He was sitting on the bed, wearing his gear, as if he had just come from a fight, and his hair was tousled, the dim light from the window illuminating shadows under his eyes, the hollows of his temples, the bones of his cheeks. In this light he had the extreme and almost unreal beauty of a Modigliani painting, all elongated planes and angles.
She rubbed at her eyes, blinking away sleep. "What time is it?" she said. "How long-"
He pulled her toward him and kissed her, and for a moment she froze, suddenly very conscious that all she was wearing was a thin T-shirt and underwear. Then she went boneless against him. It was the sort of lingering kiss that turned her insides to water. The sort of kiss that might have made her feel that nothing was wrong, that things were as they had been before, and he was only glad to see her. But when his hands went to lift the hem of her T-shirt, she pushed them away.
"No," she said, her fingers wrapped around his wrists. "You can't just keep grabbing at me every time you see me. It's not a substitute for actually talking."
He took a ragged breath and said, "Why did you text Isabelle instead of me? If you were in trouble-"
"Because I knew she'd come," said Clary. "And I don't know that about you. Not right now."
"If something had happened to you-"
"Then I guess you would have heard about it eventually. You know, when you deigned to actually pick up the phone." She was still holding his wrists; she let go of them now, and sat back. It was hard, physically hard, to be close to him like this and not touch him, but she forced her hands down by her sides and kept them there. "Either you tell me what's wrong, or you can get out of the room."
His lips parted, but he said nothing; she didn't think she'd spoken to him this harshly in a long time. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I mean, I know, with the way I've been acting, you've got no reason to listen to me. And I probably shouldn't have come in here. But when Isabelle said you were hurt, I couldn't stop myself."
"Some burns," Clary said. "Nothing that matters."
"Everything that happens to you matters to me."
"Well, that certainly explains why you haven't called me back once. And the last time I saw you, you ran away without telling me why. It's like dating a ghost."
Jace's mouth quirked up slightly at the side. "Not exactly. Isabelle actually dated a ghost. She could tell you-"
"No," Clary said. "It was a metaphor. And you know exactly what I mean."
For a moment he was silent. Then he said, "Let me see the burns."
She held out her arms. There were harsh red splotches on the insides of her wrists where the demon's blood had spattered. He took her wrists, very lightly, looking at her for permission first, and turned them over. She remembered the first time he had touched her, in the street outside Java Jones, searching her hands for Marks she didn't have. "Demon blood," he said. "They'll go away in a few hours. Do they hurt?"
Clary shook her head.
"I didn't know," he said. "I didn't know you needed me."
Her voice shook. "I always need you."
He bent his head and kissed the burn on her wrist. A flare of heat coursed through her, like a hot spike that went from her wrist to the pit of her stomach. "I didn't realize," he said. He kissed the next burn, on her forearm, and then the next, moving up her arm to her shoulder, the pressure of his body bearing her back until she was lying against the pillows, looking up at him. He propped himself on his elbows so as not to crush her with his weight and looked down at her.
