hands were blue and bleeding, her lips cracked, her lungs seared with each icy breath.
“Jace,” she whispered.
And he was there, lifting her to her feet, his wings wrapping around her, and she was warm again, her body thawing from her heart down through her veins, bringing her hands and feet to life with half-painful, half-pleasurable tingles. “Clary,” he said, stroking her hair tenderly. “Can you promise me that you won’t scream?”
Clary’s eyes opened. For a moment she was so disoriented that the world seemed to swing around her like the view from a moving carousel. She was in her bedroom at Luke’s—the familiar futon beneath her, the wardrobe with its cracked mirror, the strip of windows that looked out onto the East River, the radiator spitting and hissing. Dim light spilled through the windows, and a faint red glow came from the smoke alarm over the closet. Clary was lying on her side, under a heap of blankets, and her back was deliciously warm. An arm was draped along her side. For a moment, in the half-conscious dizzy space between waking and sleeping, she wondered if Simon had crawled in the window while she slept and lain down beside her, the way they used to sleep in the same bed together when they were children.
But Simon had no body heat.
Her heart skittered in her chest. Now entirely awake, she twisted around under the covers. Beside her was Jace, lying on his side, looking down at her, his head propped on his hand.Dim moonlight made a halo out of his hair, and his eyes glittered gold like a cat’s. He was fully dressed, still wearing the short-sleeved white T-shirt she had seen him in earlier that day, and his bare arms were twined with runes like climbing vines.
She sucked in a startled breath. Jace, her Jace, had never looked at her like that. He had looked at her with desire, but not with this lazy, predatory, consuming look that made her heart pulse unevenly in her chest.
She opened her mouth—to say his name or to scream, she wasn’t sure, and she never got the chance to find out; Jace moved so fast she didn’t even see it. One moment he was lying beside her, and the next he was on top of her, one hand clamped down over her mouth. His legs straddled her hips; she could feel his lean, muscled body pressed against hers.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I’d never hurt you. But I don’t want you screaming. I need to talk to you.”
She glared at him.
To her surprise he laughed. His familiar laugh, hushed to a whisper. “I can read your expressions, Clary Fray. The minute I take my hand off your mouth, you’re going to yell. Or use your training and break my wrists. Come on, promise me you won’t. Swear on the Angel.”
This time she rolled her eyes.
“Okay, you’re right,” he said. “You can’t exactly swear with my hand over your mouth. I’m going to take it off. And if you yell—” He tilted his head to the side; pale gold hair fell across his eyes. “I’ll disappear.”
He took his hand away. She lay still, breathing hard, the pressure of his body on hers. She knew he was faster than her,that there was no move she could make that he wouldn’t outpace, but for the moment he seemed to be treating their interaction as a game, something playful. He bent closer to her, and she realized her tank top had pulled up, and she could feel the muscles of his flat, hard stomach against her bare skin. Her face flushed.
Despite the heat in her face, it felt as if cold needles of ice were running up and down her veins. “What are you doing here?”
He drew back slightly, looking disappointed. “That isn’t really an answer to my question, you know. I was expecting more of a ‘Hallelujah Chorus.’ I mean, it’s not every day your boyfriend comes back from the dead.”
“I already knew you weren’t dead.” She spoke through numb lips. “I saw you in the library. With—”
“Colonel Mustard?”
“Sebastian.”
He let his breath out in a low
“Jace,” she whispered.
And he was there, lifting her to her feet, his wings wrapping around her, and she was warm again, her body thawing from her heart down through her veins, bringing her hands and feet to life with half-painful, half-pleasurable tingles. “Clary,” he said, stroking her hair tenderly. “Can you promise me that you won’t scream?”
Clary’s eyes opened. For a moment she was so disoriented that the world seemed to swing around her like the view from a moving carousel. She was in her bedroom at Luke’s—the familiar futon beneath her, the wardrobe with its cracked mirror, the strip of windows that looked out onto the East River, the radiator spitting and hissing. Dim light spilled through the windows, and a faint red glow came from the smoke alarm over the closet. Clary was lying on her side, under a heap of blankets, and her back was deliciously warm. An arm was draped along her side. For a moment, in the half-conscious dizzy space between waking and sleeping, she wondered if Simon had crawled in the window while she slept and lain down beside her, the way they used to sleep in the same bed together when they were children.
But Simon had no body heat.
Her heart skittered in her chest. Now entirely awake, she twisted around under the covers. Beside her was Jace, lying on his side, looking down at her, his head propped on his hand.Dim moonlight made a halo out of his hair, and his eyes glittered gold like a cat’s. He was fully dressed, still wearing the short-sleeved white T-shirt she had seen him in earlier that day, and his bare arms were twined with runes like climbing vines.
She sucked in a startled breath. Jace, her Jace, had never looked at her like that. He had looked at her with desire, but not with this lazy, predatory, consuming look that made her heart pulse unevenly in her chest.
She opened her mouth—to say his name or to scream, she wasn’t sure, and she never got the chance to find out; Jace moved so fast she didn’t even see it. One moment he was lying beside her, and the next he was on top of her, one hand clamped down over her mouth. His legs straddled her hips; she could feel his lean, muscled body pressed against hers.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I’d never hurt you. But I don’t want you screaming. I need to talk to you.”
She glared at him.
To her surprise he laughed. His familiar laugh, hushed to a whisper. “I can read your expressions, Clary Fray. The minute I take my hand off your mouth, you’re going to yell. Or use your training and break my wrists. Come on, promise me you won’t. Swear on the Angel.”
This time she rolled her eyes.
“Okay, you’re right,” he said. “You can’t exactly swear with my hand over your mouth. I’m going to take it off. And if you yell—” He tilted his head to the side; pale gold hair fell across his eyes. “I’ll disappear.”
He took his hand away. She lay still, breathing hard, the pressure of his body on hers. She knew he was faster than her,that there was no move she could make that he wouldn’t outpace, but for the moment he seemed to be treating their interaction as a game, something playful. He bent closer to her, and she realized her tank top had pulled up, and she could feel the muscles of his flat, hard stomach against her bare skin. Her face flushed.
Despite the heat in her face, it felt as if cold needles of ice were running up and down her veins. “What are you doing here?”
He drew back slightly, looking disappointed. “That isn’t really an answer to my question, you know. I was expecting more of a ‘Hallelujah Chorus.’ I mean, it’s not every day your boyfriend comes back from the dead.”
“I already knew you weren’t dead.” She spoke through numb lips. “I saw you in the library. With—”
“Colonel Mustard?”
“Sebastian.”
He let his breath out in a low
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