A/N Liz feels confused and guilty for enjoying Reddington's company. Growing suspicious after questioning him about her prisoner status, she accuses him of having a frightening hidden agenda. I own neither the characters nor the Blacklist and sadly make no money from writing about them. Please do review, you'll make my day :-)

The next day, Liz set out to avoid Reddington. She was gripped with a gnawing sense of guilt for having slept well in the luxurious bed he had provided, for having eaten with him, for having enjoyed the food…for having smiled at him. It was somehow easier to be a prisoner when she was locked in a filthy cell, shunned and brutalized. She understood the simplicity of it. She knew how to act, how to survive for as long as possible. If she were to live, it would be because she escaped. If she died it would be because the bad guys won. But Reddington was playing by a different set of rules.

Despite her profiling skills she felt horribly ill-equipped to understand her current situation. Why was he doing this? Could she really believe he wouldn't hurt her? That he would let her go? Reddington was one of the most notorious criminals in recent American history. He was a ruthless sociopath; part of her was rightly afraid of him, and yet he made her feel welcome – even safe.

She decided to hide out in the library, a beautiful room with strange collections of books and objects that Reddington had correctly branded obscure. She found that many of the books were in Arabic, and there were shelves upon shelves of architectural blueprints, though for what she couldn't work out. Finally she found a thick volume entitled 20th Century American Poets and settled on a chaise to calm her churning mind.

It was there that Reddington found her hours later, entering the room silently and making her jump when she looked up and found him observing her with an almost fond look in his eye. He wore one of his customary vests, but his shirt sleeves were rolled up, giving him a relaxed air.

"Twentieth century American poets – who are you reading Lizzie?" he said enthusiastically as he tilted his head, making a show of reading the title. "Whitman? Robert Frost? Or my personal favorite, T.S. Eliot?"

"Gertrude Stein" she replied, watching him carefully.

Reddington's smile broadened. "Ah, a woman after my own heart. She said that we are so afraid of losing our moral sense that we are not willing to take it through anything more dangerous than a mud-puddle – wonderful way with words."

Liz curled her lip disdainfully. "I don't imagine that's a problem for you - I'm sure your moral sense has visited some very dangerous places….If you even have one" she added quietly.

She watched the corner of Reddington's mouth twitch into a ghost of a smile. "Contrary to popular belief I'm big fan of justice - but true justice is rarely served by handing extraordinary powers to corrupt, ineffectual governments and their agencies. That moral code you swore to uphold is the same one that allows government contractors to supply arms to those who are subsequently detained and tortured without trial for crimes committed against said government. The world isn't run by democratically elected officials Lizzie, it's run by multinational corporations - you just don't know it."

She raised her eyebrows. "And you don't supply arms yourself? You haven't sold secrets to dangerous foreign powers? I've studied you."

Reddington tutted dismissively. "Over twenty years and what the FBI truly knows about me would fit on a postcard."

"If you're trying to convince me you're not a bad person…"

"Oh I'm perfectly aware of what I am" he said smiling tightly. "But I also know that my crimes pale in comparison with those committed by your own government while their strings are pulled by faceless super-powers" He paused and regarded her thoughtfully, his fingers drumming on the back of an armchair. "Sometimes dragging our morality into the mud is the only way to get clean."

Liz shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. "You know, Stein also said that the one thing that everybody truly wants is to be free" she said pointedly.

The changes were subtle, but Liz could see the tension work its way into Reddington's features. He clasped his hands and leant casually on the back of the armchair before he responded, his tone deceptively jovial.

"You know, I've always found freedom to be an exceptionally nebulous concept. And as for what we want… it's the small pleasures in life that sustain us, when all else is uncertain. To that end, I had some remarkable pastries brought in from a little shop in the East Village and I was rather hoping you'd join me – make me feel less guilty" he chuckled. "Do you have a sweet tooth, Lizzie? I do."

The pastries were remarkable; exotic fruit tarts, beautifully glazed cakes and fondants all arranged in a sticky, colorful array on a cake stand in the sitting room along with fresh coffee and another vase of tea roses, this time a rich orange color shot through with streaks of Red. As they ate and talked, Liz found herself warming to the perplexing, charismatic man who had so gently and cheerfully kidnapped her three days ago.

It was clear from their conversations that he was someone with strong principles, even if they were constructed around a moral logic that was completely alien to her. He was enthusiastic, knowledgeable and occasionally even compassionate, his genuine concern for the suffering of others shining through the stories he told about the people he'd met all over the world. Rather than excusing herself after tea, Liz found herself spending the rest of the day with him, listening to him talk about his travels and even tentatively helping him cook in the evening.

By the time they had finished dinner she felt more relaxed than she had in weeks. It occurred to her that in denying her freedom he had somehow also given it to her in a way she had never experienced before; in holding her captive he had absolved her of all responsibility and allowed her to let go of herself, whilst opening up new horizons and ways of thinking about everything. It was a heady feeling and she was becoming almost giddy in his presence.

Draining her wine glass she stood almost regretfully to bid him goodnight, but he seemed determined to draw the day out for as long as possible.

"The night's sill young Lizzie – I think we have time for a digestif. Will you join me in a scotch? Or perhaps you'd prefer something lighter – limoncello? Or there's a lovely cognac in the cabinet."

"Scotch is fine thanks" she lied. She accepted the glass he handed to her and took a sip, wincing as the harsh liquid burned her throat.

"It's an acquired taste" he twinkled at her. "I didn't go near the stuff for years after I sampled my father's beloved Jura at the tender age of 12 - 45% proof Lizzie, I was so ill he didn't have the heart to discipline me" he laughed softly.

She took another sip and looked up at him. "When I was 17 I went off the rails a bit – I had a bad boyfriend. He got in my head and I convinced myself he was everything. I started drinking and my dad caught me with a bottle of vodka. I thought he'd be furious but he just sat me down and got two glasses. We drank together and just talked. He was brilliant."

Reddington laughed fondly. "A father will do anything for his daughter" he paused thoughtfully and then laughed again, shaking his head. "Vodka, eh? I'm certain that didn't sit well with him." He looked away from her suddenly, taking a long pull from his glass.

Liz frowned. "It's funny you should say that – he never drinks anything stronger than beer, doesn't have the stomach for it. Although he did used to smoke like a chimney, that night included. He had a worse hangover than me in the morning."

Thinking of her dad, her earlier guilt returned with a vengeance. She looked uncomfortably at her glass and then at the luxurious surroundings with which she was becoming familiar. It frightened her immeasurably to think that she might become used to the place. To Reddington. He was so charismatic that he'd almost made her forget that she was a prisoner.

"I miss him" she ventured quietly. "Mr Re- Red – you said that you were going to let me go…when your business was done. I wonder if you could tell me when I'll be released" she finished awkwardly, her voice trembling slightly.

Reddington pursed his lips and refilled their glasses. "Are you uncomfortable here? Is there anything you need?" he asked in soothing tones.

She swallowed. "No, I'm very comfortable thank you. It's just… you must know that the FBI will be looking for me. They'll have contacted my dad – he'll be so worried."

He nodded tightly. "I'm sure he knows you're ok. A father knows" he added.

Reddington's response did little to assuage her growing sense of foreboding. "That's not an answer. When are you going to let me go? Please."

"I told you, there are certain matters that need to be dealt with" he replied firmly.

"What matters?"

"Lizzie" he said in a warning tone.

"No!" she said, standing up. "It's been days, and as far as I can tell you're not dealing with anything."

He was staring up at her intently now, but didn't respond. His silence filled her with dread.

"If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?" she said, her voice shaking.

She saw his eye twitch fractionally and silence stretched between them before he eventually sat back in his chair. "I won't lie to you."

"Ok. Are you really keeping me here to stop me going to the FBI?" she whispered.

She watched as he worked his jaw uncomfortably for a moment. "It's one of the reasons."

She felt an icy panic begin to grip her, panic and shame that she had been so relieved that he had been kind to her after her ordeal at the hands of the Lorcas that she had wanted to believe he wouldn't hurt her, that he would let her go – even that he cared for her.

"Why are you really keeping me here? Tell me!"

He rose from his seat and approached her slowly. She stood her ground, breathing hard, watching him closely as he came to rest in front of her, his expression unfathomable.

"For your protection" he said finally in a low voice, looking down at her.

She frowned. "Protection? From what? The Lorcas are gone – you killed them, remember?" she added bitterly.

He shook his head. "I can't tell you. To do so would place you in grave danger."

"Bull!" she said, a wave of nausea rising in the pit of her stomach and tears pricking her eyes. "The only person I need protecting from is you. You never had any intention of letting me go, did you?" She gestured around her with a shaking hand. "These clothes, afternoon tea, this grand house…this is all part of some twisted fantasy of yours. You have to tell yourself you're doing this to protect me."

Reddington looked pained, his mouth twitching in distaste. "That's not true."

She stepped back from him, her chin crumpled. "How does it end? What are you going to do?"

He tutted in frustration. "I assure you you're perfectly safe. Now let's finish our drinks. There's no need to spoil a lovely evening with unsavory accusations."

"You're kidding, right?! You expect me to drink with you like we're friends? Equals? You're holding me here against my will! I was actually starting to trust you. My god, what was I thinking!"

She watched his eyes harden, his mouth set in a thin line. She was getting to him.

"Lizzie calm down."

"No" she said, marching toward the door. "You're a sick, twisted man and I'm done playing whatever game of yours this is! You can force me to stay here but don't expect me to play along."

"Lizzie" he said sharply, but she had banged the door shut behind her. Shortly afterwards he heard her footsteps on the stairs, and then the faint sound of her bedroom door slamming.

When she got to her room her mind was spinning. She felt like a doll in a play house, being manipulated into a game to which she didn't know the rules. Every scenario she thought of was worse than the last. He was a cold-blooded killer, and judging by his performance over the last few days, one who enjoyed toying with his victims. Worse, he'd even made her start to believe his lies. At the end of the day, she'd been a profiler long enough to know that women who are kidnapped by men rarely survive. No one was coming for her – Reddington had eluded the authorities for over twenty years. She reached a decision; she had to get out of there. Tonight.

TBC