He kicked down my door to prove a point. The same point he made by refusing to fuck me in punishment. Disobedience will not be tolerated or rewarded.
He pauses in the doorway. “Fight me if you need to, but I require nothing less than honesty.”
“I honestly don’t want you.”
“Liar.” He says it without heat. “We can keep playing the non-consent game if you like—after you earn it.”
I climb off the bed. I can’t have this conversation while I cower and he stands tall. Even across the room he towers over me, and I hate the thrill it sends through me. I point a shaking finger at him. “I’m not a dog you can reward with treats when I do a trick you like.”
“No.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away as I stalk toward him. If it wasn’t for the heat in those dark eyes, I’d think him completely unaffected. “Not a dog. A spoiled brat of a baby girl. Someone needs to bring you to heel, and I’ll take great pleasure in doing exactly that.”
Bring me to heel.
Red washes over my vision and I clench my hands into fists. Hitting him right now might feel very, very good, but one glance tells me that he’ll never allow the blow to fall. I drag my hands through my hair and curse. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. You hate being trapped. It’s hardly the same thing.”
He has a point, but I’m not about to admit it. I prop my hands on my hips. “I have an easy solution. Give me my trust fund and release me, and we’ll happily go our separate ways.”
He shakes his head. “You agreed to the terms when you played our game. You lost, and now you’re mine.”
“You can’t own a person!” No matter how hot the idea of being owned by Jafar makes me, I can’t submit. I can’t. He’s upended my entire life. It may not have been the best life to begin with, but it was mine. Eventually I would have found a chance to fight my way out and leave all of it behind me.
To be free.
Something must show on my face because he slips his hand along the nape of my neck and tows me forward until we’re nearly chest to chest. “Poor Jasmine,” he murmurs. “Your dueling desires will tear you apart if you don’t find a balance.”
“Let me go.”
He studies my expression. “Is that really what you want?”
Of course it is. Freedom is the only god I worship. “Yes.”
“Prove it.”
Understanding washes over me. He’s reminding me of my safe word, of the full stop that comes when he pushes too hard and I need an exit hatch. I stare up at him, at war with myself. I want him. How could I not want Jafar? He’s gorgeous and dangerous and forbidden in a way that tempts me all the more.
He’s also put me in a cage the exact same way my father did. The only difference is the size and the rules that go with it.
In that moment, I truly do hate him. Just a little. “Rajah.” The word is barely more than a whisper, but he instantly drops his hand and steps away, putting space between us that I’m still not sure I want.
It’s too late, though. I’ve made my choice.
“Goodnight, Jasmine.” He walks through the door without looking back.
Power and disappointment are strange bedfellows, but they are the twin emotions coursing through me. I knew he would stop, of course. But I can’t figure out the tangle of emotions twisting through me, and suddenly I’m too tired to even try.
I stumble back to the bed and burrow under the covers. Tomorrow, everything will be clearer.
Tomorrow, I won’t regret the choice I just made.
Most likely.
Chapter 5
Jasmine
Jafar’s gone when I wake. This time, there’s no denying the disappointment. I’m a fool and a half for wanting him, for wanting to spend time with him, but I can’t control my emotions. If that was possible, I’d be tempted to banish them completely.
I wander into the kitchen in search of coffee and find a pot waiting for me. The fridge contains my favorite creamer, newly purchased by the expiration date. I hadn’t realized he noticed such small details. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen Jafar in the morning before.
Not that it’s morning now. I’ve slept past noon.
Next to the coffee maker is a sticky note with a schedule written on it in short, bold strokes.
2 P.M. – Stylist
8 P.M. – Be ready
Just that. Nothing more. Then again, I suppose I don’t need to know more. As much as I want to bar the door against the stylist out of spite, the truth is that I need clothing. It’s the only armor I’ve ever owned, and being without has me on edge.
I check the clock. I have enough time to shower and get ready to meet this stylist. Putting even that much effort exhausts me, but I can’t afford to waver now. Not when I don’t know what tonight—what the future—will bring. I need every weapon at my disposal.