Page 17 of Diamond in the Rough (The Diamond Trilogy 1)
“Were you shot?”
“A knife in the back. It’s all very Roman.”
My fingers find the gash by the crust that’s formed around it. “You can’t die.”
“What concern.”
“I’m serious. You can’t. You can’t die.”
“Breathe,” he reminds me. “Is there a particular reason you’d prefer me alive?”
The stench of death. The finality of it. “There was a storm once when I was a kid. My family took this big trip to Jamaica, but I didn’t want to go. I begged them to let me stay home, so I stayed with the nanny.”
“Hell.”
“There was a storm. A tornado. It came out of nowhere. Whipped through the neighborhood. Decimated a few houses. Threw a tree through the window. It did so much damage, but you know the crazy thing? She died because she stumbled and fell down. She hit her head on the quartz countertops, and it was over.”
“Holland.”
“Except it wasn’t over, because the cell phone towers were down and everything was chaos. I lived with her for two days in the house, and I can’t, I just can’t.”
“I’ll try not to die.” I press his shirt against the wound as if such a feeble movement can staunch the blood. He groans in pain. “Of course you might finish me off. My God, woman.”
“You need a doctor.” I crawl back to the bars and bang on them with my fists. “Help. Help.”
A growl comes from behind me, and this time I can recognize the direction. The echo in the chamber makes it hard to figure out where sound comes from. “If you don’t stop that, I’m going to gag you.”
“They can’t just leave you here like this.”
“I prefer it to the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“A quick death. I like it slow. It gives me time to contemplate all the things I’ve done wrong.”
“Things involving rocks?” My mind flashes to years ago in Paris, with diamonds. Now there’s these valuable rocks? Is everyone in France a thief?
“God no. Stealing those rocks was smart. Getting caught, that was the problem. Turns out Adam doesn’t like when people steal from him.”
Adam was on a plane coming back from the States. “How long have you been here?”
“Long enough.”
“Help,” I call out, frantic to keep this man alive. He might be a criminal. A killer. In this moment I don’t care. I’d give him my kidney. I’d do anything to save him. It isn’t a saintly act. I don’t want him to die and leave me alone. “Help. Someone. Please.”
A footstep. A creak. A shaft of light cuts through my eyelids, blinding me even as I shield myself. Through pain and shock I see an expanse of broken stone. Expensive loafers cross the floor. Someone crouches outside the bars. “You rang?” It’s Adam.
“This man. He needs medical attention. He’s bleeding.”
Amusement. “That man would probably have raped you as soon as I put you in the cell, if he could stand up right now.”
Without thought I jerk my hands away from the stranger. They’re still covered in his blood. It makes him human. It makes him vulnerable, even if what Adam says is true. “You can’t leave him here to die.”
“Should I finish him off?” he asks, his tone grave.
“Why are you like this?”
“Maybe we can play a game. You seem to have taken a liking to North, here. What would you be willing to do for some water? He hasn’t had any today. Or some bandages?”
I curl my hands into fists. The blood has already dried into a sticky, thick mass. “You are disgusting. Is this how you spend your time? Abducting people? Killing them?”
“God no. I hardly ever abduct anyone,” he says, leaving a glaring omission in the silence. This is how he spends his time. Not abducting people. Killing them.
“He’s injured,” I say, my voice a whisper. It’s clear that he’s the one who hurt this man. Or at the very least, he’s friends with the people who did. “What did he do to you?”
“Nothing, ma petite. He does nothing to me. Not locked in a cage.”
“Please give me the water. How long has it been?”
“How long, North? A day? Two days? A week? No, but then you would be dead.”
“Fuck you,” comes the roughened response.
Beneath that gravel voice there’s a thread of hopelessness. It makes my bones feel cold, as if I’ll never be warm again. This is a man who doesn’t expect to live. What must it feel like, waiting to die? I grasp the metal bars in my fists. “A game. You said we could play a game.”
A pause. Surprise skates across the air, as if he didn’t expect me to agree. “Yes,” he says slowly. “A game. A children’s game. Do you remember? Seven minutes in heaven?”
I didn’t go to parties like that. With boys and girls. My father was strictly untrusting. He only allowed me and my sister out with many warnings and early curfews. Somehow my sister found a way to tease boys, despite a strict upbringing. That left me clueless and alone.
