|There is Redemption in the Blood
Author: ilovetvalot PM
Months later, they meet again. When Emily Prentiss faces off with her nemesis, can she prevail? TWOSHOTRated: Fiction T - English - Drama - E. Prentiss & I. Doyle - Chapters: 2 - Words: 2,953 - Reviews: 13 - Favs: 21 - Follows: 8 - Updated: 06-13-11 - Published: 06-12-11 - Status: Complete - id: 7075641
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
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There Is Redemption in the Blood
From the moment she'd introduced herself to him, she'd known she was in over her head.
His presence alone was intimidating, enough to suck the air from any room in which he held court.
And no amount of covert training could have prepared her for the ruthlessly sexy terrorist that was Ian Doyle.
He'd been a job. Hell, he'd been the job. And she'd done it...and him.
But, now, she was done. With him…with the job…with everything.
For months, she'd been running from him. Hiding. Living in fear. She was so overwhelmingly tired of it all, exhausted to the core of her being. Her survival instinct had kept her moving for the first six months, that instinctive need to protect herself fueling her every move. But fumes were all she had left now, and she was on the verge of complete and total physical and mental collapse.
So now, standing in front of the house where it had all began...where they had began…she knew that running was no longer an option for her. She was done with running. Either she'd perish today or he would. It was that simple.
The fact that she wasn't already dead meant he was watching her, and that knowledge made the fine hair on her arms raise.
"Well, well, well," Ian Doyle drawled from the swing on the veranda of the wraparound porch, hidden in the shadows. "Hello, Lauren. Or do you prefer Emily today?" he asked conversationally, his Irish brogue heavy in his homeland.
Startled, Emily quickly schooled her face into a neutral mask as she prepared to make her move. "That depends entirely on who you want to talk to, Ian," she replied, forcing herself to put one foot on the wooden stairs that led to the porch.
"I don't particularly want to speak to either of you," Ian said coldly, fingering the gun in his hand lazily, the firearm as constant a presence in his life as his own thoughts. "Unless, of course, you've developed a conscience and decided to tell me where my son is."
Shaking her head as she steadily ascended the steps, Emily smiled benignly. "Now, we both know neither Lauren nor I would tell you that, Ian." She couldn't show him any fear. Not now. Any weakness she had, he'd exploit. She should know…he had once taught her all of his tricks. "Lauren wouldn't tell you because, despite what you may think, she loved that little boy like her own. She'd have done anything to protect him from the life you were grooming him for," she explained, walking slowly toward him.
"And Emily?" Ian queried, cocking his head as she approached, his eyes raking her still beautiful body. "Why wouldna she tell me?"
"Oh, that's a simple one," Emily commented as she shrugged negligently. "That bitch hates you, Ian," she said bluntly, lifting her chin defiantly as she came to a halt in front of him.
"You always did have balls," Ian snorted, his eyes rolling. "Coming here to face me. You know you aren't going to leave here alive, I assume," he commented blandly, his gaze flickering toward the horizon.
"Oh, I don't suffer any delusions about my fate." Emily shook her head as she never took her eyes off of him. "Mind if I sit?" she asked, pointing to one of the comfortable overstuffed wicker chairs.
"Tired, Lauren?" he smirked, turning his icy gaze back to her. "Have I run you to ground yet?"
"And back again," Emily murmured, dropping into one of the armchairs, the cushion barely sinking beneath her slight weight. "I'm here, aren't I?" she asked rhetorically, gesturing around her. It would have been beautiful...this Irish wonderland...if it hadn't been filled with such horrible memories.
"You're braver than I gave ya credit for, I'll give you that," Ian admitted with grudging respect as he watched her slowly settle into the seat. "But if ye're thinkin' that you can make a deal w'me, ye're mistaken."
"Oh, I think you made that clear when you shoved a stake through my stomach," Emily snorted, forcing herself to allow her arms to relax loosely against the wicker. Appearances were reality in the hidden world where she operated, after all.
"Ye're lucky it twasn't the heart," Ian stated nonchalantly, his eyes cruel as they bored into hers. "Believe me, Lauren...hope you don't mind me callin' you that," he taunted before continuing, "I thought about takin' aim for it...figured it would just be an empty cavity though..."
Laughing hollowly, Emily shook her head. "Now, that's rich. The terrorist accusing me of not having a heart. How many have you slaughtered exactly, Ian? Tens? Hundreds?"
"Better question, Lauren," Ian interrupted her, holding up a finger. "How difficult was it to fuck me every night...this monster you hated so much?" he asked her quietly.
"I pretended you were someone else," Emily lied easily, unwilling to let him know how deeply he'd affected her. For years, she hadn't allowed herself to be intimate with anyone following his arrest, the memory of his touch scorched into her mind as much as his brand had been seared into her breast months ago. Watching the flash of pain in his eyes, she briefly congratulated herself on the direct hit she'd scored against his ego.
"Well aren't you just the courageous little whore tonight?" he asked, enjoying the brief wince his words caused. "Oh, did that smart a bit, pet?" he asked mockingly, enjoying the look of dismay he saw shining in her expressive eyes. "What would you call it? Only America would train a prostitute..."
"I got what I came for, didn't I?" Emily retorted, feigning indifference as she tapped her fingers against the arm of the chair. "Lucky for me, you liked to talk in bed. All I had to do was lie there, think of England and listen."
"Oh, my dearest Lauren, I seem to recall you doing a lot more than just lying submissively beneath me," Ian returned, twisting the metaphorical knife a bit deeper.
"Trying to needle me, Ian?" Emily asked curiously, her face a perfect mask, her inner thoughts held tightly within the shield she had ever so perfectly created.
"Darling, I wouldn't waste my time with a needle. Although, I wouldn't mind a butcher knife," Ian returned conversationally. "Where's my son, Lauren?"
"I'm not going to tell you that. Your child is better off forgetting that you existed, Doyle," Emily replied, her face expressionless as she looked out over the green fields, her eyes not quite focusing on the distant horizon.
Finger's flexing around the butt of the gun he held, his finger itched to point the weapon at her head and pull the trigger. "You're playing a dangerous game, Sweetling," he warned, biding his time. "One you can't win."
"Let's not be vague here, Ian," Emily snapped impatiently, jerking her head back toward him. "We both know you're going to kill me. Whether I tell you what you want to know or not."
"True," Ian conceded with one sharp nod. "But it's your decision how painful that death has to be," he bargained. "Tell me what I want to know and I'll allow you to go quickly," he offered magnanimously. "A quick double tap to the head," he proposed generously. "Completely painless."
"Ahhhh, you still know how to charm a girl, don't you?" she smiled sweetly at him.
Raking her with dismissive eyes, Ian shook his head. "You were never a girl, Lauren. You were born a conniving bitch, I believe."
"Well, coming from a prize bastard, I'll take that as a considerable compliment," Emily drawled, blinking at him slowly. "If we're going to continue this verbal sparring match," she began, leaning forward in her seat and gesturing toward the wet bar in the corner of the porch, "Do you mind if I fix myself a drink?"
Watching her carefully as she rose, Ian considered her for a long moment. Crooking his finger at her, he replied, "I'll need to be checkin' you for weapons then. Can't have you pullin' out a switchblade to shove into my back, can I?" he asked, reaching out and cupping the swell of her breast.