When dawn broke I could almost pretend as though it had all been a dream, that John was still the man who'd asked me to stay only because he cared about me and not because he wanted to use me. My head on his chest, his arm around my back his fingers dancing along my spine, the warmth of him I had come to know for weeks and was now so common and so secure had me fooled. I could almost pretend. Almost.

"What do you want to know?" he asked, his voice a low grumble offering no threat.

I was pulled out of my reverie, forced to return to the reality I wanted so much to forget. I knew enough about him to know I would not be given a direct answer, he liked to watch me think and so he'd give me just enough to take minutes, sometimes over an hour, to figure something out; and he always asked for me to think out loud. And so I knew enough that I couldn't ask him the obvious - why me, why won't you let me go, what do you plan to do with me and what happens when I'm finished - all the average questions a normal selfish human would ask. What I didn't know enough of was what he needed me for - Thomas Harewood worked in a

"Think out loud, Elenore," he said quietly, almost sleepily as he laid still running his hand along my back. I had been quiet too long, I should have demanded answers the moment he first asked.

"You want me to get to Lucille," I said softly, practically feeling him smile. "That'll give you an in to Thomas Harewood." And that solved why he wanted me, why he was still using me, and how long he would use me for; there was no reason to ask for any of that, I had already figured that out. "Thomas Harewood works in a public archive," I continued, this being the wall I could not yet climb over. "Records, historical documents, things anyone can go in and see." What I didn't say was that it made no sense why he needed an in, it was open to the public by default he already had one. I could feel in his tense arms, his deliberate slow breathing he was waiting as patiently as he could for me to speak. But it didn't make any sense why he wanted Thomas Harewood, not when all he did was keep track of documents that anyone could go see. "It isn't an archive."

I knew without him speaking I was right, it was the only reason that made sense. His fingers trailed the length of back and wound in my hair, his cheek pressed against the top of my head. It was gentle, intimate. None before had held me in such a way, as though the feel of me against them mattered; but he was holding me against my will, using me for a purpose he hadn't yet explained. I lay in the arms of a murderer, but all he did was breathe softly and I forgot it a little bit. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice laced with pleasure.

"It wouldn't be the first time Starfleet disguised something they wanted to keep hidden," I answered, now stuck against the wall of what it was if not an archive. "Is that where you worked?" I asked, having many ideas and all of them crazier and stupider than the last; and so I went about trying to fit tiny pieces of information John had given - such as his being an engineer, designing ships and weapons.

"No," he answered, a smile in his voice.

I sighed when he said nothing else, not expecting him to though I'd hoped he would. And so I was left to think, to pull thoughts from the span of my mind and see if they fit well enough to say; and I only chose the best. I think I knew then he needed to see I was intelligent, even when I knew nothing; that it was my thoughts he was so intrigued by - what kept me alive far longer than either of us had anticipated. "Is the man you work for the one who runs it?"

The moment I felt his body tense I knew I had hit on something important, but I wasn't any closer to what because he had never said who he worked for, or even what branch he worked under. I had nothing else to go on, except that answers lay in the man John took orders from. "That will be all until you get in Lucille's room," he said unwinding his arms from around my back.

And even then, the edge in his voice that signalled a threat, I sat up and looked down at him irritated. If he would just answer my questions everything would be easier, I would willingly help him cause he had to have a good reason for doing this - at least so I told myself. "What is it exactly you're doing?" I asked. Well, actually I demanded.

He rolled his eyes at my simplicity as though it grieved him, something that got under my skin and made my blood boil. "Get me what I want and I'll tell you more," he answered, his voice final and his eyes hard.

I wanted to leave, I wanted him to take this tracker off my arm, I wanted to go home; and he was giving me nothing. It wasn't good enough. "There isn't a reason," I said, his eyes freezing and my blood should have frozen with it - I should have been afraid of him, and a part of me was, but at that moment I honestly didn't like him, "as least not one I would agree with." His eyes were cold, dangerous with abhorrence, his face a mask of absolute nothing and showing no more emotion than a stone. "Good to know," I muttered before standing, not caring I was completely bare as I walked to the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, obviously not wanting me out of his sight. It was then I think he realized the extent of a mistake I was, the factor he could control just enough to keep me but not enough to follow him blindly. I think my will to act against him, even in the face of the man who could and probably would kill me, is something he liked about me; and it infuriated him just the same.

"Taking a shower," I answered curtly, not stopping to look back at him - not caring enough to, or at least that's what I knew he would think; and I knew exactly how enraged it would make him. "You didn't let me finish yesterday," I said before the door began to close.

"Do not lock the door," he ordered furiously, the sound of his feet on the floor as he lunged for the bathroom not quick enough to stop me pressing the button that kept him out. "Open the door," he yelled, hitting his hand hard against it making it rattle.

It didn't touch me then that no human could do that, could be strong enough to move the door with only his hand; it was secure in the wall, sealed in the frame. I missed it. And oh how much more I could have discovered about him if I hadn't. But instead I turned on the shower and stepped in, seeing in the mirror his purple fingerprints marking my body - painting my waist, freckling my thighs - before I looked away. I could hear him outside of the door, occassionally striking his fist against it but he did not break it - that would have given too much away.

I looked down at my wrist, running a finger over the smooth green tracker as I contemplated whether or not I could really do it. Right then, I could end it all right then by taking it off. My conscious would be clear, I had done nothing wrong yet, I could save myself from the agony of waiting for him to kill me. My answer was obvious when I raised my hand to run it through my wet hair. I couldn't do it.

From the lack of reviews last chapter, and the very few reviews from the chapters before, I can only assume that something is wrong with the story. Is the writing just not good, is the pace too slow? Does it feel like it's dragging, should I take out some of the details and skip a few days? I'm trying to show the progression of her being in love with him, to finding out he's not who she thought, and then to where she accepts who he really is cause she's already in love - is that taking too long, would you rather me just sum a lot of that up in a few paragraphs and just move on to the action? At this point I'm not getting feedback and I don't know if people are actually enjoying the story or just waiting to start enjoying, or maybe the people reading the story (cause I can see that people are reading it) don't like reviewing. At this point I don't know what to do, cause I don't think I can continue a story where I'm not getting any feedback on what is good and what isn't good. So I guess let me know.