A/N: Hey guys! I'm sorry for the gaps between updates. I've been very busy with school now that the semester is winding down. But Spring Break is this week and I'm hoping I can get some writing in!

Thank you to everyone who has been encouraging me with kind reviews on this story. Especially IndigoElle. I love reading your reviews! They're so indepth and sweet. I'm so happy that a writer whose work I admire would read something of mine! :)

By the way, I've been considering changing the name of this story, but I wanted to give you all a head up so no one thinks it's gone if they can't find it. Okay? Okay.

On with the story!

Dee's POV

This is… strange, to say the least. No, more than strange. It's insane. Completely outrageous. Nonsensical.

I never thought I'd ever so much as step foot in Wayne Manor unless I was illegally trespassing. But here I am, staying as a… ward? Foster child? Guest? Prisoner?

I'm not even sure what I would call the situation I'm in.

And to think, just a few days ago I was stuck in a youth facility, wondering if I'd ever get out…

I was curled up in my small, freezing, single person room – a punishment for 'attacking' another teen my age who was wailing on a scrawny little preteen boy in the cafeteria. My consequence for getting involved by jumping on his back was the rest of a day and night in solitary confinement.

And a punch to the gut from that dude I jumped on.

But hey, I gave as good as I got.

I curled up on the small mattress, bringing my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them tightly. I was freezing. Wearing nothing but the assigned thin t-shirt and baggy sweatpants I got when I came here, I could feel the ridiculous amount of air conditioning seeping into my skin, chilling me down to the bone. I wanted my long-sleeved plaid over-shirt I came into this hell-hole in, but they took my things at the door, gave me these new clothes, and then demanded I take a shower before I traded in the clothes I had on. I might have lice, they said.

I tried really hard not to be offended at that.

The fact that they had my purse bugged me more than anything else, especially now, when I wanted nothing more than to stare at the old, beaten up family picture I kept in the side pocket. I wanted to see my mom's smiling face staring back at me. Her face before all this… crap happened to us. Before we left Dad, and before Gracie and Zander. Her face before the drugs came in and destroyed any semblance we had to a normal life..

I had no idea whether or not I'd ever see my mom's face again, on photograph or in the flesh.

The thought caused an ache in my chest. I couldn't even begin to imagine a life without her in it. She was my rock, just like I was hers. But drug laws in Gotham were strict – that is, if you didn't have connections. And the only 'connection' Mom had was with our neighborhood's small time, pimply faced drug dealer.

There was a good chance she was going to jail and I was going to be stuck here, waiting to be transported to another facility so ultimately some stranger could come take me into their home just to get an extra check each month. Within a week, there would be no trace of me. I was going to be lost in the system, just another nobody in the eyes of the state. And I would never see my mom, Lola, or anyone else I cared about ever again.

All the events of the day came back to hit me like a freight train and I felt my eyes beginning to sting with unshed tears.

No.

I refused to cry.

I learned when I was 10 years old that showing weakness in a place like this would just get you killed.

No matter how badly I wanted to break down, I held it in. I told myself that I would find some way to get back to my mother. I told myself that I was completely fine. Fake it until you make it, mom always told me.

I was going to be positive about this nightmare I was in and I was going to enjoy it, goddammit.

I curled up further and shut my eyes tightly, intending to get some sleep so I could better face the long day ahead of me. I thought over the events of the past few days, trying to form a hypothesis about who that man was I saw smiling at me as I was taken away. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who it probably was.

You don't just meet a serial killer and expect him to leave you be.

I had just barely shut my heavy eyelids when I heard the harsh sound of the creaky metal door swinging open. Within an instant, I was sitting straight up on the mattress with my eyes wide open. One of the wardens walked in, his taser hanging threateningly from his hip. My eyes were glued to it.

Tasers and I had a bad history.

"Get up, kid," he demanded, which I promptly did. "You're getting sprung."

My hopes soared as my mind came up with only one logical explanation; Mom. She lied her way out of a few of these types of situations before. She could do it again, I knew she could. I let a small smile make its way to my face. She came for me. It was the only explanation, right? I mean, who else could be springing me from this place? Certainly the backlogged system didn't come up with a more permanent living situation for me already.

The warden grabbed me by the arm, hauling me out the door with little concern for my comfort. I grumbled unhappily at his lack of care, but obliged. One step closer to my mother, right?

He led me down a long, sterile white hallway. It reminded me of a horror movie. I felt like I was being led away to some sort of secret science lab to become an experiment like in one of those really weird sci-fi movies with crappy CGI.

I watched way too many TV movies…

When we finally reached the end of our arduous walk down the seemingly never-ending hallway, he shoved me through the door, and none too gently at that. The force caused me to stumble, knocking me off my balance. I tripped forward, pushed on by my own feet tangling together. Reaching my arms out, I grabbed ahold of whatever I could find to keep myself from falling face-first onto the tile floor.

Which, unfortunately enough, was a very nice suit jacket belonging to a very firm, muscular chest.

Two large, but gentle hands reached out to grab me by the shoulders and steady me. I reluctantly accepted the invasion of my space, my eyes glued to the ground in embarrassment. I didn't want to see who I had just run into.

"Are you okay?" a deep, rumbling voice asked. I slowly peeked my head up like a turtle poking out of its shell, only to be completely blown away by what I saw.

Bruce Wayne, the Crown Prince of Gotham himself, was staring back down at me with his brows furrowed in polite concern.

My mouth went dry. My mind went blank. My palms began to sweat.

I crashed head-first into Bruce fucking Wayne, billionaire owner of Wayne Enterprises and most likely the world record holder for the most times mentioned in a tabloid's headline.

I was never going to live this embarrassment down.

Tearing my body away from his grasp, I cleared my throat to break the tension that was palpable in the air. Scratching at the base of my neck nervously, I glanced up at him.

"Sorry, sir," I murmured, struggling to keep my blush under control. The only response was a deep, disarming chuckle that put me at ease just slightly.

"It's quite alright," he assured me in a smooth, oaky tone. His gave a dazzling, 100 watt smile and I could see why he had so many women fawning over him all the time. He could sell ice to an Eskimo.

I just gaped at him like an idiot, completely dumbstruck in his presence. What was he doing here? Collecting another orphan, perhaps? And where was my mom?

"Are you Ms. Collins?" he asked. I quirked a brow at him, wondering how he knew my name.

"Yes…"

He extended a welcoming hand.

"Come with me."

And here I am, living within the pristine grounds of stately Wayne Manor.

I'd much rather be in my tiny apartment, curled up in a chair reading a book next to my mother as she teases me about my boring choice of hobbies. Or on the roof of my apartment building with some of my friends, chatting and laughing over a few drinks I nabbed from my fridge to take the edge off. Hell, I'd even take being at work over cooped up here in this strange, freakishly clean mansion.

But hey, it beats a youth facility by a mile.

I feel out of place here, and that kid of Mr. Wayne's only serves to make that feeling worse.

Ah yes, the infamous Damian Wayne.

I don't think he likes me. No, scratch that, I know he doesn't like me. He's barely spoken to me since I got here yesterday. After showing me to my room, he just vanished. When I crept downstairs to get a snack, I spotted him in the next room out of the corner of my eye. As soon he turned his head over and our eyes locked, he promptly looked away. Then later that day, when Mr. Wayne invited me to eat dinner with them, he ignored me the entire time.

That was one awkward meal.

I don't understand what I've done to piss him off, but oh well, no use dwelling over it. I'm not going to live or die over getting his approval. I'm too busy trying to think of some way to get out of here and back to the East End. I can stay with Lola until this all blows over, hope I can keep my job and school afloat, and wait for Mom to get sprung from jail.

Yeah, I know my plan isn't exactly air-tight, but it's a start…

Well, not really…

I plop down on a bench in the garden with a sigh. This feels so… weird. I thought I would get used to it by now, but I've lived in the East End for far too long to adopt this as my new normal. Being outside in a large open space is the closest to familiarity that I can get. Except this garden isn't inhabited by people and I haven't heard a gunshot yet.

Damn, I miss that.

I scan the garden, looking for some sign of life. I've had limited contact with people these past few days, and the extrovert inside me is dying for some human interaction.

As soon as I spot Damian Wayne sitting by some headstones a few feet away, that feeling dissipates.

You know what? Human interaction is overrated.

I get up off the bench, intending to go back inside. I don't want to talk to him, and I'm positive he doesn't want to talk to me either. He's made that very clear.

Not that I care or anything.

Despite my resolve to petulantly ignore his presence as he has done to me time and time again, I glance back at him briefly as I'm walking away. A small part of me wonders what he's doing out here. I'm not sure why I'm curious at all; maybe it's the boredom finally getting to me.

Anyways, when I look closely, I can see a sketchbook on his lap and a pencil in his hand. The pencil is frozen between his fingers and lightly resting on the paper, just barely touching the surface of it. His brow is creased in what I can only guess to be frustration, like he's not quite sure what to do. However, at the angle he's holding the paper, I can't quite see what's on it.

That annoying curiosity of mine is officially piqued.

I turn my body back around and tiptoe closer to Damian, doing my damndest to be quiet. I just want to see what it is he's drawing. That's all. I'm just going to see what he's sketching, then I'll go back inside. In and out. He won't even notice I'm here. As if he's noticed the fact that I'm here before.

I squint at the paper as I inch closer. The outline sketch is there, that much I can see. Well, barely. But what that sketch is of, I'm not sure. It kind of looks like a flower, I think… Or a tentacle monster. But he doesn't strike me as the type to draw a giant octopus, so I'm guessing he's attempting to draw a flower.

"Do you mind?"

I look up from the quizzical sketch, my eyes locking with Damian's cold, icy blue irises that seem to be eternally unimpressed. I must have stepped a little bit too close…

Well, there goes that plan.

Playing it off as my intention from the very beginning, I crack a small smile as his gaze on me just sharpens. It makes me chuckle a bit that he thinks he can intimidate me. If I can't make a quick escape, then I might as well make the best of this.

"Fancy seeing you here… You know, in your own back yard…"

Smooth, Dee. Real smooth.

Damian rolls his eyes and looks back at his sketchbook, his pencil still in a stationary position between his long, nimble fingers.

"You can leave now," he responds monotonously. Well then… Rude.

The Wayne family charm must have skipped a generation.

Ignoring his demands, I sit down right by his side, reveling in the annoyed scowl he sends my way. He is going to have to get used to my presence here whether he likes it or not, and I'm so going to enjoy reminding him of that fact.

In case it isn't already obvious, I can be rather annoying when I want to be. And right now, my boredom is urging me to experiment by pushing a few more of his buttons, just to see what might happen.

"Do you want something?" he snaps, not even bothering to look up from his sketchpad. Normally, I would snap back with something just for the sake of the argument, but I'm too distracted by his barely there sketch. If the faded pencil tracks are any indication, he's tried and failed a few times over at getting his basic sketch down. Either he doesn't know what to draw or he just can't draw at all.

"Having some trouble?" I ask, still staring down at the half-blank piece of paper on his lap.

"What's it to you?" he replies dismissively. I choose to ignore his less-than-friendly tone and swiftly usurp the pencil from him grip. He responds with a growl of annoyance, reaching out to try stealing it back from me, but I am having none of that.

"Not so fast, Wayne," I scold, holding the pencil as far away as I can from the much larger boy. "I'm just trying to help you."

At last, it seems I've caught his attention in a way other than annoying him. He raises a skeptical eyebrow, faint amusement in his eyes.

"And how might you do that?"

I can sense the challenge in his tone, like he doesn't think I could possibly know anything about art. And, well, he's half right. I suck at art so bad that I have to sit down and count to 10 to calm down every time I try to draw a tree. But there's no way I'm going to tell him that. When I'm challenged, admitting to defeat is not an option.

"You're trying too hard," I blurt out, feeling a tiny spark of accomplishment when I manage to snatch the sketchpad away from him as well. "You need to let yourself go. Just look at whatever it is you want to draw and feel, don't think."

At this, Damian snorts.

"That was the most cliché thing I have ever heard in my life," he scoffs, grabbing his sketchpad and pencil back.

"Just think about it," I insist, my frustration at him growing. "Art is all about expressing yourself and letting your emotions out onto a page. You can't do that when you're overthinking it. You don't need to think in order to draw. You need to feel it, not just see it. Anyone can look at something, but not everyone can get inspired by it. Look at whatever it is you're trying to draw and let your feelings take over. Figure out how it makes you feel. Get excited about it. Get inspired. You know what I mean?"

When I stop my impassioned rambling and look back up at Damian, I see him staring at me unabashed, his stony expression unreadable. His icy blue eyes seem to bore right through me, causing me to look down at the grass with a burgeoning blush spreading across my cheeks. I don't know why, but being the focus of Damian's attention just makes me… uncomfortable.

I've never done well under the spotlight.

"Yeah," he murmurs, the smirk obvious in his tone. "I know what you mean."

I look back up at him and offer up a small smile myself, my discomfort slowly melting away.

Maybe he's not such a bad guy after all…

A/N: I have to admit, it was a bit of a filler chapter, but I felt like it fit pretty well. And I just love dropping hints about Dee's past.

As always, follows, favorites, and reviews are more than welcome. Until next time, dear readers! :)