Not that he could escape.
A group of men stood just outside the door to his cell. Never less than six in total and always armed. None of them spoke Russian.
He would have to physically overpower them before they fired a weapon.
Impossible.
Any attempt to run would only get him injured, and up until now, they hadn’t inflicted so much as a bruise. So he remained motionless during their visits, biding his time.
With the buckets refreshed, the guard stepped out. But today, the door didn’t close.
The others moved out of view, their footsteps retreating but not going far. Then a tread of clicking steps approached. A slow, confident gait. Click-clack. Click-clack.
He hadn’t heard this one since he’d been thrown in this room, but he knew who it was before she appeared in the doorway.
Cheetah-print pants molded to her sexy figure, and her low-cut white shirt had a skull-and-bones pirate flag across the front.
Her fire-engine red hair was pulled into two high pigtails, leaving wisps of long bangs around her face. Same heavy makeup as the night he’d met her, her fuckable lips shiny with wet gloss.
Leaning a shoulder against the door frame, she raised a rope of red licorice to her mouth and nibbled on the end.
He rested his head back against the wall, watching her with lazy detachment.
“Are you hungry?” She bit off a length of the candy, holding it between her white teeth before slurping it into her mouth. “You look like you could use some sugar.”
He would kill for a taste of anything but hot dogs, but he wasn’t playing her games.
“You haven’t spoken since you arrived.” She tapped the licorice against her mouth.
At some point, she would tell him why he was here and what they wanted. Until then, silence was the only control he had over her.
She took a visible breath, straining the fabric of the shirt across her tits. Full, beautifully shaped tits that would more than fill his hands.
Her eyes, dark green in the distance. Her lips, a deadly trap around the candy. Her body, toned with muscle and curved to perfection. Yeah, if he were another man in a different situation, he would fuck the shit out of her.
But he wasn’t. He didn’t pursue women or harbor sexual fantasies about his enemies.
“You can get out of here.” She strolled toward him and crouched at his side, smothering his senses in her soft feminine scent. “You can have all the candy you want, the food you crave, a comfortable bed, and a woman to warm it.” She tilted her head, regarding him intently. “Multiple women, if that’s your thing.”
His lip curled. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t want anyone in his bed but Danni. His appetite for sex was constant, but wanting and doing were two different things. Celibacy was a choice. His self-punishment. God knew he deserved worse after the torment he’d put Danni through.
“Do you want a shower?” She reached out and touched his forehead, gently brushing his greasy hair from his eyes. “You want a toothbrush and clean clothes?” Her fingers drifted to his beard, softly stroking. “You can live like a free man. Or you can die like a prisoner on death row.”
If revenge was her endgame, she wouldn’t be dangling rewards in front of him.
She wanted something from him.
He waited for it, his heart thundering in his chest. What would she demand in exchange for the bullshit she offered?
She glanced down, taking in his nude form. With his knees to his chest and his feet tucked against him, she couldn’t see much.
Not that he cared. She could stare all she wanted. She could tease him, touch him, bludgeon him, and cut off his limbs. As long as he had breath in his body, he would not cower to her or her band of merry men.
“I have plans for you, Cole Hartman.” She put her face in his, her lips so close he could almost taste the sticky candy on them. “But we have time, and I’m a very patient woman.”
She rose and strode toward the door, her spine straight, almost regal, with her pigtails spiraling down her back in tangled glory.
At the threshold, she paused, glancing back. “Think about what I said. We’ll talk again in a week or two.”
A week or two? His molars slammed together, every muscle in his body stiffening to lunge and drag her back. But that was what she wanted. She was baiting him.
He reined in his fear and fought down his anger, blanking his face and maintaining his silence. He gave the bitch nothing, and she gave nothing back.
Except a closed door and inky darkness.
Then the music restarted, striking his ears with a vengeance.
Days passed. A week. Maybe more. The perpetual isolation wore on Cole, his entire world reduced to hot dogs and the same soul-sucking song on repeat.
He kept his mind and body busy with exercise. Push-ups, sit-ups, lunges, running in place—his options were limited in the confined space. He was losing weight at a rapid pace, and his energy and strength suffered for it.
There were moments when he was convinced that electrocution or dismemberment would’ve been better. Every minute in the darkness lasted an eternity, every visit from the guards a plaguing disappointment.
He’d never felt so trapped. Restless. Hungry. Unraveling at the seams. They’d kicked open the gates of hell and unleashed a level of torture that left him hopeless and walking the edge of insanity.
Okay, maybe that was the lyrics of the song in his ears, but he felt it. He was fucking living it.
Nevertheless, each time the door opened, he kept his shit together. He didn’t beg or reveal a trace of emotion. When the guards taunted him, he met their eyes and showed no response.
It required more self-restraint than he thought he was capable. One of these times, he was going to detonate. He could feel himself slipping, losing his hold on his brittle control.
He wanted to kill them all.
The music shut off again, and the door opened to the man he’d met the first night, the one who’d operated the drone. Fuck, that felt like forever ago.
Did his team disappear like he’d ordered? Or were they still in Texas, searching for him?
Locating people was his skill set, not theirs. He was the best at extracting information and siphoning minute details. It took time and patience, but he would eventually elicit what he needed from these assholes and use it to escape. But if they got their hands on his friends, they could manipulate him in ways he didn’t want to imagine.
“We haven’t officially met,” the man said. “My name is Mike.”
The fact that he looked like Bruce Willis wasn’t comforting. Hopefully, Mike would be easier to take down than the action heroes Bruce often portrayed.
“Get dressed.” He tossed a pair of jeans into the cell. “I have a job for you.”
Relief warred with distrust, coursing through him with numbing adrenaline. He wanted to ask how long he’d been here, but it wasn’t an important question. So he saved the words and woodenly shoved his unwashed legs into the jeans.
“Follow me.” Mike ambled toward the factory floor, ignoring the armed guards who stood near the only exit.
Cole followed him out while zipping up his fly. The jeans belonged to him but no longer fit. Even with the button fastened, they sagged, hanging loosely below his hipbones. He’d lost too much weight.
It could be worse. He hadn’t lost blood or limbs or his sanity.