Chapter 2: Courtyard Confessions
The crunch of gravel on the garden path was unmistakable, a steady, rhythmic intrusion into the fevered silence. Jafar’s mouth froze against Deviyah’s, his hand stilling beneath the silk of her robe where it cupped the warm, bare curve of her breast. Her heart hammered against his palm, a trapped bird.
“Guards,” he breathed into the space between their lips, the word no more than a shift in the air.
He didn’t jerk away. He unfolded from her with a predatory smoothness, his dark robes blending into the deeper shadows of the ancient fig tree. In one fluid motion, he guided her around the broad trunk, its gnarled bark cool and rough against her back. He pressed her into it, his body a shield in front of hers, his head tilted, listening.
Two sets of footsteps. Slow. Bored. The casual chatter of men on a routine sweep.
“...I tell you, the lamb was undercooked. My wife could do better blindfolded,” one voice grumbled.
Deviyah held her breath. Jafar’s face was inches from hers, his expression unreadable in the mosaic of shadow and slivered moonlight. The heat of him, the scent of sandalwood and intent, was a stark contrast to the damp, jasmine-chilled air. His thumb, absurdly, stroked a slow, calming circle on her hip bone where his hand had come to rest.
“You complain about a royal feast? Try eating bean stew for the tenth day in a row,” the second guard replied, his voice closer now.
The lantern light they carried began to wash over the fig tree’s roots, painting the dewy grass in wavering gold. Jafar didn’t move. He watched the light, his eyes calculating the spread of the shadow they stood in. Deviyah looked up at him. In the half-light, he wasn't the Grand Vizier. He was a silhouette of pure will, his jaw tight, every line of him tensed for either stillness or violence.
The light pooled at their feet. She could see the intricate embroidery on Jafar’s sleeve. If they took another step, the beam would climb his leg, expose them.
He bent his head, his lips brushing the very edge of her ear. “Don’t. Move.” The vibration of his whisper went straight through her.
The guards paused, seemingly right on the other side of the massive trunk. Deviyah could hear the clink of a canteen.
“Think the vizier’s still up? Lights were on in his tower,” said the first guard.
“That snake? Probably counting his gold or poisoning someone’s wine. I wouldn’t want his dreams,” the second scoffed.
Jafar’s mouth quirked. A faint, dangerous smile in the dark. He seemed more amused than offended.
“Come on. Nothing here but ghosts and old leaves.”
The footsteps began to recede, the circle of light shrinking, then vanishing around a bend in the path. The courtyard plunged back into its deep blue silence, broken only by the distant, broken chime of the clock tower.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The adrenaline spun a different kind of tension between them, sharper than desire, just as intoxicating.
Deviyah let out a shuddering breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Counting your gold?” she whispered, a shaky laugh in her voice. “That’s a bit mundane for you, isn’t it?”
Jafar finally leaned back, just enough to see her face. The dangerous smile was still there. “I was occupied with a different sort of treasure.” His gaze dropped to her lips, swollen from his kisses. “One that appears to have a penchant for getting us caught.”
“You started it,” she said, the old defiance returning, though it felt softer now. A reflex.
“You wore the robe with the loose tie,” he countered, his finger hooking into the silken cord at her waist. “That’s not an invitation. That’s a declaration of war.”
He didn’t kiss her again. He studied her, as if the guard’s interruption had reset the board. “The Prince of Parthavis sends another envoy tomorrow. With a betrothal gift. A sapphire the size of a pigeon’s egg, I’m told.”
All the lightness vanished. The reality of the courtyard, of her father’s palace, came crashing back. “How delightful for him.”
“It’s vulgar,” Jafar stated, his voice crisp. “But it will please your father. Solidify the idea in his mind.” His hand, which had been resting on her hip, moved up to cradle her jaw. His touch was no longer playful. It was deliberate. “We accelerate the timeline.”
“What timeline? Your plan to become Sultan by poisoning everyone at court?” she asked, but there was no real bite to it. She was asking for the plan. Trusting it. Trusting him.
“Too messy. Too many loose ends.” His thumb traced her lower lip. “People are more agreeable when they think an idea is their own. Even sultans.”
“So you’re going to make my father want to call off the marriage?”
“I’m going to make the Prince of Parthavis unveil himself as an untenable brute in front of the entire court,” Jafar corrected, his eyes glinting. “And you, my deceptive princess, are going to help me.”
She blinked. “How?”
“By being yourself. Clever. Observant. Unimpressed.” He leaned in again, but this time his voice was all business, a confidential murmur. “The envoy is a man named Faisal. Vain. Gambles deeply. Has a taste for… certain powders that cloud the mind. He will be eager to impress you, to assure you of his prince’s virtues. You will be charming. You will draw him out. And you will get him to boast.”
“Boast about what?”
“About the prince’s ‘hunting lodge’ in the northern hills. The one filled with trophies of a different sort.” Jafar’s smile was ice. “Slavery is illegal in Agrabah. In Parthavis, it is a sport. The prince prefers his servants… unwilling. A detail his envoy, in a state of chemically-induced candor, might let slip to a sympathetic, beautiful listener.”
Deviyah’s stomach turned. “That’s horrible.”
“It is. And it is our weapon.” He searched her face. “Can you do this? Can you play the game?”
She thought of the prince’s dead-fish eyes. Of a lifetime in a cold northern palace. Of Jafar’s hands on her skin, his promise in the dark. This is mine. She nodded once, sharply. “What do I need to do?”
“Tomorrow, after the audience, you will ‘accidentally’ encounter Faisal in the Hall of Mirrors. You will speak of your love for Agrabah, your fears of leaving it. You will be vulnerable. He will seek to comfort you. I will have a particular wine sent to your alcove. A strong, sweet wine. You will encourage him to drink. The rest will follow.”
It was a cold, manipulative script. It felt like him. She was silent for a beat. “And if it doesn’t work? If he doesn’t say anything?”
Jafar’s gaze was implacable. “Then I will have him vanish on his journey home. A sandstorm, bandits. Regrettable. The marriage would be delayed for mourning. It buys us time for the next move.” He said it so casually, a man discussing a change in the dinner menu. “But it will work. Men like him always talk. They can’t help it.”
He pushed off from the tree, straightening his robes. The moment of conspiratorial intimacy was closing, replaced by the pragmatic chill of the plotter. “You should return. Your absence will be noticed.”
Deviyah pushed herself from the bark, smoothing her own robe, her fingers fumbling slightly with the tie he’d mentioned. The world came back into focus—the marble, the stars, the distant hum of the palace. “Jafar.”
He paused, looking back at her.
“The grain taxes,” she said, echoing their last words from his chamber. “Why did you lie?”
He seemed surprised she’d circle back to it now, here. He considered her, and for a second, she saw something flicker in his eyes that wasn’t cunning or lust, but a faint, tired honesty. “The treasury was empty. Your father had spent a fortune on a floating garden that died in a week. The city needed grain. Raising taxes openly would have caused a panic, maybe a riot. I diverted funds from the military garrison instead, blamed a poor harvest, and imported the grain. The people were fed. The sultan’s pride was intact. The garrison… made do.”
It was ruthlessly pragmatic. It was for the stability of the city. It was also a profound betrayal of trust, a secret manipulation of the entire kingdom’s reality. It was, she realized, exactly who he was.
“You could have told the truth,” she said quietly.
“The truth is a luxury, Princess. One rarely afforded to those who actually have to govern.” He offered her his arm, a perfectly proper gesture. “Come. I’ll walk you to the moon gate. The guards’ route won’t cross there for another quarter hour.”
She took his arm. The silk of his robe was cool under her fingers. They walked in silence through the courtyard, two shadows among many. The scheming was a cold weight in her chest, but the feel of his arm beneath her hand was solid, real. He was her corruption and her anchor.
At the arched moon gate that led to the inner palace gardens, he stopped. “Tomorrow. The Hall of Mirrors. Just after noon.”
“I’ll be there.”
He lifted her hand from his arm, not letting it go. He turned it over and pressed his lips to the center of her palm. Not a kiss of passion. A seal. A promise.
Then he was gone, melting back into the deeper darkness of the courtyard, becoming just another whisper in the rustling night.
Deviyah stood alone, her hand tingling. The scent of jasmine was overwhelming. In her mind, she was already rehearsing her lines, practicing a vulnerable smile. She was no longer just a princess resisting a marriage.
She was an accomplice. The thought should have terrified her.
All it did was make her feel, for the first time, truly awake
Sleep was impossible. The palace settled into its deepest quiet, a hollow silence broken only by the occasional sigh of stone or the far-off call of a watchman. Deviyah lay in her canopied bed, the sheets cool and unbearable against her skin, which still hummed from the courtyard, from his touch, from the treason taking root in her chest. Every nerve was a live wire. She stared at the shifting shadows on the ceiling, replaying his words, his plan, the casual way he discussed a man’s murder. A sandstorm, bandits. Regrettable.
She both recoiled from it and leaned into the brutal clarity of it. He would reshape the world with will and violence to keep his promise. No one else will ever touch you. The ferocity of that claim was a dark blanket, smothering her better judgment. She pressed her thighs together, a futile attempt to quiet the ache that had been present since he’d knelt in the dark of his chambers. Since he’d tasted her. The memory was a physical punch, leaving her breathless and hollow.
A soft scrape at her balcony door, like a bird alighting on stone.
Her heart stopped. She didn’t move, listening. It wasn’t the wind. The latch, intricate and brass, clicked once, then sighed open. A silhouette filled the space, taller than the doorway, blotting out the weak starlight. He moved like smoke, a part of the darkness itself, until he stood at the foot of her bed.
Jafar.
He said nothing. He simply watched her, his face in shadow, his presence an absolute occupancy of the room. The air thickened, charged with the scent of night and his particular spice.
“You’re going to get me beheaded,” she whispered, the words dry in her throat.
“Only if we’re caught.” His voice was a low rumble. “We won’t be.” He let his traveling cloak, dark and nondescript, fall to the floor. Underneath, he wore simple black linens. “You’re thinking too much. I can hear it from the corridor.”
“I’m thinking about you having a man killed to delay a wedding.”
“It’s efficient.” He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. In the gloom, she could see the sharp cut of his jaw, the intensity of his gaze. “But it’s a messy contingency. I prefer the elegant solution. Which requires you rested, not staring at the ceiling practicing horrified faces.”
He reached out and his fingertips, cool from the night air, brushed her temple. “Your mind is a riot. Let me quiet it.”
His touch trailed down her cheek, over the frantic pulse in her throat, to the high neckline of her sleeping gown. One finger hooked under the delicate lace. “This is in the way.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“I’m aware.” The lace tore with a soft, decisive snick. The sound was obscenely loud. He didn’t peel the gown away. He simply looked at the exposed slope of her breast in the thin light, his gaze a tangible weight. “You asked me once, in the courtyard, if I’d ever just take what I wanted.”
She swallowed. “I remember.”
“This is me,” he said, his voice dropping to something rough and private, “not taking it.” His hand smoothed over her shoulder, pushing the torn fabric aside. The cool air pebbled her skin. He bent his head, but not to her mouth. He pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat, a kiss that was closer to a brand. “I’m going to give it to you instead. Until you can’t think about envoys or princes or anything but my name.”
His mouth was a devastating distraction. It traveled down her sternum, slow, open-mouthed kisses that seared through her, each one a deliberate downstroke on a fever chart. He took his time, his hands framing her ribs, holding her in place as if she might float away. When his lips finally closed over one nipple, it was with a heat that made her back arch off the bed, a silent gasp caught in her chest.
He didn’t just suck. He worshipped. He laved the tight peak with a torturous, circling pressure before drawing it deep into the warmth of his mouth, his tongue flicking with a rhythm that shot directly to her core. He devoted equal, exhaustive attention to the other, his hand coming up to cradle the weight of her breast, his thumb stroking in counterpoint to the pull of his mouth. The sensations layered, compounded, until she was clutching at the sheets, her hips moving in tiny, desperate circles against nothing.
“Jafar…” It was a plea, a broken thing.
“I know,” he murmured against her damp skin, his breath hot. His hand slid down her stomach, over the frantic quiver of muscles there, and under the hem of her gown. He didn’t rush. His fingers combed through the soft hair, then dipped lower, finding the slick, swollen evidence of her need. He drew a slow, lingering circle. “See? All this worry. And your body knows the truth. It knows who it belongs to.”
He shifted then, sliding down the bed. He hooked his hands under her knees, opening her, placing her legs over his shoulders. The vulnerability was total, blinding. She was completely exposed to his sight, to his judgment, in the milky darkness.
He looked at her for a long, breathless moment. “Perfect.”
Then he leaned in and tasted her.
The first contact was a flat, soft stroke of his tongue that made her cry out, her hand flying to her own mouth to stifle the sound. He didn’t pause. He established a slow, relentless rhythm, licking into her with a thoroughness that felt less like passion and more like a meticulous claiming. He explored every fold, every secret, sensitive place, learning what made her jolt, what made her moan, what made her thighs tremble against his ears.
He built the pleasure with the precision of a master craftsman, alternating broad strokes with focused, pinpoint flicks of his tongue on that one exquisite point. He would bring her to the very edge, her breaths coming in ragged sobs, her fingers tangled in his hair, then ease back, letting her hover in agonized need before beginning the climb again.
“Please… I can’t…” she begged, sweat cooling on her skin.
“You can.” The words vibrated against her. “You will.”
He slid two fingers inside her this time, curling them, finding a spot that made her see white. His mouth locked onto her, and he sucked, gently, then harder. The dual sensation—the fullness, the relentless pull—shattered her. The orgasm tore through her, silent and violent, a convulsive wave that left her shuddering, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.
He didn’t stop. He gentled his mouth, soothed her with soft licks as the aftershocks racked her, but his fingers kept moving, a slow, insistent pump. Before the last tremor had faded, he was building the pressure again, his tongue resuming its devilish work.
“No, stop, it’s too much,” she whimpered, oversensitive and raw.
“It’s not nearly enough.” He was implacable. He pushed her, ruthless in his generosity, until a second, deeper climax rolled through her, this one a drowning wave of pure sensation that left her boneless and mute.
She floated in a hazy, spent void. He kissed her inner thigh, a benediction. She felt him move, the bed shifting, and then his weight was beside her, his arm sliding under her shoulders. He pulled her against him, her back to his chest. His hand, those clever, treacherous fingers, drifted down her stomach again.
“Once more,” he whispered into her hair. “The one you’ll remember tomorrow when he’s boasting about sapphires.”
His touch was different now. Softer. Almost tender. He palmed her, a gentle, circular pressure, his fingers slick with her own release. There was no urgency, just a slow, melting friction. He nuzzled the nape of her neck, his breathing syncing with the lazy rhythm of his hand.
This third unraveling was slow, sweet, and total. It didn’t crash; it seeped into her bones, a warm, golden lassitude that melted every knot of tension, every frantic thought. A soft, continuous sigh escaped her as she came, her body going liquid against his.
For a long time, they lay there in the silence, his hand resting possessively on her stomach, her heartbeat gradually slowing against his. The broken clock tower chimed a distant, solitary note.
“The envoy, Faisal,” Jafar said, his voice conversational in the dark. “He has a weak left knee. An old polo injury. If he becomes aggressive, step to his right. He’ll be off-balance.”
It was so practical, so jarring after the sensory annihilation. A giggle, born of exhaustion and surreal bliss, bubbled out of her. “Noted. Should I knee him there or just look sympathetic?”
“Sympathy first. Violence is the backup plan.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “Sleep now. Your mind is quiet.”
It was. The riot had been blissfully silenced. She felt heavy, real, anchored to the earth by the weight of his arm. The conspiracy felt less like a terrifying abstraction and more like a simple next step. As she drifted, a final, clear thought surfaced.
He hadn’t taken his own pleasure. Not tonight. This had been an investment. A calming of his most vital, volatile asset. She was the tool he was honing.
And she had never felt more sharp, or more willing to cut.
And she had never felt more sharp, or more willing to cut. The thought should have terrified her. Instead, it draped over her like a final, comforting truth, and she sank into the weight of his body behind her, into the soft rhythm of his breath against her neck. Sleep, thick and profound, pulled her under without a fight.
She didn’t dream of sapphires or sandstorms. She dreamed of nothing at all, a deep and seamless blackness that felt like being held. Sometime in the deepest part of the night, she shifted, turning towards him in her sleep. Her hand found the coarse weave of his linen tunic, fisting in it. Her forehead came to rest against his collarbone.
He did not pull her closer. But he did not move away. He remained perfectly still, listening to the even cadence of her breathing, a sound so unfamiliar in his presence it felt like a secret. Outside, the palace guards completed their rounds. The sky softened from pitch to indigo, then to a cool, predawn gray. The scent of baking bread from the kitchens far below began to filter into the room, mingling with her jasmine and their spent sweat. Still, he stayed.
A sliver of molten gold cut between the balcony doors, painting a line across the rumpled sheets and over Deviyah’s sleeping face. It traced the arch of her cheekbone, glided over the dark fan of her lashes. She stirred, a small frown touching her lips as the light intruded. Her eyes blinked open, slow and heavy. Confusion clouded them for a second before memory returned, warming the green with a soft, private awareness.
He was watching her, his head propped on one hand. He hadn’t slept. He’d spent the hours watching the night recede, listening to her breathe, mapping the exact moment when her grip on his tunic loosened.
“You’re still here,” she whispered, her voice scratchy with sleep.
“I am.” His own voice was rough from disuse.
She didn’t ask why. She simply curled closer, tucking her face into the space between his shoulder and chin. Her arm slid across his waist. She was cuddled up to him with a natural, unthinking possessiveness, as if she’d been doing it for years. The first time in a long time, she admitted to herself, that she hadn’t woken clawing out of a nightmare about northern castles or dead-fish eyes.
The sun climbed, the line of light widening, warming the silk of her torn gown. She made a soft, contented sound and pressed closer. “Don’t go.”
The words were muffled against his skin, stripped of all princess and pretense. It was just a request. A naked, simple need.
He didn’t answer with words. His hand, which had been resting on his own chest, came up to settle at the nape of her neck. His fingers slid into her hair, massaging the scalp in slow, deliberate circles. He felt her sigh, a full-body release of tension he hadn’t even known she was holding. Her fingers traced idle patterns on the linen over his stomach.
“You must have things to plot,” she murmured. “Evil vizier things. Breakfast conspiracies.”
“The evil vizier things can wait.” His thumb stroked the line of her jaw. “The envoy doesn’t arrive until noon. And I find I’m… comfortable.”
A small, genuine laugh shook her shoulders. “Comfortable. I’ll make sure that’s added to your list of titles. Jafar, Grand Vizier, Master of Comfort.”
“Only yours,” he said, and the quiet sincerity of it stunned them both into a momentary silence. The words just sat there, too real to take back. The sunlight grew warmer, pooling around them. He could hear the palace awakening—distant clatters, a raised voice from the stables, the city beyond the walls beginning its low, constant hum. A world of duty and deception was stretching its limbs, and he was lying in a sunbeam with a princess tangled around him.
It was an obscene vulnerability. Any other time, it would have felt like a trap.
Here, now, with her breath evening out again against his throat, it felt like a different kind of power. She was sleeping, truly sleeping, because of him. Not in spite of him.
He stayed until the sun had fully claimed the room, until the sounds from the corridor outside her chambers indicated her handmaidens would soon be stirring. He waited until her grip on him loosened once more in the depths of sleep. Then, with a care he’d never shown anyone, he began to extract himself.
He slid his arm from under her, replacing his warmth with a pillow. He disentangled her fingers from his tunic. She made a small, displeased sound in her sleep, her brow furrowing. He leaned over and pressed his lips to that faint line of worry. It smoothed out.
Silent as the shadow he so often resembled, he gathered his cloak from the floor. He paused at the balcony door, looking back. She had rolled into the space he’d vacated, her cheek pressed to the pillow that smelled of him. One hand was curled under her chin. In the full morning light, she looked younger than her twenty-one years, and utterly at peace.
He slipped out the way he came, down the hidden routes known only to him, the ghost returning to his tower. His own chambers felt colder, sharper. The grand mirror showed only the swirling, restless mist of forgotten souls. He ignored it.
He washed, changed into his official robes of office—layers of black and deep purple, severe and imposing. He ate a spare breakfast of figs and cheese, his mind already calculating the day’s moves. The script was set. The players were in place. Every piece was moving toward a precise point on the board.
But for a long moment, standing at his window overlooking the awakening city, he didn’t see the schematics of power. He saw a line of sunlight on a sleeping face, and felt the ghost of her arm across his waist.
He pushed the feeling down, sealed it behind a wall of cold stone in his mind. Sentiment was a luxury. A vulnerability. He had a kingdom to win, a princess to keep, and a prince to destroy. Today was for Faisal, and for the first, careful cut.