Page 11 of Desperate Measures
“Find him, Jeremiah. Find him right fucking now.”
4
Yasmina
After twenty-five years in the same few square miles of land, Jafar’s penthouse is a revelation. I barely wait for the elevators doors to whisk shut before I give in to my impulse to snoop. Easier to focus on that tiny pleasure than to think too hard about all the ways my life has gone up in flames.
My home is mine no more. If I could forgive my father for selling me in marriage—and I can’t—I still can’t forgive all the years of neglect and threats whenever I stepped too far out of line. Threats to carve away at the tiny list of my freedoms.
Now here I am, my leg in a different kind of trap.
I bypass the main living space and wander down the hall on the opposite side of the penthouse from my room. On the second door, I hit pay dirt.
I stand in the doorway for a long time, studying Jafar’s bedroom. I don’t know what I expected, but it’s just as stark and beautiful as the rest of the house. I would bet good money that he had someone else decorate it. To his specifications, of course, but some of the little details feel off.
Not the paintings, though. They’re gorgeous.
I move on silent feet to stand before them. A trio, each in a deep red that sets something racing in my chest. Or maybe it’s the content of the paintings. Each is a close-up of a woman’s body. The first, the curve of her back. The second, a hip. The third, her breasts. The artist’s name is a tiny scrawl near the bottom of each. Death.?1
Interesting.
I force myself to abandon the paintings in favor of finding juicier information. His nightstand is a bust. It’s basically a small bookshelf. I peruse the titles but give it up for a lost cause. Jafar has a thing for nonfiction war stories. Of course he does. He probably reads them and takes notes before he goes into battle with his current-day enemies.
The bathroom is twin to mine, though his tile is black rather than white. I snort. “Playing to type as always.” The walk-in closet is filled with expensive suits, all arranged in a grayscale line from black to pale gray. It’s the same with the shirts.
I briefly consider going back to the kitchen and taking a knife to every single one of them, but doing that now may be overplaying my hand. Best to save the true rebellion for later, when he’ll undoubtedly do something to deserve it.
“Trust Jafar not to have anything remotely interesting in his room.” I shake my head and walk back into the hall. Two more doors and absolutely no reason not to explore them. The first leads to a powder room, also missing anything worth snooping in. The second is his home office.
“Pay dirt,” I whisper. This is the room I need, not his bedroom. I should have realized that from the first. I glance down the hall toward the front door. He wants me naked and kneeling, a good little pet who obeys his every whim.
Worst of all, part of me wants to give him exactly that.
My body still aches from what he did to me, what we did together. I can play pretend that I didn’t want everything he gave and more, but it’s not the truth. I could have said no. Truly said no. I didn’t.
I didn’t want to.
I still don’t want to.
I smile slowly. What will he do when I flout his order? Throw me to the ground and fuck me breathless again? Spank me? Maybe he’ll force me to my knees, unzip his pants, and pound into my mouth until tears spring from my eyes and I can only submit or choke. I shiver, my skin feeling too tight, too sensitive.
Wanting the man who overthrew my father is a mistake. I know that even as I drop into his chair, the leather cool against my naked skin. A tap against the keyboard has the screen flaring to life. I’m not even a little surprised to discover Jafar has his computer password locked, even though it sits in a penthouse that is presumably inaccessible to anyone except for him.
Him and now me.
I idly tap in a password, the most often used one according to things I’ve read. I don’t actually expect it to work, but I’ve been surprised before. Password1234. The computer thinks for half a second before spitting out an incorrect password notification.
A little light appears at the top of the screen. Green and then red. “Naughty Jafar,” I murmur. Computers are something I enjoy, one of the few freedoms I was able to sneak past my father. I’m skilled enough to get around my father’s firewalls to order the books and things I want without his knowledge, but I’m mostly self-taught when it comes to anything resembling hacking. As such, I recognize what this is. An extra layer of protection. When the incorrect password is inputted, it either snaps a picture of the person at the computer or perhaps a video.
The fact that the light hasn’t gone away suggests a video.
I stare directly into the camera. Caught. “If you didn’t want me to snoop, you should have locked the door.” I lean forward. “Or perhaps you shouldn’t have brought me here in the first place.” Talking to a camera that may or may not be recording feels foolish, but I’m still angry and hot and all tangled up from the events of this night.
The thought of Jafar seeing this video and rushing home to punish me… I lean back in the chair and spread my legs. “It’s going to be a real shame if you can’t actually see this.” I could scoot the chair back to give the camera a better view, but I’m not in the mood to be even that good. He dumped me here as if I’m a sure thing.
I am a sure thing, and that only makes me angrier.
The phone at the desk rings and I jump. A quick glance at the computer tells me it’s still recording. I use my free hand to pick up. “Yes?”
