Run and I follow
Either Elena had told him who had taken her, or Richard had simply guessed—but it didn't matter. They had recognized his Ferrari.
He knew he could disarm one man, maybe even take down two. But he wouldn't survive a fight against four armed guards and Richard standing smugly behind them. Not here. Not now. Not with Elena trembling beside him, her breath hitching in fear.
The chances of Damian taking a bullet to the heart or the skull were high. Richard hated getting his own hands dirty—he preferred to let others do the killing—but Damian had to admit the man could fight. He was clever, vicious, and during his years at the University of Paris he had mastered savate, the brutal French blend of street fighting and kickboxing. Damian knew he couldn't take on Richard and four trained guards at once and hope to come out alive.
Running?
He could do it.
Damian knew this land better than he knew his own heartbeat—the forest, the vineyards, every hidden path and slope. If he let Elena go, even for a moment, Richard's men would chase her. It would distract them long enough for Damian to vanish into the hills.
But then he looked down at Elena in his arms.
She was as pale as marble. The only color in her face was the pink of her lips—and she was biting them so hard he feared she'd draw blood. Her eyes, wide and terrified, never left Richard's shadowy figure in the distance.
Give her up? After twenty years of planning?
Let the man who had destroyed his family keep living in comfort… with Elena as his wife?
Let Richard use her, touch her, claim her?
No.
Damian's jaw locked until it hurt. He would rather die right here in the dirt and dawn light than allow that.
He leaned close to her ear, his voice barely a breath.
"This is your chance," he whispered. "One scream from you, and they'll find us. They'll drag you back. You'll be Richard's bride before the day ends."
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "And you?" she mouthed silently.
Damian's gaze slid to the nearest guard pushing through the trees. He was almost on them. "They didn't bring guns for decoration," Damian murmured. "One scream… and this ends."
He looked so grim that Elena felt a cold tremor ripple through her. It was almost as if part of him wanted her to scream—wanted this to be over.
She told herself she would survive. She would do what Richard demanded. She would obey, submit, endure. If she stayed alive long enough, maybe she could save her sister. Maybe.
She made a tiny sound in her throat—barely more than a breathy whimper.
Damian didn't even twitch.
He wasn't going to stop her. If she screamed, he'd let her. He'd let fate take him.
Her stomach twisted painfully.
Then Richard's voice floated through the trees—soft, singsong, chilling.
"I know you're here, ma petite," he crooned. "Does he have you? Don't be afraid. We will find you soon. Both of you."
The hair at the back of Elena's neck rose. She felt her breath catch. Damian's arms tightened around her like a final promise.
And the hunt closed in.
Shafts of early sunlight were beginning to slip through the edges of the orange grove, drawing thin golden lines across the shadows. The two nearest guards were getting closer. Fallen branches snapped beneath their boots—each crack sharp enough to sound like a gunshot.
Even if she kept perfectly silent, even if she held her breath until her chest burned, they couldn't hide much longer.
Damian's eyes narrowed suddenly.
Before she could speak, he moved—quick, precise—slipping one hand into his pocket and pulling out his mobile phone. Elena stared at him, hope flaring so fast it made her dizzy.
"Reyes?" she mouthed silently.
He gave a tight nod, the faint glow of the screen illuminating his hard expression.
She gripped Damian's arm, her fingers trembling as she looked up at him with desperate, pleading eyes. He exhaled sharply, then gave a single tight nod and placed the phone in her hands.
Elena typed with swift, practiced movements. When she was done, she handed the phone back so he could read the message. He nodded once more, hit send, and snapped the phone shut with a soft click.
The respite lasted only a heartbeat.
Richard's bodyguards were closing in. She heard one murmur something in Arabic, saw him gesture toward the ground. Richard barked a guttural order, and the two men in the vineyard abandoned their search, angling toward the orange grove instead.
What had they found?
Her teeth sank into her lip as dread coiled inside her. Had she dropped something when Damian chased her?
Then her gaze fell to her feet—bare, tucked beneath the muddy hem of her torn nightgown. A cold shock washed over her.
A deep gash opened the sole of her right foot. She hadn't felt it—her skin had been too numb—but the truth was there, stark and undeniable.
She'd been leaving a trail of blood with every step.
A trail leading straight to them.
And now, as the sun rose higher, the grove brightened. In minutes—perhaps seconds—Richard would see everything.
Her breath hitched. Instinctively, she grabbed Damian's hand and pressed it to her heart. Panic, fear, longing—all of it surged at once.
She didn't want Richard to find her.
She didn't want to be dragged away.
Most of all… she didn't want Damian to die.
He followed her glance to the bloody footprint. His jaw tightened. His fists curled at his sides as he slowly rose to his full height. The look in his eyes told her everything.
He intended to fight.
He intended to protect her.
Even if it killed him.
But he was only one man standing between her and five armed fighters.
Richard would destroy him. She couldn't—wouldn't—let that happen.