Page 25 of Diamond in the Rough (The Diamond Trilogy 1)
He flicks a lighter. A tiny flame dances in his dark eyes. The light illuminates the shadows of the dank, rectangular cell. The fresh rotten wood and bent iron announce her escape.
Adam mutters a curse in Russian—not French—and then he’s gone.
CHAPTER NINE
Holly
I don’t have my shoes.
My ballet flats are navy with a pattern of small pink flowers. They would have been little protection against the forest floor, but anything would be better than this.
There’s only a moment to glance back at the place where I was held captive, seeing it for the first time. I had expected something like the cathedral in Reims, maybe a little smaller, but this is more medieval. It’s much simpler with a beige stone around the outside and a ring of arched windows. A square hold in the front makes it look faintly like a castle, but the spire at the top leaves no doubt as to its purpose.
Once you hit the forest, you run like the fucking wind.
Twigs cut into the soles of my feet. Blood trails through the fallen leaves. Tree bark swipes at my skin. Thorns catch pieces of my hair.
I’m leaving behind parts of myself in this forest.
There’s a clear path for anyone to follow, if they want to find me. I know that, but I can’t stop.
Don’t stop for anything, understand?
Something skitters to the side. A rustle of leaves. The forest is very much alive, and every sound makes me want to jump and hide. That will only let them catch me faster.
Twice I thought I heard footsteps pounding behind me. Twice I looked back, only to see foliage.
No matter how much it hurts.
And it does hurt. God, it hurts.
I have the cold realization that I’ve never really known pain. My father would never have harmed a hair on my head. He would have killed any boy who dared to hurt me. Pain is not a paper cut or a stubbed toe. Pain is searing, roaring fire. It consumes me.
Footsteps slap the forest floor, and part of me wants to believe it will be the same. Look back, see foliage. Look back, see foliage. I don’t slow down for even a second as I throw a glance behind me. And there is a man with a snarl on his face, a glint in his dark eyes. Not Adam. A stranger. Maybe the man who drove the van. He likes the chase. The certainty spurs me on, and I gain sweet momentum through the forest.
There’s a break in the trees, and I stumble over a root. My face hits the ground.
Then there’s a weight on me, bearing down, dark with intent. Hands fumble at my clothes. My sensible travel clothes. Birds take flight from a bush. I fight mindlessly, lashing out, hitting nothing and everything, my fists useless against his capture.
This is it. It’s going to happen right here on the forest floor.
I feel a strange gratitude that there’s a grassy patch. It’s almost soft.
A large hand reaches down to push my head into the grass, and I kick hard, blindly. My knee connects with something. He lets out a roar. Pain. Anger. They bleed together.
Then suddenly the weight lifts.
Air sears my lungs. I lie there stunned for a second, hearing the sounds of flesh on flesh. When I turn my head to the side, I see Adam beating the other man, his fists making meat out of his face. Blood and spit fly from the source. “Stop,” I whisper. And then louder. “Stop.”
Adam throws one last brutal punch before rolling the man away from me. “He touched you.”
“You touched me, too. Are you going to beat up yourself?”
He gives an uneven laugh. “You’re tougher than you look, I’ll give you that.”
“God, I hope so.” I close my eyes against the pain. “I don’t look tough at all.”
“Let’s see.” His hands are gentle as he lifts my shirt. He doesn’t touch my breasts or even look at my bra. Instead he palpates my ribs—careful, careful, pausing when I suck in a breath. “Not broken,” he says. “Very badly bruised. You could have died, ma petite.”
“Please.” I’m looking up at him, and his face is framed by sunlight. The gold circles make it look like a halo. “Let me go. Pretend you never caught me.”
“There’s no farmhouse for miles. If you aren’t bleeding internally, you would die of starvation. It’s not a pretty way to go.”
“Neither is bleeding to death in a prison cell.”
“I wasn’t going to do that to you,” he says, his voice almost reproachful.
I shiver because I’m not sure he’s half-mad. “I won’t tell anyone about you. I swear.”
He lifts me to a sitting position, and I flinch. His hands frame my face. “You have to trust me.”
“Are you insane?” I whisper. “How can I trust you? You kidnapped me.”
