Desperate Measures

Jasmine

Even if I'd been sleeping, the creek if my bedroom door would have startled me to awareness. No one comes to my room at night. Not my Father. Certainly not any of the men he insists on keeping in the house. Not even the Ghost of my poor dead Mother dare wonders these halls in after hours.
It simply isn't done.
And yet.
My feet ache from hours' worth pacing, my chest aches worse from the heart pain my Father delivered earlier. Another betrayal after a lifetime of them shouldn't be enough to keep me from sleep, but this most recent hurt weights heavier then most.
He sold me.
Oh, he didn't call it as such. He called it a merger secured by marriage. A meeting of two wealthy families with ties to the criminal underbelly everyone in this mausoleum of a house pretends doesn't exist. I touch my face, the most present of my pains, the only anchored in the physical instead of emotional. When I'd ask him what price his Daughter bought, he'd struck me.
My mouth had always gotten me in trouble. I slip into the deep shadows near my vanity as a man steps through the doorway into my room. I cant make out his features in the low light, but that doesn't matter. He shouldn't be here. Perhaps my Father thinks to send my betrothed to ensure I won't protest the marriage. He'll get what he deserves.
I barley dare to breathe. I reach for the letter opener I'd left on my vanity. Its sharp and pretty, and it will serve my purpose as well as anything else.
The man moved on soundless feet towards my bed. If needed further evidence of his intention, I have it. He is no innocent wandering into the wrong room-though nothing like that ever happened before.
He is here for me.
I will not go quietly.
I wait until he is several steps passed me before I lunge. Hes to tall for me to reliably reach his neck from behind. So I go with the next best option. His sharp inhale and perfect stillness are his only response to the sharp blade pressing up against the groin of his slacks "Good evening, Jasmine" I freeze. I know that cultured voice, have heard it in both dreams and nightmares for the last five years. This man isn't my betrothed, the sword that's hung over my neck since my Father's proclamation. No, he is far worse.

Jafar, my Father's second-in-command.

I catch myself before I relent. If Jafar hadn't signed the contract himself, he was at least a party to it, the trading of my body and soul as as they trade in so many other unmentionable commodities. Why had I thought I was special? A princess locked in a tower is only kept away from the world for one reason; it had nothing to do with her safety and everything to do with her perceived value.
"I will not go quietly". I don't know why I say the words aloud, why i make this particular claim when so many other crowd my lips. Don't make me do this. I don't choose this. Help me. Save me.

I am a daughter and not a son, so my Father will never acknowledge me as heir, and neither will be his men. Jafar owes no loyalty to me.

A new word bubbles up, the one I've only ever used in his presence once before. Our secret little game that we've played for five long years, to what end I haven't let myself consider "Rajah. Jafar, just... please."

My only warning is a slight tension in his body and then he moves. He catches my wrist in a punishing grip and spins to face me, forcing my hand up and out, the letter opener falling from nerveless fingers. He captures my chin roughly, tilting my head back, though I can't read his expression in the darkness "You want me to save you."

I should have known better.

Humiliation rolls over me, a toxic mix when combined with the fear and anger already bubbling up inside my skin, the emotions too big for this fragile shell of mine. I wish I was larger, more deadly, able to fight back in any real way instead of standing here, shaking in his grasp. "Fuck you."

"Ah, there she is." I don't have to see his mouth clearly to hear the smile in his voice. If the devil exists, he sounds like a satisfied Jafar, all slow grins and carefully curated words that seemed to have meanings. His thumb brushes my lip, a glancing touch I only notice because I'm so hyper-focused on him.