Over the years, many people have asked for
this—Jace’s point of view of the “hot and heavy” scene in THIS GUILTY BLOOD,
Chapter Nine of City of Glass. (Page 206-211 in the American hardback CoG.)
I’ve taken a few liberties here—the scene goes on a few moments past what
happens in the printed version of CoG—but then so did the original draft!
The
bits below in italics are the bits from the original book, to help you mentally
locate the placement of the scene.
Clary heard a sharp pattering noise all around her. For a
bewildered moment she thought it had started to rain—then she realized it was
rubble and dirt and broken glass: the detritus of the shattered manor being
flung down around them like deadly hail.
Jace pressed her harder into the ground, his body flat
against hers, his heartbeat nearly as loud in her ears as the sound of the
manor’s subsiding ruins.
* *
*
Later,
Jace would remember little about the destruction of the Manor itself, the
shattering apart of the only home he’d known until he was ten years old. He
remembered only the fall from the library window, scrambling and rolling down
over the grass, and catching hold of Clary, spinning her down and under him,
covering her with his body while pieces of the Manor rained down around them
like hail.
He
could feel her breathing, feel the racing of her heart. He was reminded of his
falcon, the way it had curled, blind and trusting, in his hand, the rapidity of
its heartbeat. Clary was holding him by the front of the shirt, though he doubt
she realized it, her face against his shoulder; he was desperately afraid that
there wasn’t enough of him, that he couldn’t cover her completely, protect her
entirely. He imagined boulders as big as elephants tumbling across the rocky
ground, ready to crush them both, to crush her. The ground shuddered under them
and he pressed harder against her, as if that might help somehow. It was
magical thinking, he knew, like closing your eyes so you didn’t see the knife
coming at you.
The
roar had faded. He realized to his surprise that he could hear again: small
things, the sound of birds, the air in the trees. Clary’s voice, breathless.
“Jace—I think you dropped your stele somewhere.”
He
drew back and stared down at her. She met his gaze steadily In the moonlight
her green eyes could have been black. Her red hair was full of dust, her face
streaked with soot. He could see the pulse in her throat. He said the first
thing that he could think of, dazed, “I don’t care. As long as you’re not
hurt.”
“I’m
fine.” She reached up, her fingers brushing lightly through his hair; his body,
super-sensitized by adrenalin, felt it like sparks against his skin. “There’s
grass—in your hair,” she said.
There
was worry in her eyes. Worry for him. He remembered the first time he’d kissed
her, in the greenhouse, how he’d finally gotten it, finally understood the way
someone’s mouth against yours could undo you, leave you spinning and
breathless. That all the expertise in the world, any techniques you knew or had
learned, went out the window when it was the right person you were kissing.
Or
the wrong one.
“You
shouldn’t touch me,” he said.
Her
hand froze where it was, her palm against his cheek. “Why not?”
“You
know why. You saw what I saw, didn’t you? The past, the angel. Our parents.”
Her
eyes darkened. “I saw.”
“You
know what happened.”
“A
lot of things happened, Jace—”
“Not
for me.” The words breathed out on an anguished whisper. “I have demon blood,
Clary. Demon blood. You understood that much, didn’t you?”
She
set her chin. He knew how much she disliked the suggestion that she hadn’t
understood something, or didn’t know it, or didn’t need to know it. He loved
that about her and it drove him out of his mind. “It doesn’t mean anything.
Valentine was insane. He was just ranting—”
“And
Jocelyn? Was she insane? I know what Valentine was trying to do. He was trying
to create hybrids—angel/human, and demon/human. You’re the former, Clary, and
I’m the latter. I’m part monster. Part everything I’ve tried so hard to burn
out, to destroy.”
“It’s
not true. It can’t be. It doesn’t make sense—”
“But
it does.” How could she not understand? It seemed so obvious to him, so basic.
“It explains everything.”
“You
mean it explains why you’re such an amazing Shadowhunter? Why you’re loyal and
fearless and honest and everything demons aren’t—”
“It
explains,” he said, evenly, “why I feel the way I do about you.”
Breath
hissed between her teeth. “W do you mean?”
“You’re
my sister,” he said, “My sister, my blood, my family. I should want to protect
you—” he choked on the words—“to protect you from the sort of boys who want to
do to you exactly what I want to do to you.”
He
heard her breath catch. She was still staring up at him, and though he had
expected to see horror in her eyes, some sort of revulsion—for he didn’t think
he’d ever stated so clearly or so tactlessly exactly how he felt—he saw nothing
of the sort. He saw only searching curiosity, as if she were examining the map
of some unknown country.
Almost
absently, she let her fingers trail down his cheek to his lips, outlining the
shape of his mouth with the tip of her index finger, as if she were charting a
course. There was wonder in her eyes. He felt his heart turn over and his body,
ever traitorous, respond to her touch.
“What
is it, exactly, that you want to do to me?” she whispered.
He
could not stop himself. He leaned down, his lips grazing her ear: “I could show
you.”
He
felt her tremble, but despite the shiver in her body, her eyes challenged him.
The adrenaline in his blood, mixed with desire and the recklessness of despair,
made his blood sing. I’ll show her, he thought. Half of him was
convinced she would push him away. The other half was too full of Clary: her
nearness, the feel of her against him—to think straight. “If you want me to
stop, tell me now,” he whispered, and when she said nothing, he brushed his
lips against her hollow of her temple. “Or now.” His mouth found her cheek, the
line of her jaw: he tasted her skin, sweet-salty, dust and desire. “Or now.”
His mouth traced the line of her jaw and she arched up into him, making his
fingers dig into the ground. Her small, panting breaths were driving him crazy,
and he put his mouth over hers to quiet her, whispering, telling, not asking: “Now.”
And
he kissed her. Gently at first, testing, but suddenly her hands were fists in
the back of his shirt, and her softness was pressed against his chest and he
felt the solid earth give way under him as he fell. He was kissing her the way
he’d always wanted to, with a wild and total abandon, his tongue sweeping
inside her mouth to duel with hers, and she was just as bold as he was, tasting
him, exploring his mouth. He reached for the buttons of her coat just as she
bit lightly at his lower lip and his whole body jerked.
She
put her hands over his, and for a moment he was afraid she was going to tell
him to stop, that this was insane, they’d both hate themselves tomorrow. But:
“Let me,” she said, and he went still as she calmly undid the buttons and the
coat fell open. The shirt she was wearing underneath was nearly sheer, and he
could see the shape of her body underneath: the curves of her breasts, the
indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips. He felt dizzy. He’d seen this
much of other girls before, of course he had, but it had never mattered.
And
now nothing else mattered.
She
lifted her arms up, her head thrown back, pleading in her eyes. “Come back,”
she whispered. “Kiss me again.”
He
made a noise he didn’t think he’d ever made before and fell back against her, into
her, kissing her eyelids, lips, throat, the pulse there—his hands slid under
her flimsy shirt and onto the heat of her skin. He was pretty sure all the
blood had left his brain as he fumbled at the clasp of her bra—which was
ridiculous, what was the point of being a Shadowhunter and expert at everything
if you couldn’t figure out the clasp on a bra?—and heard his own soft
exhalation as it came free and his hands were on her bare back, the fragile
shape of her shoulder blades under his palms. Somehow the little noise she made
was more erotic than seeing anyone else naked had ever been.
Her
hands, small and determined, were at the hem of his shirt, tugging it off. He
pushed hers up, around her ribs, wanting more of their skin to be touching. So
this was the difference, he thought. This was what being in love meant. He’d
always prided himself on his technique, on having control, on the response he
could elicit. But that required evaluation, and evaluation required distance,
and there was no distance now. He wanted nothing between himself and Clary.
His
hands found the waistband of her jeans, the shape of her hipbones. He felt her
fingers on his bare back, her the tips finding his scars and tracing them
lightly. He wasn’t sure she knew she was doing it, but she was rolling her hips
against his, making him shaky, making him want to go too fast. He reached down
and fitted her more firmly against him, aligning her hips with his, and felt
her gasp into his mouth. He thought she might pull away, but she slung her leg
over his hip instead, pulling him even closer. For a second, he thought he
might pass out.
“Jace,”
she whispered. She kissed his neck, his collarbone. His hands were on her
waist, moving up over her ribcage. Her skin was amazingly soft. She raised
herself up as he slipped his hands under her bra, and kissed the star-shaped
mark on his shoulder. He was about to ask her if what he was doing was all
right when she drew back from him sharply, with an exclamation of surprise . .
.
* *
*
“What is it?” Jace froze. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. It was this.” She touched the silver chain around
his neck. On its end hung a small silver circle of metal. It had bumped against
her when she’d leaned forward. She stared at it now.
That ring—the weather-beaten metal with its pattern of
stars—she knew that ring.
The Morgenstern ring. It was the same ring that had
gleamed on Valentine’s hand in the dream the angel had showed them. It had been
his, and he had given it to Jace, as it had always been passed along, father to
son.
“I’m sorry,” Jace said. He traced the line of her cheek
with his fingertip, a dreamlike intensity in his gaze. “I forgot I was wearing
the damn thing.”
Sudden cold flooded Clary’s veins. “Jace,” she said, in a
low voice. “Jace, don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t wear the ring?” “No, don’t—don’t touch
me. Stop for a second.”
