How can this be?
The only thing I’ve ever wanted is to be free. To make my own choices, to live without a sword hanging over my neck. To move through the world as a normal person.
Meg’s offer would give me that.
No doubt I’d have to make some allowances for lifestyle. She may give me enough money to get me started, but I’ll have to learn fast on my feet, starting from the ground up. The idea of it is staggering. Just a few nights ago, I told Jafar I couldn’t do it on my own. What if I was wrong? What if I can?
He won’t let me go.
Even if he releases my trust fund—and I have my doubts about that—he won’t let me leave the city. I can pretend having money of my own will put us closer to equal footing, but it’s a lie. Jafar is too overwhelming. He touches me, and I forget all the reasons I don’t want any of the life he’s shoved me into. I start to think that maybe this beautiful cage isn’t so bad, as long as he’s in here with me.
Except he’s not in here with me.
He has all the power.
I have none.
Jafar walks out of the elevators as I pour a glass of wine. He looks a decadent as ever, though the image is smudged. His charcoal suit is tailored to perfection, but his brown skin glistens as if he’s recently run. The thought of Jafar running home to me is too intoxicating to dwell on, so I turn my attention to his hair. He’s due for a cut; the waves have morphed into curls, a change that almost makes him seem more approachable.
More touchable.
He checks his stride and pivots to head in my direction, his purposeful steps eating up the length of the living room. He rounds the kitchen island and stops short. I try not to warm at the way he drinks in the sight of me, but it’s a heady feeling to have Jafar’s full attention. To have him appreciating.
I take a shaky sip of my wine. “You’re late.”
“I’m sorry.” The apology might sound more sincere if his voice hadn’t dropped an octave. “There was a complication.”
I don’t want to ask, but I can’t seem to help myself. “Ali?”
“Still in the wind.” Jafar nods at the wine bottle. “Pour me one?”
If he tried to command me, I might dig in my heels simply for the sake of doing it. I’ve already lost so much, and every moment I spend in his presence is a moment where I question whether I really want to escape.
Yes. The answer must be yes.
I pour a second glass of wine and pass it over. Jafar takes a long drink and leans a hip against the counter. For the first time in … ever … he looks like a man. Simply a man. Gorgeous beyond belief, yes, but merely human instead of this hurricane that rips me from my foundations with every word and touch.
He runs a hand through his hair, the move obviously the source of his curls getting the best of him. “I underestimated him.”
I blink. “You mean you’re not all-knowing and all-powerful?”
“Very funny, brat.” His second drink of wine is shorter, but the tension riding his shoulders seems to ease a little. “The majority of my focus was on undermining your father and staging the coup. If I had waited, this wouldn’t be an issue, because I could have handled them both at the same time. But, I didn’t wait.” A shrug. “I’ll get him in the end. He’s good, but I’m better.”
I pick apart that statement. He’s said something to the same effect before, but we usually end up fighting or fucking before I can dig deeper. “You changed your timeline for me.”
For a moment, I think he might deflect. “Yes. I could tell you that the reason is because a marriage is a whole hell of a lot harder to dismantle than a parental relationship when it comes to a shift of power, and it’d even be the truth. But not the full truth.” He sets his glass down and meets my gaze directly. “I’ve seen what’s left of the women who share Ali’s bed.”
My breath stalls in my lungs. I reach for a response, any response, to dispel the tension building between us. I try for a wry smile. “Does he chase them through his house and then fuck them right there in the middle of the floor when he catches them?”
“Don’t do that.” Jafar shakes his head.
“Don’t do what?” I’m being intentionally dense, but we’re posed on the edge of precipice and I don’t know what will happen to us if we tumble over the edge. We won’t be able to go back. That’s the only certainty.
He doesn’t move from his spot, doesn’t approach to touch me in a way that will bring me to my knees in submission. His brows draw down over dark eyes. “Have I ever done anything to do you that you didn’t want?”