Desperate Measures: A Wicked Villains Novel

by Katee Robert

  “Prove it.”

  Understanding washes over me. He’s reminding me of my safe word, of the full stop that comes when he pushes too hard and I need an exit hatch. I stare up at him, at war with myself. I want him. How could I not want Jafar? He’s gorgeous and dangerous and forbidden in a way that tempts me all the more.

  He’s also put me in a cage the exact same way my father did. The only difference is the size and the rules that go with it.

  In that moment, I truly do hate him. Just a little. “Rajah.” The word is barely more than a whisper, but he instantly drops his hand and steps away, putting space between us that I’m still not sure I want.

  It’s too late, though. I’ve made my choice.

  “Goodnight, Jasmine.” He walks through the door without looking back.

  Power and disappointment are strange bedfellows, but they are the twin emotions coursing through me. I knew he would stop, of course. But I can’t figure out the tangle of emotions twisting through me, and suddenly I’m too tired to even try.

  I stumble back to the bed and burrow under the covers. Tomorrow, everything will be clearer.

  Tomorrow, I won’t regret the choice I just made.

  Most likely.

  Chapter 5

  Jasmine

  Jafar’s gone when I wake. This time, there’s no denying the disappointment. I’m a fool and a half for wanting him, for wanting to spend time with him, but I can’t control my emotions. If that was possible, I’d be tempted to banish them completely.

  I wander into the kitchen in search of coffee and find a pot waiting for me. The fridge contains my favorite creamer, newly purchased by the expiration date. I hadn’t realized he noticed such small details. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen Jafar in the morning before.

  Not that it’s morning now. I’ve slept past noon.

  Next to the coffee maker is a sticky note with a schedule written on it in short, bold strokes.

  2 P.M. - Stylist

  8 P.M. - Be ready

  Just that. Nothing more. Then again, I suppose I don’t need to know more. As much as I want to bar the door against the stylist out of spite, the truth is that I need clothing. It’s the only armor I’ve ever owned, and being without has me on edge.

  I check the clock. I have enough time to shower and get ready to meet this stylist. Putting even that much effort exhausts me, but I can’t afford to waver now. Not when I don’t know what tonight—what the future—will bring. I need every weapon at my disposal.

  An hour and a half later, I’m wrapped in a short robe nearly identical to the one Jafar ruined the night before, my hair done and my makeup impeccable. It doesn’t escape my notice that Jafar had the bathroom stocked with my brands, all shiny and new.

  He planned this.

  I knew, of course. Jafar isn’t one to leave anything to chance. But knowing that he ordered this room outfitted for me … I can’t tell if I like it or loathe it. It seems to be an overarching theme when it comes to me and Jafar.

  The stylist shows up early.

  She’s a short, curvy woman with a pixie cut of blond hair and an attitude that conveys an instant chip in her shoulder. Her high-waisted trousers and fitted white blouse look classy and sexy at the same time, and she raises a single pierced eyebrow when she sees me. “Dear god, we have so much work to do.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No need to excuse anything, princess.” She turns back to the elevator and snaps her fingers. Two hulking men wheel out rack after rack of clothing in a rainbow of colors. Another snap of her fingers and they disappear back into the elevator.

  I can’t tell if they’re her men or Jafar’s, but they obeyed her without blinking. I envy her that power. My father’s men only ever obeyed me out of fear of him. I imagine Jafar’s men will do the same. Never because of the threat I pose or the power I wield.

  She arranges the racks in the living room and then points to a spot in the center. “Stand here. Robe off.”

  I don’t move. I may bend to Jafar because I have no choice, but this woman is under the mistaken impression than I’m a cowering flower just waiting to be trampled. “Some courtesy would do you good.”

  The blonde rolls her green eyes. “Yeah, that isn’t how this works. I’m the best at what I do, and being the best means you listen to me, not the other way around.” She pointed to the spot again and injected enough sugar into her tone to give me a cavity. “Unless you’d rather walk around naked?”

  She has me cornered and she knows it. I grit my teeth. I know better than to bargain from a weak position where I have nothing to gain and everything to lose. This is just a job to her. “If you don’t dress me, you don’t get paid.”

  “Cute.” She smirks. “Contract says I get half up front. You throw a hissy fit, that money’s still mine and I have a free afternoon. You don’t have the leverage, so you might as well give it up now.”

  I hate that she’s right.

  I stalk to the spot she indicated and shrug out of the robe. The woman whistles. “No wonder Jafar lost his godforsaken mind over you.” She circles me, his gaze calculating. “Jewel tones, yes. Look at that shade of brown skin. Perfect. Just perfect.” As if I’m a piece of art, rather than a person.

  I’ve botched this. I need allies, not enemies. I take a deep breath and do my best to banish my anger. It’s not even directed at her, not really. She’s just a convenient target that turned out to be not that convenient. “I’m Jasmine.”

  “I know.” She rifles through the first rack. “I’m Tink. No, we can’t be friends. No, I don’t have any useful information for you to mine. No, I won’t do anything to compromise my contract.”

  Well, so much for that offer of an olive branch. Strangely enough, her abruptness has already started to grow on me. She’s like being slapped in the face with an Arctic wind—cold and bitter and somehow refreshing all the same. “You have a contract with Jafar?”

  She shoots me an exasperated look. “No, of course not. Who the hell has contracts with Jafar?” At my look of confusion, she frowns harder. “Holy crap, you really have no idea how this works, do you?”

  “It might help if you explain,” I say mildly.

  Tink lifts up a red dress that seems more holes than fabric. She holds it up, nods to herself and sets it aside. “Not my job, princess.”

  “I’m not a princess.”

  “You’re Jasmine Sarraf, daughter of Balthazar Sarraf. That’s as close to royalty as it gets in Carver City. At least in Sarraf’s piece of it.”

  It’s not a point I’m willing to argue, because she’s right. “How do you know Jafar?”

  “Other than by reputation, I don’t.” She considers a green dress and puts it back onto the rack. Tink looks at me and sighs. “I’m not a comforter. We’re not going to bond over our mutually shitty circumstances and become besties in the course of a few hours while I do the job I was hired to do. That’s not how this works.”

  Silly to feel a sting over that realization. Sillier still to be so desperate for companionship that I reach out to anyone unconnected with my father who crosses my path. I sigh. “I won’t put you in the difficult position of making small talk, then.”

  A ghost of a smile pulls at Tink’s full lips. She really is a cute little thing, and full of the attitude of someone ten times her size. “You can small talk all you want. I just want to make it clear that I want no part of some harebrained escape scheme you’re no doubt coming up with as we speak.”

  Curiosity sparks in me, a welcome relief to the confusion and anger. “Do your clients often come up with harebrained escape schemes?”

  “My clients? No. Their women—and men, in some cases? Almost always.” She shrugs. “The world is a strange place sometimes.”

  “Apparently.” Oh yes, I’m curious now. I accept the red dress she hands me and pull it on. As Tink moves around me again, this time with pins and a concentrated expression, I can’t help but ask my next question. “Have you ever been te
mpted to help?”

  “Once,” she answers around the pins in her mouth and then uses one to nip in the waist of the dress. “It didn’t end well. Not for me, and not for them.” She pins the other side and stands back. “Oh yeah, I’m good.”

  I look down my body. The red dress clings to me like a second skin, dipping down low between my breasts and even lower in the back. It’s slit up both sides nearly to the hip. “It’s indecent.”

  “Exactly.” She frowns and adjusts the front of it, business-like despite the fact she has her hands all over my breasts. “You’ll need tape for this.” She frowns hard. “Then again, if you’re going to The Underworld, tape is a shitty ass idea. Someone will end up ripping it off and then you’ll have sore nips.”

  I blink. “I think you’ll need to run that past me again.”

  Tink starts to laugh, but the sound dies almost immediately. Her green eyes go wide. “The Underworld. Carver City’s worst kept secret, the sex dungeon to end all sex dungeons? The place where most of the business in this godsforsaken city goes down?”

  I’ve never heard of such a thing. I know what sex dungeons are—I do read—but only in the most fictional sense. I had no idea that one existed in my city. Though, can it really be considered my city if I’ve never set foot in it? Jafar’s penthouse might stand in what appears to be downtown, but it hardly counts as visiting. My father’s home definitely doesn’t count.

  “Off with the dress.” She gives an impatient motion with her fingers. Everything about Tink radiates impatience, but I suspect it’s nothing personal. I should have recognized that from the beginning.

  I carefully extract myself from the dress and pull on the next one she shoves into my hands. It’s black and feels wicked against my skin. The V on this one isn’t quite as deep, but it’s short enough that I can’t stop myself from tugging at the hem.

  “Stop that.” She smacks my hands. “You look uncomfortable and uncomfortable is not sexy. Confidence is sexy.”

  “I’m aware of that,” I bite out. “Flashing my pussy at everyone I come into contact isn’t my idea of a good time.”

  “You’re missing out.” She tugs the dress a little and nods to herself. “This one won’t need adjusting. Good. You’ve got a rocking bod, princess.”

  That almost sounded like a compliment. “Thanks?”

  “Nothing wrong with some of the stick-thin models I style. But nice to have a woman with actual flesh on her body for a change of pace.”

  I’m still not sure if she’s complimenting me. I’m not sure it matters. I’ll never be model thin. It’s not something I ever aspired to. I’ve kept myself fit enough that my father wasn’t making constant dark comments about my weight, but I like my curves. They aren’t as generous as Tink’s, but they exist.

  Why do I care what this woman thinks of me and my body?

  I push the thought away, already knowing I won’t find the answer appealing. “Tell me about the Underworld.”

  “Not much to tell. It’s your typical classy joint, except people go there to fuck in kinky ways. Some of them are employed by the dungeon. Some of them are patrons.”

  “Is Jafar a patron?” I shake my head. “What am I saying? He must be if we’re going there.”

  “Mmm.”

  Not an answer, but it turns out I don’t need one.

  At her motion, I exchange the black dress for a deep jade green one. And on it goes. Tink dodges most of my questions, but halfway through our time together, she actually stops insulting me. Progress, but I have the sinking feeling that I won’t be seeing much of her in the future. How often does one need a stylist?

  More accurately—how often does an owned woman need a stylist?

  We finally settle on six dresses. They’re all beautiful in their own way, and every single one of them would give my father a stroke if he saw them. The thought brings me a spiteful kind of pleasure, and I can’t bring myself to feel guilty for it.

  It’s only as she’s packing up that I realize what I’m missing. “We forgot underwear. And night clothes. And jeans.” Something to wear in public.

  “I didn’t forget shit.” For the first time since she walked through the door, she won’t quite meet my gaze. “I brought what was ordered.”

  A kept pet has no need of underclothes or nightgowns or, apparently, street clothes. I pull my robe more firmly around my body and sink onto the couch. “I really am a caged bird, aren’t I?” At least in my father’s house, I could walk the grounds, could feel the open sky overhead, could pretend that the walls weren’t really holding me captive.

  I have no such option in Jafar’s penthouse.

  Tink hesitates and then moves closer. She looks up at me. “Look, you seem like you’re not completely the worst.”

  “Thank you?”

  “You’re welcome,” she says it without the least bit of sarcasm. “If you really want out of this thing with Jafar, you can make a deal with Hades. I can’t say I recommend it, so you’d have to be hella desperate to go that route, but it’s an option.”

  I swear, half the time this woman sounds like she’s speaking nonsense. “Make a deal with Hades.”

  “He rules The Underworld. And yes, rules is the right word. He’s a wily bastard, so don’t let him catch you flat-footed.” Something there in her expression makes me think that she was caught flat-footed, that she made a deal with this Hades.

  How badly do I want to be out from Jafar’s control?

  Even if Hades was able to give me my freedom, I’ll still be in the same predicament I would have if I took Jafar’s deal. Freedom, but with no path forward. No money, no home, no skills. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She shakes her head and finishing lining up her racks by the elevator. “Remember, princess. Confidence.”

  Something I had in spades in my father’s home. At least when it came to dealing with other people. Never him. A confident daughter is one who needs to be reminded of her place.

  I hate that his voice rattles around in my head despite my best efforts. He might have clothed and fed me, might have ensured I wanted for nothing, but he kept me from everything that mattered. Human companionship. Friends. Love. It might have been enough if he allowed me a real role in the business, but I was kept even from that. I’m his only child, and I should have been his heir.

  I would have been if I was a son.

  As a result of how tightly he kept me locked down, I’m as awkward as a child trying to learn to walk. I should be better than this. I can be better than this. “Tink?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Would you—” Confident, Jasmine. “I’m going to need your services again. In a couple days. We’ll have lunch and talk about the designs I’m thinking of.”

  She tilts her head to the side and studies me. “I’m expensive. You can’t afford me.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  She shrugs. “Then it’s a deal. I’ll be back at noon on Monday or Tuesday.” She pulls a card out of her purse and passes it to me. It only has her first name and a phone number. “Call me after you’ve talked to him.”

  My face flames at the reminder that I have nothing without Jafar’s permission, but I fully intend to extract a promise from him to allow this. It’s the least he can do after everything I’ve given up.

  Everything you wanted to give up.

  I ignore the voice. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me.” Again, she hesitates. “Wear the long red one tonight. It’ll cause a riot.”

  I manage a smile. “I will.”

  The elevator doors open and the same men emerge to wheel her racks away. She doesn’t look at me as the doors close, whisking her away.

  I’m alone again.

  After my entire life spent like this, I should be used to it. I had nannies and then tutors when I was a child, but all that stopped when I hit eighteen and gained my diploma. A woman only needs to know so much in order to play the role of wi
fe, and that’s all my father ever intended for me. He never wanted to hear about my ideas of bringing our business into the future, to utilize technology for our benefit. He never wanted to hear a single word out of my mouth except, “Yes, Father.”

  I take the dresses into my room and hang them up. They look absolutely absurd in the giant closet. A handful of bright colors against so much empty space. A quick check of the clock tells me that I have hours yet.

  I could stay here and feel sorry for myself, or I could go explore the boundaries of my cage. Jafar said I have access to the top two floors, but he also said he owns the whole building. I’m sure someone will stop me if I try to move outside my confines, but I have to try. If only to see exactly where the perimeter of my limited freedom stands.

  None of the dresses are suited for casual wear, but my only other option is the robe, which doesn’t cover nearly enough of me. Yes, Jafar and I will be exchanging words once he comes back to the penthouse tonight.

  I finally dress in the least revealing of the bunch, which really isn’t saying anything. It’s a deep purple dress that clasps around my neck like a collar and hugs every inch of me in the front, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. It dips low in the back and, like the red number, it has slits all the way up almost to the top of my hips. Sexy? Yes. Appropriate? Not in the least.

  I step into the elevator and press the button for the bottom floor.

  Nothing happens.

  Second floor.

  Same response.

  I narrow my eyes. That son of a bitch. I start punching numbers, but nothing happens until I get to the nineteenth floor—the one directly below the penthouse. “I’m going to kill him.”

  The nineteenth floor is a smorgasbord of things designed to entertain. I find a small theater room with comfy reclining seats and a selection of movies large enough to keep me occupied for years. There’s a small bar with a vast array of alcohols. A gym. A library. And a pool.

  What it’s noticeably lacking is people.

  “A cage, indeed.” A feeling in my chest, a fluttering like a bird that’s had its wings clipped. Trapped. I am trapped. I may have been able to ignore the truth for the last eighteen hours or so, but I can’t do it any longer.