He motioned at the empty platform forty yards away.
The rock pile spanned six-feet high by six-feet wide, and each chunk was wider than his chest. Brutally heavy, no question. His back and feet would bear the brunt of it.
Why did they want debris moved from one platform to another? To test his strength? To torture him psychologically? Maybe they were just bored?
“I want my boots.”
“Holy shit, he can talk.” Mike pointed at him and arched a brow at Lydia. “After sixteen days of silence, I was starting to wonder.”
Sixteen fucking days. He’d guessed it had been that long, but hearing it didn’t make it easier to stomach. If they owned this building, which was highly likely, this could go on for months.
Unless the thing they wanted from him had a time limit.
“I know it’s lonely in that cell, and you’re wondering what the point of all this is.” Mike patted him on the shoulder. “Well, we’re working up to that. Little steps. Right now, those steps go from this pallet to that pallet. Without your boots. Do a good job and you’ll get the food in that box.”
He needed the carbohydrates. He desperately wanted the beer. But more than that, it was imperative that he spend as much time as possible outside of that cell. Not only for his mental wellbeing but to observe his captors and do what he did best—listen and learn, make small talk and befriend, all the while subtly extracting information.
So without hesitation, he shouldered past Mike and heaved the first hunk of granite from the pile. His muscles strained beneath the eighty-pound weight.
Sixteen days ago, he would’ve carried it with no trouble. Today, he felt it in his arms, his back, and his feet as he hauled the load across the warehouse.
Mike stepped away, joining the two guards in conversation. They were too far away for Cole to eavesdrop but close enough to shoot him if he decided to slam a rock into Lydia’s head.
She perched on a crate beside the full pallet, watching him drop off his burden and walk back. He took his time. No reason to hurry. The longer it took him to move the pile, the longer he was out of the head-banging cell.
Except that bottle of beer was waiting. An effective incentive.
“Your jeans are falling.” She crossed one leg over the other and propped an elbow on her knee.
He paused before her, fully aware that his waistband hung obscenely low, exposing the patch of hair above the root of his cock. Her eyes went there, lingering, before lifting to his.
“Such a shame.” She sniffed. “You had a beautiful physique when I met you.” Her gaze darted toward Mike and the guards and returned to him, her accent lowering. “Do what you’re told, and you’ll gain back those muscles.”
He glanced down at his torso, trying to see what she saw. Was he skinnier? Yeah. But he still had definition. He was still physically stronger than her and could overpower her tiny body if he got her alone.
Hell, if he got her alone, he would wrench that dress over her head and drive his fist between her legs. He would tear up her cunt and fuck her ass until both holes were permanently stretched open, gaping and waiting to receive his cock again.
He didn’t have to like her to imagine her wet pussy slurping around his thrusts. In fact, his hatred for her made the fantasy all the more filthy.
“You know what I want?” He lowered his voice, deliberately rumbling the words.
Her eyes dilated, her breaths quickening. “What?”
“Palimi with sour cream and caviar.”
She flinched, her brows knitting together.
“Russian pancakes.” He cocked his head. “Don’t you know what that is?”
“Of course, I know. My grandma made them for me.” She narrowed her eyes. “You only moved one stone. Are you tired already?”
“Tired of eating processed shit.” He leaned down, exhaling in her face. “I want a toothbrush and toothpaste, and right now, I imagine you want me to have those things.”
“Finish the job, and I’ll think about it.” She didn’t shift away, but the scrunch of her nose confessed the state of his breath.
Good.
While his whole body needed a thorough cleaning, the fur on his teeth bothered him the most.
He stepped back and dragged another rock off the pile. As he towed it across the warehouse, he felt her gaze on his ass, knowing the top half of his crack hung above the sagging jeans.
Didn’t matter how badly he reeked or how much muscle he’d lost. She liked looking at him as much as he liked looking at her. His was an unwanted attraction. Maybe hers was, too.
Or maybe she put on that dress and made up her hair because she wanted him to notice her.
Was she after information in his head? Or was this a ploy to use him and his skill set to acquire something for them?