Chapter 3: Claiming What's His
The scent of the prince still clung to her—a cloying mixture of heavy rose attar and stale wine. It felt like a film on her skin, seeping into the silk of her formal gown as she climbed the spiraling, hidden staircase within the palace walls. Each step echoed her revulsion. The prince’s gaze had been a physical violation, lingering on the neckline of her dress, on her mouth, as his envoy, Faisal, slurred praises about her fertility and the strong sons she would bear. The memory of his thick fingers, dotted with garish rings, brushing against her hand as he passed a plate of sweets, made her stomach clench.
She didn’t knock. She shoved the heavy oak door to Jafar’s tower chambers open, the hinges groaning in protest. He was standing at his iron-framed window, back to her, a silhouette against the blood-red light cast by the stained-glass faces of his dead rivals. He didn’t turn.
“He touched my wrist,” she said, her voice trembling with a fury so pure it felt like clarity. “And talked about the architecture of my hips. In front of my father. Who laughed.”
Jafar remained still for a heartbeat, then two. When he turned, his face was a mask of calm assessment, but his eyes were black pits, absorbing the light in the room. “Faisal performed as expected?”
“He was drunk on your special wine by midday. He wept about his prince’s loneliness. His need for a ‘spirited’ companion. Then he bragged about the northern lodge. Called it a ‘sanctuary for refined tastes.’ He said the prince found court-trained servants ‘too compliant.’ He prefers the… challenge of the untamed.” The words tasted like ash. “It was all I could do not to break the carafe over his head.”
A muscle jumped in Jafar’s jaw. “Good. That’s enough. The rumor will spread. A carefully placed word to the right imam, a horrified whisper in the merchant’s quarter. The prince’s reputation here will curdle before he even sets sail for the wedding.” He finally moved toward her, his gaze sweeping over her from head to toe, as if checking for damage. “You did perfectly.”
His praise was a cold compress on a burn. It helped, but it didn’t reach the deeper heat. The violation of the afternoon pooled in her core, a toxic sludge that needed to be scoured out.
“He looked at me like I was a thing he’d already purchased,” she spat, tearing at the elaborate pearl-tipped pins in her hair. They clattered like fallen teeth on the stone floor. “And I had to smile. I had to thank him for his poetry.”
Jafar was close now. He caught her frantic hands, stilling them. His touch was cool, dry. “He is nothing. A soon-to-be-crippled dog, barking from across the sea. His opinions are irrelevant.”
“They don’t feel irrelevant!” She wrenched her hands free, pushing against his chest. It was like pushing a stone wall. “I feel filthy. I feel owned by every one of his looks.”
“You are not.”
“Then make me not!” Her voice cracked. The frenzy was on her, a wild, scrabbling need to be rewritten, to have the prince’s gaze scraped off her by a sharper, more consuming claim. She grabbed the front of his obsidian-black robes, fisting the fabric. “Fuck me. Right here. Right now. Make me forget he even has a name.”
She crushed her mouth to his. It wasn’t a kiss; it was an assault, a desperate transfer of her rage and disgust. She bit his lower lip, tasting copper. Her hands scrambled for his belt.
He let her kiss him for a moment, his own mouth unyielding. Then his hands came up, not to embrace her, but to frame her face, holding her still with an immovable pressure. He broke the kiss, putting a scant inch between their lips. His breathing was even. Hers was a ragged sawing in her throat.
“No,” he said, quietly.
The word hung in the incense-thick air. She stared at him, stunned.
“What?”
“I said no.” His thumbs stroked her cheekbones, a bizarrely tender gesture that contradicted the iron lock of his fingers. “Look around, Princess. The floor is stone. The only furniture is that desk, which is covered in scrolls and astrolabes, and that chest, which is full of things you don’t want to know about. This is not a place for what you’re asking.”
“I don’t care about the floor!”
“You would,” he said, his voice low and utterly rational. “Your first time would be here, on cold, hard stone, in a room that smells of burnt offerings and paranoia? With you coming to me because some pig-eyed prince made you feel small?” He shook his head, a slow, deliberate negation. “No. That is not how this happens.”
Tears of frustration welled in her eyes, hot and humiliating. “You don’t want me.”
A dark, humorless chuckle escaped him. “I want you so much it feels like a chronic illness. I think about the exact sound you made when you came on my tongue last night while I’m listening to your father prattle on about irrigation. I am hard for you right now, just from the taste of your anger on my lip.” He shifted her grip, pressing her hand against the front of his trousers. The rigid, thick length of him burned through the fabric. She gasped. “Feel that? That is not disinterest. That is a strategic delay.”
Her fingers curled around him instinctively, squeezing. He hissed, a sharp intake of breath, and his eyelids lowered for a second. But his grip on her face tightened. “Stop.”
“Why?” she challenged, her thumb rubbing a slow circle over the head of his cock, mapping its shape through the wool.
“Because you’re trying to use me as a washcloth. To clean off his stain. I won’t be that.” He pulled her hand away, but didn’t release it. “The first time I am inside you, you will be thinking of me. Of us. Of the empire we are building. Not of him. Do you understand?”
The logic was infuriating. It was also, in some cold, deep part of her, profoundly respectful. It didn’t calm the frenzy, but it channeled it, gave it a new shape.
“Then what?” she whispered, the fight bleeding out of her, leaving her shaking. “What do I do with this… this feeling?”
He studied her, his dark eyes reading every tremor. Then he turned, still holding her hand, and walked backward until his legs hit the edge of the heavy wooden desk. He sat, scattering a few scrolls. He pulled her to him, settling her between his spread knees.
“This,” he said.
He kissed her again, but this time it was different. This was not a concession to her frenzy. This was a reclamation. His mouth was slow, deep, and demanding. He licked the sting from her bitten lip, then plunged his tongue past her teeth, mapping the interior of her mouth with a thorough, possessive sweep that made her whimper. His hands slid down her back, over the intricate embroidery of her gown, coming to rest on the curve of her ass. He pulled her firmly against the solid ridge in his trousers, grinding her against him in a slow, dirty rhythm.
The friction, even through their layers of clothing, was devastating. It was a promise, not a fulfillment, and the denial made it somehow more potent. Her earlier anger melted, reforming into a blunt, desperate ache. She rutted against him, her hands clutching at his shoulders.
“That’s it,” he murmured against her mouth. “Use me. But for the right reasons.”
His fingers found the fastenings of her gown, working them with an efficient ease that spoke of a lifetime mastering intricate mechanisms. The heavy fabric loosened. He pushed it down her shoulders, baring her to the waist. The air in the tower was cool, and her nipples puckered instantly. He broke the kiss to look down, his gaze hot and heavy.
“Beautiful,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. He palmed one breast, his thumb scraping over the tight peak. Then he bent his head and took it into his mouth, sucking deep and hard. The pull connected directly to the throbbing between her legs. She cried out, her fingers spearing into his oil-smooth hair, holding him to her.
He switched to the other breast, lavishing it with the same focused attention, biting gently, soothing with his tongue. All the while, his other hand was busy, hiking up the many layers of her skirts. The cool air hit her thighs, then his warm hand was there, sliding up the inside of her leg, pushing her undergarments aside.
His fingertips found her wet, swollen flesh. He groaned, the vibration against her breast shooting straight to her core. “Soaked,” he breathed. “All for me. Not for him.”
“Only you,” she gasped, the truth of it absolute.
He kissed a wet trail back up to her mouth as his fingers began to explore. One long finger circled her entrance, gathering her slickness, before pushing slowly inside. Her inner muscles clenched around the intrusion, so tight it was almost painful. He stilled, letting her adjust.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice rough.
She nodded, frantic. “More.”
He added a second finger, stretching her, his palm rocking against her clit with each deliberate thrust. The fullness was immense, shocking. His thumb found the slick, desperate bundle of nerves and pressed, not rubbing, just holding a firm, perfect pressure. He was watching her face, his own a mask of intense concentration, as if memorizing every flinch, every gasp.
“You’re so tight,” he gritted out, his own breath coming faster now. His fingers curled inside her, finding a spot that made her vision stutter. “Gods, you’re going to feel incredible.”
His words, filthy and specific, undid her as much as his touch. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, her hips rocking in time with his thrusting fingers. The climb was steep and fast, a direct line from the humiliation of the afternoon to this blinding, singular point.
“Come on,” he urged, his lips against her ear. His voice was a low, relentless command. “Let it go. Come all over my fingers. Show me what’s mine.”
His thumb pressed harder. His fingers curled again, stroking that deep, secret place. The orgasm ripped through her with violent suddenness, a silent scream trapped in her lungs as her body convulsed around his hand. Wave after wave of sensation left her limp, held upright only by his arm around her waist and his fingers still working gently inside her, milking the last of the spasms.
She went boneless against him, her head lolling on his shoulder. He held her there, his face pressed into her unbound hair, his own breathing harsh. She could still feel the hard, insistent line of his erection against her hip. She moved her hand weakly, trying to touch him.
He caught her wrist. “Don’t.”
“But you didn’t…”
“This wasn’t for me,” he said, his voice muffled in her hair. He slowly, carefully, withdrew his fingers from her. The sensation made her shiver. He brought his hand to his mouth, his dark eyes holding hers, and slowly licked her wetness from his fingers. The obscene intimacy of the act sent a fresh, weak jolt through her spent body.
“That,” he said, “is all I need right now.”
He held her for long minutes as the crimson light from the windows deepened toward twilight. Her breathing settled. The phantom scent of rose attar was gone, replaced by him—myrrh, ink, sweat, and her.
Eventually, he helped her straighten her clothes, his movements methodical, his fingers deft on the fastenings. He was the Grand Vizier again, assembling a crucial asset. When she was put back together, at least on the outside, he placed a finger under her chin, tilting her face up.
“The prince departs in three days. Before he leaves, he will have a final audience with your father to formally accept the betrothal terms. He will not get that far.”
“How?”
A slow, sharp smile touched Jafar’s lips, devoid of any warmth. “Faisal, in his grief over a failed mission, will be discovered in a most compromising situation. One that even the Prince of Parthavis cannot explain away. The scandal will demand the prince leave immediately. The betrothal will be suspended indefinitely, pending ‘further investigation.’”
“What situation?”
“Leave the details to me.” He smoothed a stray hair from her forehead. “Your part is done. Be the relieved, slightly scandalized princess. Mourn your near-miss. Comfort your father. And stay out of dark corridors until the prince’s ship has vanished beyond the horizon.”
She searched his face. The man who had just brought her to shuddering climax with his fingers was now discussing political ruin with chilling detachment. They were the same man. She understood that now, completely.
“And after he’s gone?” she asked.
His smile widened, finally reaching his eyes, turning them into glinting shards of onyx. “After he’s gone,” he said softly, his thumb tracing her lower lip, “we discuss the floor.”