Fifty Ways to Love You - Emily Prentiss x OC

2. rossi's

(trigger warning: sexual assault, physical assault/torture, ptsd flashbacks)

We were invited to Rossi's after a case for a dinner party. I was sitting two people away from Emily, Tara in between us.

"Prentiss," I said after swallowing a mouthful of pasta, "why did you end up leaving Interpol? The first time, I mean?"

"Uh...soon after you left for Russia, I went undercover to get a former IRA captain, Ian Doyle? And I stayed with Interpol for a little while after that, but it really took its toll on me. I joined the FBI. And with my mom's connections, it wasn't so bad, you know?" I nodded.

"Ah, okay,"

"I thought you didn't know each other at Interpol," said Tara.

"We didn't," I insisted.

"No, I just know when the Russia mission was. Karimova." Her tone told me we were back to the truth. "Uh, speaking of the Russia mission, while I was back at Interpol, it was declassified."

My face went red. What did she know? Tears seared at the edges of my eyes.

"Uh, that guy was— it's a really good thing you got him," she continued. I plastered on a smile and let her finish.

"Will you excuse me for a moment?" I asked, standing up. I didn't wait for a response before going inside.

I went inside to Rossi's bathroom and put my hand to my mouth, leaning against the vanity. God, not tonight, not because of something she said...

She didn't know, she didn't want to hurt me, make me terrified, make me feel like a helpless 24-year-old again. I didn't want to let the tears fall on my clothes. I dried them off with my hands as they fell, then wiping my hands on the hand towel in the bathroom.

"No, god, please, no..." I cried out in English. They threw me about. I landed on the floor, the pain immobilizing.

""Fucking bitch!" shouted one of the men in Russian. My brain returned to my first language.

The three of them kicked me back and forth, and the unmistakable metallic taste of my blood consumed my mouth. Not enough to spit it all out, but enough it was clear something was horribly, horribly wrong.

"Let's go, tie her up," one of them demanded. They did not speak English, only Russian.

"No, please," I begged in Russian, "I have kids." A lie. One that was of no use to me anyway; what did they care?

I was chained by my wrists just higher than my own height; I dangled, my feet unable to touch the floor no matter how I maneuvered. My arms ached, and the chains killed my wrists.

"Where are you from?" demanded a man. I did not respond. He punched me in the left abdomen. I let out a yell of pain.

"Who do you work for?" asked another. Still no answer. I was not to respond. I couldn't move my lower body from the exhaustion of being kicked around. He hit my ankle with a bat. "Who do you work for?!" The other ankle.

"Fuck," said the third. "Come on." The three of them left me there, hanging from the ceiling like a gallows.

I knew they would be back before long. Not long enough for my team to find me. All I could do was survive.

I spit blood to the floor beneath me as they returned. My tired eyes, seeing them there, sure they would kill me. Oh, how they wanted to hurt me. I was, to them, a menace.

One of the men was not there, I realized, and with a mechanical whir the chains lowered me. My feet touched the floor, but my broken ankles wanted no part of that.

Soft cries escaped me, and the men belittled me, a weak and easily broken woman. Nothing to do but try to stay alive.

My god, I just want to go home. Someone save me from this hell. I don't even know where I am.

My legs wouldn't hold me, I pulled on the chains for support. One of the men held me still, his body pressed up against mine like a backboard, while the second took the clothes off my lower half.

God, please, no.

I saw him through my blurring tears, getting himself off. He was rock hard when he entered me. I cried out, sobbing and screaming. The man behind me put one hand over my mouth. His grip was so tight I couldn't bite him. His other hand came for my neck, nearly making me faint from lack of circulation to my brain.

The first man sped up, moaning loudly, almost mockingly, and laughing at my pain. The second man laughed as well, and would say things like, "This is what happens to naughty bitches, bad girls get hurt."

He finished and I sobbed when he pulled out at last. My pants and underwear were kept around my ankles. His ejaculate dripped down my leg and no one cared or did anything to help me. I couldn't.

For three days, the torture was the same. By the time my team found me I was on the brink of death. I was in a medically-induced coma for five days.

I remember every second, all eight times they raped me, all—

"Galina! Karimova, I'm—I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to upset you, I'm so sorry. Please open the door."

My face was covered in tears. I blew my nose and opened the door. Emily. Simultaneously exactly who I needed to see and exactly who had sent me to this place.

She saw my anguish and wanted to wrap her arms around me, but she didn't know how I would react. She didn't know what it was like for me. That wasn't in the report. I was held hostage for three days, yes, but not what happened to me.

I fell into her arms. She held me and shushed me. "You're safe, Galina. You're safe. It's just us." Somehow she knew what I needed to hear.

"I'm sorry, Prentiss," I gasped. "I, uh, I need to go home." She nodded.

"I'll let everyone else know you weren't feeling well. Okay?" Jesus, she was good. Gentle. I nodded and tried a smile. "Do you want me to drive you?" I shook my head. "No? Okay. Call me when you get home, then."