I close my eyes for the space of a breath, striving for clarity, striving to think. But Jafar presses his hand to the small of my back and any hope of rational thought flits away into the night. He guides me to the front door. I see no one, but it clicks unlocked the moment his hand touches it.
We enter a small lobby with a desk and two rows of elevators. It’s all pale gray walls, darker gray marble floors, and stainless steel of the desk. Stark. A little cold. I shiver. “This whole place is The Underworld?”
“No.”
The touch of his hand moves me to the left bank of elevators. We ride up to the thirtieth floor and step out. The color scheme is more of the same here. Gray walls, black floor, a white desk that holds one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen. He wears a white button-down shirt that sets off his dark skin and his black hair is cut close to his head. He looks up and his eyes warm at the sight of Jafar. “Welcome back. Is there anything particular you’re looking for tonight?”
I remember myself at last moment and drop my gaze to the floor. Jafar’s thumb rubs a small circle again my back, as if he sees and acknowledges that I’m obeying. Or perhaps I’m looking too far into things. His voice is certainly unaffected when he speaks to this man.
“A drink, a show. Maybe a room later.”
“Perfect.” I watch him type something into his tablet. “Enjoy your stay.”
“I always do.” Charm emanates from him, and the man smiles in a dazed sort of way that I sympathize with. Jafar doesn’t bother to charm me. Or maybe he knows I have no interest in the smooth lie he can create with his voice and smile.
I’ve had more than enough lies to last me a lifetime.
We walk through the large black door and into another world.
Oh, it doesn’t overtly look like another world at first. A circular bar surrounds a sculpture I can’t quite wrap my mind around. Deep booths line both walls, bathed in shadows from the intimate lighting of the room. It seems rather mundane, until I finally get a good look at the sculpture and stop short.
It’s an orgy.
I frown, trying to count limbs, to match them to people, but I give up at seven. I want to move closer, to see it in all its glorious detail, but Jafar makes a low noise before I take my first step. Right. Obedience. I am not allowed to wander about with wide eyes. It’s not wise, even if there weren’t his rules to consider. A lamb in the woods is as good as dead, and if this place is populated with people like Jafar, then that’s exactly what I am.
Prey.
Jafar steers me toward the bar. There are other people around, but with my eyes down I only get the impression of suits and a few flashes of bold color in the dresses. No one is wearing red, and I feel like a drop of blood in a pool of sharks with the way attention shifts to me and narrows. It’s not entirely unpleasant, but the feeling of so many eyes watching my every breath has me shivering.
“Sit.”
I carefully perch on the chair next to the bar. Jafar remains standing and drapes his arm over the back of my chair. Casually possessive in a way that might irk me if we were alone, but that I appreciate in this room.
I crave experience. I want to throw myself into the world with delight and fury and grasp all the things denied to me up to this point. Why am I sitting here, shaking like a leaf before the summer storms? I close my eyes and try to breathe through it, but the fluttering feeling in my chest morphs into fear. True fear.
Jafar’s hand closes around the back of my neck. Not harsh this time, but a grip tight enough to hold me in this moment. “Breathe, baby girl. They’re just looking.”
I shiver again. I can’t help it. Even though it’s wiser to stay silent, to cling to the few cards I have left, words spill from my lips. “I don’t understand this.”
“You were locked up a long time.”
I open my eyes to glare. “I’m still locked up.”
“Yes,” he answers simply, without the least bit of shame.
“What can I get you?”
He glances at the bartender, a Hispanic woman with her hair in a high ponytail who wears what seems to be the uniform in this place—a white button-up and perfectly tailored slacks. “Scotch for me. Whiskey for her.”
He knows my drink. How could he possibly know my drink? One of the many restrictions my father put on me was limiting my access to any kind of food or drink he deemed unhealthy. Alcohol and fried food topped the list. I couldn’t get access to the kitchen without someone reporting on me, but over the years, I would pocket different bottles to try out. Whiskey became a personal favorite.