Chapter 11 Jordan
JORDAN
The room feels smaller with every passing minute.
I've paced it at least twenty times, counting steps between the bed and the window, the window and the door, the door and the bathroom. The numbers blur together until they mean nothing.
The window is locked. I try it three times, yanking hard enough that I hurt my hand. Even if I could open it, I'm too high up anyway, and I don't feel like breaking any bones.
The door is locked too. Obviously.
I press my ear against it, listening for footsteps, voices, anything. There's nothing.
I sink onto the edge of the bed again, my hands gripping the duvet. I just keep thinking that Lindsey has no idea where I am.
No one does.
The panic that grips me earlier has dulled into numbness mixed with exhaustion. My body is here, but my mind feels like it's floating somewhere above, watching this happen to someone else.
I don't know how long I sit there. Minutes? Hours?
Eventually, I slide down to the floor, my back against the bed, and bring my knees to my chest. I wrap my arms around them and rest my forehead on my knees, taking deep breaths.
I do this over and over until I somehow pass out.
I jerk myself awake and look around the room, rubbing my eyes. It wasn't all a nightmare.
Then I hear it. The door unlocks.
I hurry to my feet, my heart beating fast in my chest. I expect a guard, maybe the one who brought me here in the first place.
But it's not that guard.
It's him.
Matei fills the doorway, dressed in a tailored suit. He looks refreshed. That makes one of us.
His dark eyes sweep over me, taking in everything: the way I'm standing, the way my hands are at my sides, the way I'm trying not to shake.
He doesn't smile. He just tilts his head slightly.
"Vino, fluture," he says, his voice low.
I don't move.
He waves his hand, gesturing for me to follow. "Come on."
My throat tightens. "Where?"
He doesn't answer. He just turns and starts walking down the hall, leaving the door open behind him.
I stand there for a second, frozen. Every instinct screams at me to stay put, to make him drag me if he wants me to move, but I know that won't end well.
I force my feet forward, stepping into the hallway.
The house is quieter now. The armed men from earlier are gone, or at least out of sight. Matei continues walking down the hall, his stride unhurried, confident. He doesn't look back to see if I'm following. He just knows I am.
"I love to give my newest guests a quick tour," he says, not slowing down.
I follow him down the stairs, and when we get to the first floor, we start to pass many rooms that look like they'd be filled with film crews shooting high-end commercials. I try not to look, but I can't help it.
"Library," he says, gesturing to a room filled with floor-to-ceiling books. "Theater." We pass a room with plush velvet seats. "Dining area. Kitchen."
"Why are you showing me this?" I ask. "We both know I'm not your guest."
"So you know the boundaries," he says.
"Which are?" I ask.
He stops and looks at me.
"You'll notice I'm pointing out every door except the one that leads out of here. Act like a guest and you'll enjoy yourself. Act like a prisoner trying to escape, and there will be consequences. Your choice, fluture."
He then turns back and keeps walking.
We turn down a corridor lined with dark wood. He stops at a set of double doors at the end of the hall.
"This is my office. You'll find me in here mostly."
He pushes the doors open and steps inside, holding it for me.
I hesitate, but then walk in.
The room is massive. It's got dark wood wall panels, marble, and floor-to-ceiling windows draped in heavy curtains.
There are chairs, a couch, bookcases, and a large dark wooden desk with hand-carved designs all around.
It looks like it should be in the Oval Office or someplace where presidents or kings make deals.
Everything is sleek and masculine, with touches of gold scattered around.
And it smells like him.
That same cologne from the club, from the car, from when he stood too close to me earlier.
I move further into the room because I don't have a choice, and he closes the door behind me and locks it.
I look at the door and my heart drops.
I watch as he moves past me and removes his jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair. He then goes over to the windows and closes the curtains.
The room darkens, and I get nervous. He turns on a desk lamp and then comes around to the front of the desk and leans back against it.
"Take off your clothes."
The words hit me like a slap. "What?"
"You heard me." His tone is calm. "Take them off."
I step back, crossing my arms over my chest. "No. You said you wouldn't touch me."
"And I won't," he says. "But I won't have you walking around my house wearing next to nothing."
"This is ridiculous."
"I beg to differ," he says with a smirk. "I think it's perfectly reasonable."
"You just want to humiliate me," I say in a firm tone.
"Now, why would I want to do that? Besides, my house, my rules, and it wasn't a request. Now, strip. Or I'll gladly do it for you."
I open my mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes stops me. He's not going to negotiate. He's not going to change his mind.
And if I refuse, he'll make good on his threat, and probably all the other ones he's not saying, just implying.
My hands are shaking as I reach for the hem of my shirt. I pull it over my head slowly, every second feeling like an eternity. I drop it on the floor, standing there in my skirt and bra, my arms instinctively crossing over my chest.
"Keep going," he says.
I unbutton my skirt. It takes me a moment because of my trembling fingers.
He doesn't move. He just watches.
My jaw clenches. "This is ridiculous."
"Why? Because there's no ring light or camera?"
"Screw you."
He smiles. "Maybe later. Keep going."
I bite my lip out of frustration and push my skirt down past my hips, stepping out of it.
I’m standing in front of him in my underwear now, a plain black bra and matching panties. Nothing sexy. Nothing special.
"There, fucking happy now?" I say, actually surprised by the fact that being almost naked is giving me confidence. "What do you want from me besides playing these sick games?"
Matei moves quickly, and I step back. He kicks my pile of clothes to the side like they are garbage, and then circles me, his footsteps slow and deliberate.
I don't move. I don't look at him.
I just stand there, hands at my sides in fists, my skin burning with humiliation, but I refuse to show it by trying to cover up.
He stops behind me, and I feel his hand on my shoulder. His fingers are warm, firm, and they trail down my arm, over my elbow, to my wrist. My skin erupts in goosebumps, and I hate it.
"I've brought you here, Jordan Robertson, because I think you know something that might be important to my family's rise here in Los Angeles," he says, and moves to my other arm, repeating the motion, his fingers tracing the curve of my shoulder, the line of my collarbone.
Then his hands settle on my hips.
I stiffen, my breath catching.
He doesn't linger. He just runs his hands over my sides, down to my thighs. His touch feels like he's scanning every inch of me.
And it feels invasive, and if it were any other situation besides this, almost intimate.
"You could single-handedly be the key to getting everything I want," he continues in a low tone, "and I can't let you go until I find out more. So I need you to cooperate."
I can't stop the way my body shivers under his hands, the way my pulse quickens when he steps closer.
He circles around to face me again, his dark eyes meeting mine.
"Good," he says simply.
He walks over to a large gift bag that's sitting in a chair and brings it over to me and holds it open.
"Put this on," he says.
I reach in and pull out a thick, white terry cloth robe. It feels heavy, and it's long.
I fumble to put it on, tying the belt tight. It goes all the way to my ankles and swallows me whole.
Just as I'm about to speak, the intercom on his desk buzzes.
He goes over to it and presses a button.
"Yes," he says and releases.
"Sir. The guest room is fully prepped now."
Matei presses the button. "Good. We're coming."
He looks at me. "Let's go."
He escorts me back to the guest room, but the walk feels different now, as I am wrapped in white fabric that completely hides me from the guards we pass. They don't look at me.
When we get back upstairs, I see two women coming out of the room I was in.
"Good morning, sir," they say as they pass us.
When we get back into the room, I notice a stack of towels and some amenities on the bed.
Matei walks past them to the closet and opens the door.
"Here are some clothes for you," he says, turning on the light.
I walk over to him.
"These aren't mine," I say, crossing my arms.
He turns to me and looks down.
"You need to be a good girl in order for this to work," he says and leans into me. "I'll make it very worth your while to cooperate and give me all the information I need."
"Whatever," I say and roll my eyes. "This is so ridiculous."
He shrugs. "You'll only make this harder on yourself if you're stubborn. Change, don't. I don't care. You're the one who has to sit here in that robe otherwise. But these are brand new, tasteful, and in your size if you're interested," he says and smirks.
He turns around and walks toward the door and opens it.
He stops and looks back at me.
"It's best you stay in here today. Give you time to relax. Get adjusted. We can chat more about what I want and your freedom later. Try and relax, and if you need anything, my room's at the end of the hall, so come and find me."
He turns to shut the door.
"Wait," I say and step forward. "So you just want me to stay here?"
He looks around the room and then at me. "Yes," he says, and shuts the door.
The day goes by a lot faster than I thought. A nice lady brings me food, snacks, and even a book to read.
"Anything you need," she keeps asking me before leaving and locking the door.
I don't fault her for anything. I get it. She's just doing her job. Doing what pays the bills. That's all anyone can do in this damn city. But if she thinks this is normal, I can't imagine what else she's seen happen in this place.
I sit on the edge of the bed and read the book she brought me, trying to pretend I wasn't just kidnapped and stripped by some, I don't know, thug? Is that what he is? I don't even know, but I know he's dangerous.
After some time, I can't help myself, and I start to snoop around, opening a few drawers to see if I can find anything that will help me escape. As I'm doing this, a different woman comes in with my dinner, and I slam the drawer shut in a panic.
When she leaves, I notice something instantly.
She didn't lock the door.
I slowly tiptoe over to the door, giving just enough time where I know the woman would have left back downstairs. I press my ear to the door and don't hear a sound. I push down on the handle so slowly I might not even be making progress when, just then, the door opens.
I open the door and look out. It's empty.
At the end of the dark hallway, there's a sliver of light coming from what I guess is Matei's room.
I shut the door and walk over to the bed and pause. I start pacing.
I need to get out of here.
Should I go talk to him? Should I go demand he let me go? I should do something, right? Not just sit here?
Sitting is accepting, and I can't do that.
I open the door and slowly make my way down the hall, forcing one foot in front of the other. When I get close, nerves overtake me and I almost turn around.
But I see him walk by and freeze. Through the slight crack from the door being ajar, I see him walking around. He's texting someone on his phone, then he tosses it on the bed.
I lean in to get a better look, and my eyes widen. Matei starts unbuttoning his shirt.
I try to look away, but I can't.
He pulls it off, revealing a torso that looks like it was carved from stone.
His chest is broad, his shoulders wide and defined.
His abs are a perfect six-pack, each muscle sharply defined, and there are more muscles where I didn't even know muscles existed, along his ribs, his obliques, the deep V that disappears into his pants.
And he's covered in tattoos.
Black ink snakes across his chest, wrapping around his shoulders and down his arms. Some are words in a language I don't recognize, others are intricate designs. I see skulls, crosses, a flag, and something that looks like a wolf.
He tosses the shirt onto the chair and starts unbuckling his belt.
I turn away, heat flooding my cheeks.
I hear the rustle of fabric, then nothing.
Wait, I think. He saw me undressed. Why shouldn't I see him? It's only fair.
I glance back through the crack and immediately regret it.
He's standing there in nothing but black boxer briefs, completely unaware of my prying eyes. His body is ridiculous. The kind of body that belongs on a billboard or in a gym ad. The kind of body that makes you forget, just for a second, that the man attached to it is possibly insane.
My eyes drop to the bulge in his boxers before I can stop myself, and I snap my gaze back up, my face burning.
He turns and looks at the door, and I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch.
I stumble back.
Shit. Shit.
I turn and walk fast down the hallway, run into my room, and shut the door as quietly as I can. I lean against it and take deep breaths.
Jesus, what the hell have I gotten myself into?
The confusion stirring inside me is worse than the fear.
Get it together, girl.
How on earth am I going to keep it together to get myself out of here alive? Maybe I can treat this as a gig. An acting gig. And not just any acting gig. I need to pull out the greatest acting of my life.
If I do that, I'll survive this. Be cool. He'll learn that I don't know shit, and I'll be home by the end of the week, hopefully sooner.
I close my eyes and repeat that over and over, trying to block out whatever the hell I just saw and about that tattooed man down the hall.