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"No." Her hand stills Genie's arm. "There is too much of a risk that it will be found. Let me take it somewhere in the Palace, lock it up."
He hesitates, then slowly nods and hands over the lamp to her. The sleek black surface is hot to the touch, uncomfortable but not quite painful.
Aladdin offers to come with her. She replies that the fewer people know where it is, the better.
"You are my genie. You will obey me."
He tries to loom over her, all red smoke and fire in his eyes. She's had more than enough practice of staring him down.
"For a first... I wish that none save me will ever be able to find this room."
A roar of defiance, but then his cuffs flash white-hot and with a wave of his clawed hand the room shimmers. The hairs on the back of her arms stand on end.
"Second. I wish that you will place yourself in chains against the wall, chains which will never break nor cease to hold you."
"How dare you?" he roars, but before he can say anything more shackles are wrapping themselves to his mighty wrists, bringing him down to barely more than human size. The genie writhes and tugs against his chains, and for a moment she is content to just watch him, to hear his screams.
"And finally," she says, her voice almost trembling with anticipation. "Jafar, I wish for you to be a normal, powerless human again."
His scream echoes through her hidden room.
"No Prince will ever want a whore," he whispered in her ear, his voice thick with lust. "Not even one who is a princess."
She bit into her pillow against the pain, the snake-head of his staff stabbing into the back of her neck as... she did not think of what he did.
"You will be mine, Jasmine," he promised as he came.
Every man in her life thinks her weak, to one extent or another. Because she is a woman, because she is a Princess, because her hands are soft and her hair is glossy and she is lithe to the touch. They think that she has never faced anything worse than having to marry a man whom she does not love.
There are many women who do that, many people of all types and ages who face far worse than a marriage which could, at best, be a fair companionship.
Jasmine takes the first knife into her hand, and it feels fitting to cut the goatee from Jafar's chin. This time when she curls her fingers into it, she pulls it taut first, to hear him grunt with pain.
He imagined, no doubt, that she did not know what happened whilst her body was under the control of his staff. But she could not forget.
When she was thirteen years old, and had for the first time bled, she could not forget when he pinned her to the wall and thrust the staff before her eyes. She could not react, no, that was true, nor could she respond of her own will. She could only watch through a window of her own eyes.
She could not scream as he took her to her bed and left her blood on the sheets.
She cuts the clothes from his body, effortlessly, a simple flick of her wrist enough. When he shouts at her to stop, she slashes him across the lips, whispers to him that it would have been his throat were it not for the fact that she would have him alive a little longer yet.
Seeing as his arms are above his head, she figures that would be a good place to start.
She has always hated his fingers.
He always liked to use his fingers first, one hand in her hair, the other fucking her hard even when she screamed or gagged or threatened him. Later -- when she was older, braver, less innocent -- she would sneer that it was because his cock was not up to the job.
It was a response to that which had him tie her down, gag her, beat her until her skin flowered with bruises and used the foot of his staff in a new way. She had screamed her throat raw.
Every time, his magic could hide the marks.
She breaks the bones in his hands one by one, taking time over them. When he screams again she shoves the knife into his mouth, almost lazily, and leaves him choking and spitting out blood as she slits the flesh on his fingers to see the bones beneath.
Some of the books in her father's library have the most fascinating pictures.
Her father thought that a tiger was not suitable for a girl of her age, but she insisted. As Rajah grew ever larger, she hoped that it would keep Jafar away.
His magic was more than enough to put the tiger to sleep.
She leaves him for the first night, washes her hands and arms clean of the blood and leaves him weak and trembling in his chains, blood dripping from his mouth even now. Goes to dinner, and celebrates with the others, and kisses Aladdin beneath the fireworks that burst in the sky.
She has never felt so free.
He liked it when she was frightened of him, and she tried not to be, but it was harder with each fresh memory that he thrashed into her. One night he broke her ribs and squeezed her chest to shrink her waist, ignoring how she screamed.
When his magic bound the bones again, they were left permanently out of shape.
The next day she has more time to consider things, although part of her has planned this for so long now that it seems almost a waste. But, after all, in her thoughts she had not known exactly how melted pitch would melt through a man's skin, or what the bed of someone's nails would look like after they have been ripped out. It intrigues her to discover that knees can indeed be bent in the opposite way once the small disc of bone in front of them has been removed.
She has read many things, in some of the hidden books in her father's library. He never did think to check what book it was that she cradled in her lap.
For example, she has read of the fact that cutting horizontally across the arm did not kill quickly. She starts towards the wrists and moves down, just to make sure that he can feel each one clearly.
She has also read that saltwater is a good way to cleanse wounds. She makes sure to inform Jafar of this as she pours hot saltwater over his flesh.
She wears the red outfit. There is the sweetest smile on her face when she says that the blood will not show up so much.
"No man will want a whore," he whispered to her, over and over again, for night upon night for so long now. "Even a Princess."
When he does not ask why she fastidiously counts the cuts that she makes into his torso, she is almost disappointed. He groans as she smears his own foulings into them, bucking against the wall with what strength he has remaining. she wonders whether his shoulders will fully dislocate before he dies.
"I counted," she spits, stabbing the knife through each of his cheeks in turn and feeling his teeth chip. "Every time, I counted."
The count is written on his chest as she washes her hands, leaves the room, and locks the door behind her.
His screams grow faint after a while, as the old pains that have haunted her for years fade from under her skin.
Aladdin asks after the lamp, but only once. She silences him with a kiss.
She tells no-one of the room. Even after the destruction of a genie, their magic can hold. She knows that the room will never be found.