Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own the awesome Mortal Instruments. Cassandra Clare does.
Please, please, please review!
"Ugh! Jace, give it back to me now!" Clary yelled. Dang it, if he saw what was in there, she would die of mortification. She lunged at him with incredible speed and force, her arms outstretched.
But Jace had already gracefully leapt onto the black iron railing of the magnificent staircase, leaving her only to stop in midair, sharply changing course. "I don't think so," he grinned wickedly, quickly sliding down into the foyer of the Institute. "Who knows how many drawings of me you've filled into your sketchbook. Maybe there's one of me nak—?"
"JACE! If you don't, I swear, I'll—"
"You'll what?" he whispered, in a deep and resonant voice, yet still husky. He glided up to her and was only an inch away, their noses almost touching.
Clary's breath was knocked out of her lungs. His golden hair was swept messily to the side, in a way that made her desperately want to reach out and feel every single silky strand of hair between her fingers. He wore a smug, crooked grin, but his ocher eyes, god, those eyes, were full of gentleness and compassion. Clary herself was one of the only people who knew that his arrogant and haughty facade was only to hide his tormented soul. And under that, was a beacon of kindness…
But that gave him no excuse to steal her sketchbook.
"I'll tell Isabelle...what you did to her lasagna on Sunday…?" The sentence had started out firm and demanding, but had melted to a pathetic disgrace of a question.
He smirked mischievously, and bounded away a good few yards away from her, flipping open the sketchbook, onto one of the more intimate drawings of him. His eyes widened and his mouth parted slightly.
Clary wished desperately for Angel Raziel to slaughter her on the spot instead of this cruel torture.
It had only been a few seconds, however, until Isabelle sauntered over and fiercely snatched the black leather-bound book out of Jace's grasp. It was times like these that she was grateful to have befriended her. Isabelle raised her golden whip threateningly, and flipped her lustrous black hair over her shoulder.
"I'm sorry, I'll have to take this." She spun around on her polished boots and shot a girly wink to Clary that hinted: Don't worry, I've got your back.
This left Jace and Clary in an extremely awkward situation—well, at least, awkward for her. The left side of his mouth was curved upward in a half smile, and his shoulders were shaking, so he was laughing. Probably a nice guffaw.
She was storming over to her bedroom to sulk (which unfortunately meant that he stood in her way) until he stopped her.
"So," he chuckled, "That's how you imagine me? I wonder how many other drawings of me like that are in there…" His eyes glazed over, which could only mean that he was planning on stealing her sketchbook again.
She remained silent, still fuming. Not even quite sure exactly what caused it, but still furious. A palm made contact with his beautiful face.
Alec was in the weapon room, writing an iratze onto his arm from a particularly nasty demon bite.
Jace stepped in warily. "Good, Clary's not here."
"What happened to your face?" said Alec curiously.
Jace shot him a venomous look. "I got it from a demon the other day," he lied smoothly.
"I never knew that demons had such…humanlike hands to slap people on the face with."
Author's Notes: I was actually considering on adding this line:
"Says the one who fell on his neck, resulting in a mark bearing a striking resemblance to a vampire bite," Jace muttered under his breath.
to the very end, but decided not to. If you would like for it to be in the actual "story" please say so! Thanks for reading.