Betrayal [ spencer reid x reader ] ✔️

7. Enemies

TW: knives, blood, attempted sexual assault

The pain in your head registers first. It prickles from the back of your skull to the front, a small groan leaving you as your eyes slowly flutter open. Your vision is blurry, eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light around you. You jerk your arms, wincing when you feel the harsh fibers of the rope burn your skin. You lift your head, blinking as your eyes try to adjust.

"Y/n? Sweetheart? Wake up!"

Your eyes flutter and you blink hard, Spencer's figure slowly coming into focus about six feet in front of you. Your pulse races as you look him over, his worried hazel eyes on you. His hair is messy, dried blood lining his forehead and the side of his mouth. He has a cut on his cheek, probably from where he'd been hit. His clothes are ripped, his hands tied behind his back. He gives you a worried smile, exhaling slowly.

"Spence, are you okay?" You ask, searching his face.

"I'm fine, baby," he reassures you.

You tear your eyes from his face, looking at the space around you. Where are you? The walls are white—wooden, you presume. The floor is that stupid white vinyl composition tile they have in schools; and you notice a bunch of round tables around the room, a stack of chairs shoved in the corner. You squint, noticing the clock on the wall behind Spencer, right next to a big wooden cross. A church. You're in a church basement.

"How long have you been awake?" You look back at Spencer.

"A few minutes," he says, giving you a tight-lipped smile.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper, biting the inside of your cheek. "This is my fault."

Spencer shakes his head. "No, no, sweetheart, it's not your fault," he whispers. "Please don't think that."

You wish you could reach out and touch him, but all you're met with is the sting of the rope around your wrists. "I love you."

"I love you." His voice is soft, his eyes searching yours.

You hear a door open, and you jump slightly, craning your neck to try to see who your captor is. After a couple moments, he comes into view.

He's older—in his forties. Not your dad. Straight, salt and pepper hair sits on his head, his face clean shaven. He's a little taller than you, donned in a black shirt and a pair of jeans, a pair of work boots on his feet. His lips curl up into a grin as he walks over to you and Spencer, standing to the side of you.

"Well, the lovebirds are awake."

You look up at him, gaze unwavering as his eyes flick to you. "Who are you?" The man doesn't answer, and your eyes flick over to Spencer before looking back at the man. "Do you work for my dad?"

The man laughs, a low sound that sends a chill down your spine. "Your dad can go rot in hell."

"Okay, so not a friend of my dad's," you mumble.