicle. The large man is frantic, his arms waving around as he appears to try to explain something to his approaching leader.

Is that Fat Joey? I ponder, eyeing the driver.

Though I can't hear Negan's reply, his booming roar carries. The driver directs Negan to the vehicle, pointing towards the passenger side.

My blood runs cold as I spot a peppering of bullet holes in the side of the vehicle. The rear tire is flat and the windows on that side are shattered, with a few holes through the rear window.

From the far corner of the yard, Simon and Dwight quickly approach. They had to have heard the commotion. Negan repeatedly slams Lucille against the passenger door panel, no doubt spewing profanities as he does so.

My hands tremble at my side, my body rigid. A terror unlike anything I've felt before creeps up my spine. Slashing someone's tire is one thing, or even keying their car. Firing shots at the car? That's more than having a simple beef with someone. No, whoever did this wanted to send a clear message to Negan.

The question is – who did it and what do they want?

Better yet, is my safety in jeopardy?

Edited by Spitfire47

Hey guys! After many many months, Sam is back! Thank y'all for being patient and sticking with me. Don't worry - this story is FAR from over.

Thoughts on the chapter? How worried should Sam be following the attack on Negan's men?

I always look forward to hearing from you guys. I read every single review and message. Your input is valued and appreciated!

Turtle54