Complicate (Deliver 9)

Other than her obvious relationship with Mike, she wasn’t in sync with the rest of her team. They wanted to torture him for the information while she seemed to have a different agenda.

When she looked at him, he didn’t see his demise shining in her eyes. Quite the opposite. The flush in her cheeks, the quiver in her legs, the blatant sexual attraction that radiated from her pores—she wanted him.

But it could all be part of the act.

Sexpionage was a common practice among intelligence services all over the world, especially in Russia. It was a filthy tactic to elicit information, executed by trained ravens and swallows who had little left of their humanity.

Lydia had a red swallow inked on her chest. Was it a clue? It seemed too obvious, but if she was a hired swallow, she had only one objective here—to compromise him sexually. She certainly dressed the part, and it would explain why she hadn’t tortured him. Her beauty alone would bring a weaker man to his knees.

But beneath the evocative cleavage and overdone makeup, he detected something softer, something akin to…kindness. An unfeeling sex spy wouldn’t give her target a toothbrush and medical supplies. Unless that was part of her act? A ploy to seduce him into trusting her?

He pressed his fingers to his brow, his head pounding with the music and the weariness of his thoughts.

What a goddamn mindfuck.

The kicker was he could give them what they wanted right now. He could bang on the door and tell them who bought the stolen hard drive from Marie Merivale. But the moment he gave it up, he was a dead man.

They had no intention of letting him walk out of here. The only thing keeping him alive was the information in his head.

He had to escape.

So he remained silent, biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to make his move.

That opportunity lay with Lydia.

If she intended to fuck him into compliance, he would be the one doing the fucking.

He would fuck her until she sobbed his name, surrendered to his will, and begged him for more.

Over the next two weeks, the guards dragged Cole out of the dark, tossed the same pair of unwashed jeans at him, and forced him to move the rock pile from one pallet to the other. Back and forth, every day, he hauled granite, strained muscles, and slowly lost his mind.

A meal waited for him at the end of each godforsaken chore—canned tuna, microwaved burritos, a hodgepodge of processed crap. Anything was better than hot dogs, and he needed the calories.

Each day, he gained weight and rebuilt his strength, but the tedious labor wore on him, putting him on edge and stoking his temper.

The guards fed on that, pushing him when he walked, taunting him when he stumbled, and growing meaner by the hour. Their numbers had doubled, at least ten of them present at all times, while Lydia’s appearances dwindled to nothing.

In the beginning, she showed up while he ate, dressed in her tantalizing rockabilly fashion and flanked by half a dozen armed men. It was always the same. The same demand in the same detached tone. “Tell me who bought the stolen intel.”

He maintained his silence, which seemed to infuriate her to the point that she stopped coming. He hadn’t seen her in days.

By the end of two weeks, he had enough.

His patience waned as the guards shoved him toward the waiting pallet of rock. His blood boiled as a boot connected with his spine, hurrying him along. He staggered, righted his balance, barely remaining vertical. His teeth clenched.

If he attacked, it would give them an excuse to retaliate. The motherfuckers wanted a fight, their hunger for blood burning in their eyes. They baited him endlessly for it.

He could take down any one of them without breaking a sweat. But not ten of them at once. He was outnumbered, and they were armed. Challenging them would be a fool’s quest.

Mike stood off to the side, arms crossed over his chest, watching. Always present, he never participated in the harassment. He never stopped them, either.

Where the fuck was Lydia? Was she watching from a hidden corner of the warehouse, delighting in his misery? He thought he would have more time with her, to analyze and manipulate her. That plan went to hell when she stopped showing up.

He was running out of options, out of patience. Inch by inch, he lost his self-control. He felt harried, wired, crackling like a lit fuse, burning down to detonation. It was only a matter of time.

Dragging in a deep breath, he resumed walking. Something had to change. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, spend another goddamn day hauling rocks.

He was done.

Just like that, a switch flipped inside him. His feet stopped moving, planted shoulder-width apart, his arms hanging at his sides. He didn’t tense, but he braced for it, ready, waiting with fire seething in his veins.