the guilt plaguing emily's mind was growing by the second, which was possibly why the next sentence to fall from her captor's lips, the one responding to and mocking her insistence that the ink she already had on her body was certainly enough, felt...
content warning : do not proceed if triggered by graphic descriptions of torture / violence / gore , or brief mentions and / or implications of rape. this story is written in graphic detail.
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for so long, emily had wondered how she endured his touch. how she willingly went undercover knowing she'd eventually have to sleep with him, feel his hands gliding over her bare skin with the knowledge of the things he had done and everything else he planned to do. the first time was painful. the moment she was alone afterwards, she cried. sometimes, if she closed her eyes, she could still feel the rough and calloused skin of his palms against her torso, chest, thighs, neck.
for decades, she had convinced herself that the touch of a man was something that she desired. that the disgust that filled her every time she found herself in bed next to one would subside, and one day she'd feel just the same as any other woman she knew. sometimes, she wondered if ian doyle was the person who finally convinced her otherwise. if he were the reason she no longer felt an unbearable hatred for the desires she held or tried to change them somehow. but now that she no longer forced herself to enjoy whatever sexual acts she was subjected to by him or any other man that she had been with, it was that much more difficult to bear when those damn hands of his were being used to unbutton her top while her own were bound and useless.
her first thought was that she'd have to do it again, that lauren would have to return to once again convince him that his actions were viewed as pleasurable. she cringed at the thought, silently begging for anything else, anything but the return of her alter ego and the acts she'd be forced to undergo as a result. but when doyle listlessly and unceremoniously announced that she'd be receiving a third tattoo — one that she'd have no say in the design, positioning or method of — she instantly regretted hoping for anything but. the mark of the valhalla emblem would forever be etched onto her skin to serve as a permanent reminder of whatever would soon occur for however long the rest of her life may be.
in a way she had her doubts — she was completely helpless at the hands of a terrorist that had wanted nothing more than to watch her suffer for the past seven years — but at the same time, she trusted her team. they were the best of the best, so much so that they managed to find some of the most prolific serial killers the world had ever seen. the only issue was that they knew virtually nothing about her. she didn't tell them about her past, didn't join in on the drunken late night rants about past jobs and relationships, never expressed her fear of the hatred in doyle's eyes when she was shoved into a car and her cover was blown. they had no idea that she even had a connection to him, let alone that she was that the reason the murders of entire families were occurring.
the guilt plaguing emily's mind was growing by the second, which was possibly why the next sentence to fall from her captor's lips, the one responding to and mocking her insistence that the ink she already had on her body was certainly enough, felt like it was meant to be some sort of punishment from god for the wreckage she had caused: "ink? north koreans can't afford ink." doyle lowered his voice, a menacing gleam in his otherwise hollow eyes. "no, no. they brand themselves."
she could feel her eyes widening as the shock set in, but that was the only physical reaction she offered him. long ago she had learned to suppress and veil her emotions — if she hadn't become a profiler, she could have been an actress — but internally, her thoughts were running wild with panic. branded? sure, her pain tolerance was high as ever, but her skin was about to be permanently burned with what she could only assume was a soldering iron. even she, someone who could walk into the scene of a mass murder with a straight face and still manage to sleep at night, would find it exceedingly difficult if not impossible to hold in the screams of agony she would emit as a result of the unbearable pain.
she watched in horror as he raised the temperature of the iron, turning the knob painstakingly slowly as if to somehow taunt her with the anticipation of wondering if he'd really go that far. but she knew him, and she knew that, if given the time, he'd go much, much farther, taking his sweet time to ensure that her final moments were spent in misery. while she made sure not to show it, even his mere presence as he approached her terrified her to the core.
doyle reached for her, glaring at her with a hunger so sickening that she thought she might vomit before the metal was even pressed to her skin. not only did he want to hurt her, but he would enjoy every waking moment. she was in the hands of a psychopath. it was as she fruitlessly tried to get away, leaning as far from his touch as she possibly could while bound to that stupid chair, that she realized she could and would not be saved by her team in time. hell, she could already feel the heat radiating off of the iron; any second she would be in what would likely be the most excruciating pain she had ever experienced.
nine words were said. nine words, and then her life was changed forever: "the more you fight, the more this will hurt."
the sound of sizzling reached her ears first, and then the pain hit her like a bus. it was as though she was being set on fire, entire chest ablaze as smoke rose from her skin, angry red and brown burns left being left behind as the metal was dragged ever so slowly over her. she could smell the stench of her own skin being scorched, taste the smoke as it wafted into her mouth and eyes. her howls echoed through the building, bounced off of the walls and returned to her ears a million times over. but she willed herself not to cry or beg, prayed that she would not shed a tear or utter a single plea no matter how excruciating. giving him that power, that satisfaction, would be a death sentence.
for so long she had felt so numb that she had nearly forgotten what it was like to be in such awful pain. any longer and she was almost certain she'd pass out, spots already beginning to cloud her vision as unconsciousness threatened to sweep over her like a blanket and wrap her with the blessing of numbness for a few moments before she'd inevitably be forced to do it all again.
emily eventually found herself wishing that he'd just kill her.
she no longer had her girlfriend, didn't have her son, or her team. her mother likely didn't even know she was missing. tsia was dead, clyde had turned. the only reason she had hoped to live was due to the slim-to-none chance that jj would ever forgive her, but the fight just didn't feel worth it anymore. she had will, had the ability to be happy with someone else. someone that wouldn't put her in danger or break her heart because of it. emily had no reason to hope to be spared, no reason to fight. and it was then that she realized she didn't even want her team to keep wasting their time looking for her.
and then, all at once, everything stopped. the iron was removed from her chest, and doyle stepped back to examine his work with the look of a proud artist that had just finished a priceless painting. how badly she wanted to wipe that smirk off of his face, stomp it into the ground, smear it across the concrete. he had stolen everything from her, even her will to live, and yet he was proud of himself. proud of the mess that he had put her in. it terrified her to think how badly she wanted to see him in pain.
doyle stepped forward to zip her jacket back up, hopefully signifying that it was over. that the sizzling would stop, and the smell of burning skin would fade, and maybe, just maybe, she'd want to fight again. but the one thing that wouldn't change was that, for the rest of her life, she'd be marked with the signature of her captor.
for years, she had accepted that she would never again sleep with a man, but now? she couldn't even see herself looking into a mirror, let alone allowing anyone at all to view the horror that was now displayed across her chest. the crippling self hatred that she had worked for years to remedy would never fade. she would look in the mirror and see the mark of a monster; never again emily prentiss.
