37 - Jafar
J afar and Yara returned to the palace in record time and stumbled into a flurry of movement: servants marching to and fro, some hefting furniture, others carrying oil for lanterns and chandeliers. Iago hopped off his shoulder and disappeared with a grumble, leaving Jafar alone with Yara at last. The two of them ducked into a corridor away from the ruckus, and Yara turned to him with her signature wicked grin. She had a way of making him feel like the only person in the world.
He wanted to know why fear had crossed her face when she’d seen that caravan, and why she was in such a rush.
“One last trade?” she asked.
Last? Was she leaving after the banquet? Jafar wanted to ask her, but that wasn’t how the rules of their game worked.
He was willing to give her anything. He nodded.
She ducked her head, her smile turning shy. “Me first?”
Jafar nodded. The evening breeze slipped through the windows, tousling her hair and painting it gold in the fading sunlight.
“I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you.”
Her voice was a deep, dark lullaby. Her words were a thousand and one scrolls unfurling inside of him, filling him to near bursting with their secrets.
Why not?
“To love is to live a life of exhaustion,” he said.
She ran her tongue along her lips. “So melancholy. Exhaust me then, ink boy.”
“Oh, is it my turn?” he asked, his throat hoarse with a knot, something heavy coursing through his limbs. It was weakness and power wrapped in one, an ache and a yearning.
And he couldn’t ask the questions he wanted to ask.
Instead, he closed the distance between them. She looked up with a gasp, exposing the smooth column of her neck. He wanted to bury his face there, nibble at the unblemished skin, make her gasp again.
Jafar didn’t need to be a prince. He would be a thief forever, stealing her breath over and over.
He was being selfish.
Her eyes darkened to a fathomless black, and when he opened his mouth to apologize, she rose on the tips of her toes with a strangled, impatient growl and pressed her lips to his. Her hands slipped over his chest, fisting his robes and pulling him into her. He gripped her waist to keep from tumbling into a chasm from which he might never return.
She was soft, warm, and enchanting, everything Jafar was not. Their bodies fit together like pages bound in a book. A mewl of a sound escaped her mouth, her fingers trembling and ceding control as they kissed. It was gentle, hard, rough, sweet, wicked.
Jafar had never felt so powerful.
She pulled back, gasping for air, gripping the wall to steady herself.
He wanted more. He wanted that power in his pocket, that control at his fingertips.
He had ruined her hair even more than the wind. He had altered the color of her eyes. It was delicious alchemy, and she was his beautiful destruction.
She touched her lips and took a step back. “That was…”
“Catastrophic,” he agreed.
Her answering laugh was breathless. It almost sounded like half a sob. “I—we should go.”
His mouth curled. “Or else?”
“Or things might turn indecent,” she whispered, and then she paused, her expression turning serious. “Jafar, there’s something you should—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. It was all he could do to stop from pulling her to him again. “Don’t. Don’t ruin this moment.”
And then he let her go.
Jafar sent the pair of attendants away from his rooms so he could dress himself, thinking about her the entire time. Yara. Their kiss. Their catastrophe. Jafar wasn’t even ashamed of how giddy he felt, how happy . With her, like Iago, he didn’t have to worry about his work being stolen. He didn’t have to worry about lying.
There was no reason to concern himself with being second best. She was falling in love with him as he was with her, in a way that rivaled his love for knowledge. Her soul spoke to his much as the scrolls on alchemy had.
“Iago?” Jafar called into the emptiness. “Where are you, wretched bird?”
“Hiding so I don’t have to see your stupid lovesick face,” Iago called from somewhere under the bed.
Jafar felt his smile widen. He felt nothing but bliss, which made it easier to pretend he wasn’t getting ready for his brother-turned-prince’s betrothal feast. He hadn’t seen Rohan since the Sultana had chosen him, but then again, Rohan hadn’t tried seeking him out, either.
Not that he’d been here in the palace to seek out.
Perhaps Jafar might have use for a genie after all. He would rewind time back to before their journey to Maghriz—no, that would mean never meeting Yara. Jafar sighed. He’d figure it out; he always did.
He pulled his dwindling handful of dinars from his robes, along with the pair of rubies Iago had swiped from the Sultana’s pockets.
They were luminescent, facets carving them into the shape of a crown. They were hypnotizing, drawing him closer, commanding him. The more he stared at them, the less control he had over his own thoughts.
Could he use them as Iago had suggested? To claim the crown for himself? As Jafar layered his robes over a fresh linen shirt, he thought again of the royal vizier, and how much more power the man held over the kingdom, over the crown itself.
And a plan began to take shape.