A/N: So I know I'm supposed to be writing the next chapter of the City of the Unknown, but yeah . . . don't worry, I am. But I hit a kind of . . . obstacle, and so while I was pondering said obstacle I started thinking about COLS. Not sure why. But I did. Anyway, the part of the chapter where Jace comes into Clary's room as himself after getting the Cup was so powerful for me. In fact, when I first read it, I believe I made a sound that I had never before (or since then) made. So this is a one-shot of that in Jace's POV. It is rated M for a reason. While it is in cannon and stays pretty true to the chapter, Jace is a little more detailed about what he and Clary do. So I hope you enjoy my small head clearing break from City of the Unknown! I don't own Mortal Instruments and Cassandra Clare is brilliant.

~Just For Tonight~

Blood.

That's all there was.

On the wall . . . on the floor. On him. Everywhere. He could see so clearly what had once been clouded—what he had once lost control over. What had he done? His heart hammered. He couldn't breathe. Oh, God. He dropped the blade and Cup in his hands, the metallic clang of them hitting the hard wooden floor and reverberating through to his very core. He looked down at the woman's lifeless body. His body was shaking. He was falling. Dropping to his knees he crawled to her, lifted her into his lap, rocked her. Her blood coated him.

"I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry. I am so sorry."

Jace had seen the blade from within the prison of his mind—believed he had known what it was. Now he looked at the ash on the floor. The only thing left of it.

"And thank you," he whispered.

#####

The dark house loomed in front of him, unseen by anyone else. He didn't pause to look at it. The mere sight of it made him sick. He hurried his way through the hidden door. The house was warm and the heavy coat he wore made him sweat, but he would not take it off. He did not want to see what he knew hid under it—his reminder of what he had done. What he had been made to do. What he hadn't been able to stop himself from doing.

"Hey, little brother." Rage filled Jace as the hateful sound drifted toward him. He began shaking, knowing that he would need to get a hold of himself if he wanted to get past him. He had only just controlled his features when Sebastian appeared, looking so much like their father—like Valentine. "Is it done?"

Jace looked at the door that sat six, maybe seven, feet from him. She was in there. She had come here to be with him—but he had not been him. He had been someone else. Him, but not him. Jace had had to watch, trapped, as his other self touched her as only he should touch her, and kissed her as only he should kiss her. He hated him—hated being locked away in his mind. But he was free now, if only just for a short time. If he could only just look at her once—as him. As his true self, before. . . It would be all he asked for.

"It's done." Even as he said it, he could hear the flatness in his voice. But would Sebastian notice? Sebastian was watching him, looking at the coat he wore, but not asking where he had gotten it. Looking at the blood that streak his golden white hair.

Sebastian sucked in his breath. "And the old lady—she did as we asked? Made the Cup?"

Jace looked down so that he wouldn't see the pain on his face or the shame in his eyes at Sebastian's use of the word "we"—especially because he knew the truth to that statement only too well. "Yes."

"Show it to me."

Jace had never done well with being ordered to do something. Especially by someone he loathed. He looked at her door once more—pulling strength from it. It was with the knowledge that she was behind it that motivated him enough to reach into one of the deep pockets and pull out the pure white Cup. Sebastian let out a breath upon seeing it, and Jace balled the hand that was hidden into a fist.

"Look, take it if you want it," he said when Sebastian still had not moved. He wanted nothing more than to get away from him.

"No," Sebastian said, looking from the Cup to Jace with a thoughtful gleam in his hateful black eyes. Jace had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming. He knew he had to endure this though. He endured it all the time. Enjoyed it, even. "You hold onto it for the moment. You did the work of getting it back, after all. Didn't you?"

Jace could taste blood in his mouth now. It took all his control to look at Sebastian and keep his voice even. "But it was your plan," he said, and he could hear his tense undertone. His nails were digging into his palms now. "And I executed it, just as you wanted. Now, if you don't mind—"

He had turned toward the door that held his world behind it, but Sebastian was already in front of him blocking his path. "I do mind," he said, looking down at Jace with furrowed brows. "There's something wrong. I can tell. I can read you, you know."

Could he? Jace thought vehemently. Could he feel the white-hot anger he felt for him? The loathing—the disgust? Because Jace could. He could feel it burning through his veins. He highly doubted that Sebastian would be standing there staring at him if he could feel what Jace felt in that moment. He prayed to the Angel to help him get through this. "I'm tired. And there was a lot of blood," he said. "Look, I just need to clean myself off, and to sleep. And. . ." His eyes slid past Sebastian to the door.

"And to see my sister," Sebastian's voice turned mocking as he followed Jace's line of sight.

"I'd like to see her, yes." Blood ran down his clenched fist now.

"She's asleep." Sebastian shrugged. "Has been for hours."

"Do I need to ask your permission?" Jace's voice was sharp—too sharp, and Sebastian's eyes widened as he looked at him.

"No." he said startled, and Jace took grim pleasure in knowing that he had caught him off guard. But Sebastian had quickly collected himself, crossing his arms. "I suppose if you want to barge in there and gaze wistfully at her sleeping face, go right ahead. I'll never understand why—"

"No," Jace cut him off, his eyes flashing. "You never will." He didn't wait this time. He didn't think he could hold himself back much longer if he had to stay in his presence. He felt Sebastian's eyes on his back as he placed a trembling hand on the doorknob and turned it.

Stepping inside, Jace's heart began hammering as the light from the open door sliced through the dark room and threw a glow on the bed, lighting up his one true reason for living. Without looking away, he pushed the door shut behind him and shoved the Cup back in his pocket, just as she rolled toward the door. She had her hand thrown over her face, her voice sounding groggy. "What. . .?"

It was the most beautiful word he had ever heard. The darkness surrounded them now, but he could see the outline of the bed. His breathing was hitched—he wasn't even sure how he had made it to her. The light shining from under the door was enough that he could see that she was lying stone-still on her side, but he knew her—knew she was awake. And then he could only get out one word in a breathless whisper before he was falling.

"Clary."

Jace's knees hit the floor hard. He hadn't dared to say her name before now. Had not even allowed himself to think it. But now that she was here in front of him—him and not his other self—so very real . . . he could say her name over and over again. Looking up he saw that her face was right in front of him, level with his own. Her eyes were closed, but even in the dark he could see the rigidness of her body. She was afraid of him. Everything he had been keeping in then: the pain, the torment, the anger, and the need to be near her—to touch her, it all came rushing forward. He looked at her—willing her to open her eyes, but terrified to touch her.

"Clary, it's me." he breathed. "It's me."

And suddenly he could see them—her emerald orbs gleaming in the light under the door as she met his gaze, and he felt awake. Truly awake. He watched as she searched his eyes—wanting so desperately to believe him, but scared of what she would find. But she had to see that it was him, Jace thought desperately. She had to. "Please," he exhaled. "Please believe me."

"How?"

Her word was like a gunshot in the quiet room, and his heart began to hammer. "Clary, shh—" But she was already struggling to sit up. Darting his hand forward, he pushed her back down against the bed and turned to look at the door. He wouldn't put it past Sebastian to eavesdrop. Especially not after the anger Jace had barely been able to contain only moments before. "We can't talk now." he breathed, looking back down at her. She was so beautiful. But he had promised himself he would be happy to just see her. "I have to go."

Before he could withdrawal his hand, Clary had seized his arm with surprising speed and he winced as her fingers dug into a deep cut in his skin. The pain was nothing compared to the agony he felt at seeing the desperation in her eyes.

"Don't leave me."

Jace's head dropped, his arm going slack in her grip. Never, he wanted to say. If he could, he would crawl into this bed with her now and hold her for as long as he could. But he couldn't. Sebastian would grow suspicious if he remained much longer, due to the plans that were going to be set in motion now that they had that Cup. But could he leave here knowing that this could be the last time he might see her as him? He had thought he would be okay with just seeing her, but he wasn't. Not when he didn't know when Lilith's Mark might heal. He looked at her, her eyes going wide in the dark. His decision had been made.

"Wait a few moments after I go," he whispered. "Then slip out and up to my room. Sebastian can't know we're together. Not tonight." And then with great effort, he removed his arm from her grip and hauled himself to his feet. He turned pleading eyes to her. "Don't let him hear you."

Without him holding her down now, she bolted upright. "Your stele. Leave me your stele," she whispered.

Jace was instantly worried that she would try to use it to create a rune against Sebastian. While her heart would be in the right place—Jace had seen what he was capable of while locked inside his own mind. Had watched like a prisoner looking out a cell window, as he used Jace as nothing more than a tool. He couldn't let her get hurt. He watched as she held out her hand expectantly, her eyes asking him to trust her. There was no one in this world that he trusted more. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled it out and placed it in her hand; his fingers grazing her palm lightly. That one touch—that gentle caress, was powerful enough to nearly undo him completely. A current of electricity shot up Jace's arm at the same time that he jerked his hand away, knowing that if he didn't he'd never leave. He backed slowly toward the door determined to look at her until he had left her room, the door closing softly.

And for the first time in over ten years, Jace felt a sting in his eyes as they became blurry, and he all but ran to his room. But the tears never fell. As he closed the door behind him he walked slowly to his bed, tossing the Cup somewhere on it. He stood there, staring at where it had bounced. What have I become? he asked himself. What have I allowed myself to become? And then he was running to the window—ripping aside the curtains. He felt like he was drowning. He jerked the window open in his haste to get air into his lungs, a strangled cry escaping his lips as he clawed his way out of the heavy wool coat; dropping it to the floor. Free of the constricting fabric, he leaned against the wall gasping.

Get it together, he told himself. Biting the inside of his cheek, he pulled up the sleeve on his arm and looked down at it. He sucked in his breath as, with the help of the glow from the witchlight rune-stone on his nightstand, he was able to see the deep gash that ran down his forearm. He would have healed it, but he had left his stele with Clary. Just thinking her name gave him strength. Sighing, Jace kicked off his shoes and socks as he crossed to the bathroom, bypassing the light switch, and rummaging blindly in the drawer. Finally, his hands wrapped around the bandage he was looking for and he quickly applied it to his arm. Looking up, Jace could see in the dark reflection of the mirror, the tattered bloodstained ruins that his clothes had become. He turned away quickly, feeling sick as he fled the bathroom; walking quickly back to the window to breathe in more of the cool night air. It really did seem to help. And then he stood there, staring out at the rooftops that sat below the crescent moon. How had he gotten here? Jace thought bitterly. How had he let himself get here. If only he had listened to the Silent Brothers and stayed there with them—if only he hadn't been so stubborn and afraid. He had failed Clary.

He couldn't stare at his darkened reflection anymore. He hated the sight of himself. Jace turned around just as she came in, and he watched, struck speechless, as she set his stele on the nightstand, the dim light of the rune-stone casting her in a warm glow. She wore only a sheer tank top and pajama shorts that barely kissed her upper thighs, her fiery curls hanging over her shoulders the way he had always preferred. She looked beautiful. And then guilt enveloped him. Why—why had he told her to come here? Was he really that selfish? He didn't want her to see him like this . . .

"Jace."

He bit the inside of his cheek, reveling in the sound of his name on her lips. Her voice was like a life raft to him, one he would cling desperately to. He wanted to run to her. To hold her—but no, he couldn't let her see—couldn't let her touch—there was just so much blood. But she was already walking toward him, her feet moving silently across the floor. Oh God, no. Throwing out a hand to stop her, he watched as she paused with uncertainty.

"Don't," Jace pleaded, his voice cracking as she looked at him with confusion. How could he tell her that he didn't want her to see what he knew she already had? Before she could ask, however, he reached up and began unbuttoning the shirt he wore. Grimacing, he shrugged painfully out of it and dropped it on the floor next to the coat. He looked down at the burnt Mark that bound him to Sebastian. The long charred gash that ran along it was the reason he had been freed to think for himself again—but it had come at a price. Looking up, he saw Clary's hand flutter to her heart.

"Oh," she breathed, her eyes wide.

"Yeah. Oh," his voice masking the emotion that his eyes would certainly betray. "This won't last, Clary. Me being myself again, I mean." He needed her to understand this. "Only as long as this hasn't healed." he said, pointing to the obscene rune on his chest. As Clary looked at the Mark, Jace realized that the space between them was killing him.

"I—I wondered," she sputtered. "Before—while you were sleeping—I thought about cutting the rune like I did when we fought Lilith. But I was afraid Sebastian would feel it."

"He would have," he said, not surprised in the least by her comment. That was his Clary: brave and determined. "He didn't feel this because it was made with a pugio—a dagger seethed in angel blood. They're incredibly rare; I've never seen one in real life before." And he remembered how the the woman had struck out at him with it at the same time that Jace had driven his dagger up under her ribs. He raked his fingers roughly through his hair. "The blade turned to hot ash after it touched me, but it did the damage it need to do."

"You were in a fight. Was it a demon? Why didn't Sebastian go with—"

"Clary," Jace breathed, cutting off her questions. It wasn't just because he didn't want to answer them, that he had stopped her. But he needed to impress upon her the short amount of time they had. "This—" He waved at his chest. "It'll take longer than an ordinary cut to heal . . . but not forever. And then I'll be him again." Jace bit his cheek as he thought of him.

"How much time?" Clary breathed. "Before you go back to the way you were?"

"I don't know," he shook his head. "I just don't know. But I wanted—needed to be with you, like this, like myself, for as long as I could." But would she want him still? Would she want him, having seen his blood stained clothes and knowing that he would eventually slip away from her again? Biting his cheek, he held out a hand to her—desperate to hold her in his arms, but terrified she would back away. "Do you think you could—"

She ran to him. Jace let go of a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding as she threw her arms around his neck. Catching her, his arm snaked around her waist as he swung her up and buried his face in the crook of her neck; inhaling the lavender in her hair and reveling in the way that she molded perfectly to his chest. He felt her now. It was him who was touching and holding her.

"It's you," she breathed, speaking what he had been thinking. "It's really you."

Pulling back, he brushed his hand lightly along her cheekbone, and she smiled leaning into him. His heart swelled as he looked at her, his pulse racing. He couldn't live without her.

"I missed you," Clary said, her voice cracking. "I missed you so much."

His breath hitched and he closed his eyes, fighting back the tears that threatened to come now. If he could only began to tell her how lonely he had been—how much he hated watching her with him from the prison of his mind—unable to stop it. He felt her hand as light as a feather on his cheek and he broke; the tears falling silently. But he didn't care. She was worth crying for. He leaned into her hand, desperate to feel her skin on his. Desperate to spend every second he had with her in his arms.

"It's not your fault," he heard her whisper as she took his face in her hands and brushed her lips against his cheek. There was so much love in that one kiss, it sent his heart hammering erratically. His arms held her tightly as he she kissed his cheekbone and his jaw. When she met his mouth, it was soft; a brief light sweep of her lips. Jace hesitated, unsure of what to do. He had wanted this so much, but the idea that he might go back to how he was—back to him. . . And then he was kissing her with urgency. He could taste the saltiness of his tears on her lips as his tongue swept across them before darting into her mouth. She met him with excitement and a warm familiarity that was only known to him. He pulled her into him as his fingers wove through her curls. He needed her. Needed this. Any doubt he had felt at asking her to come here disappeared as they held to one another desperately.

Jace heard her intake of breath as he swung her easily into his arms. Moving silently across the floor, he laid Clary gently on the bed and swiftly but gently glided his body over hers. His lips found hers again. His hand, tracing along her waist and down to her thigh, gripped it and hitched it up against his body. He moaned softly as her fingers traced his bare skin. Her desire was just as strong as his; her passion meeting his with enthusiastic fervor. Their hands explored one another with gentle but ferocious hunger. When his long fingers curled around the hem of her tank top, Clary stretched her arms out expectantly. He bit his lip as he leaned back just far enough to slide the top over her head, and then she was pulling him down on top of her again—his mouth crashing into hers; his hand cupping the soft tender flesh of her bare breast. He had never wanted anyone as much as he wanted her—and knowing that this had a time limit seemed to fuel them both.

The were drowning in each other.

Taking her hand in his, Jace saw the Soundless rune stark against her skin, before he pinned it above her head and kissed her jaw bone, her throat, and her collar bone. She gasped, her body arching against him, as he brushed his lips lightly across the erected peaks of her swelled breast—her free hand digging into his shoulder. In return she explored his own body, her mouth finding his collarbone and the star shaped scar on his shoulder. He shuddered as she pressed her lips against Lilith's Mark. How could someone so small—so frail—elicit such a reactions from him? he wondered. But Clary wasn't frail. She was strong and brave and for some reason she loved him. He wanted to be closer to her—as close as two people in love could be. And then he was kissing her again, his hands memorizing every groove, dip, and curve of her supple body. As his thumbs brushed the hem of her pajama shorts, he could feel her need for him and it enveloped him. Drove him closer to her. He groaned against her lips, ready to surrender as she locked her ankles around the small of his back, her pelvis pushing firmly against his. She wanted him—and God help him, he was ready to give her what she wanted. But could he live with himself if he did? He kissed her again, digging his fingers into her hips—craving nothing more than to go further.

"Clary," he breathed, his body shaking with ardor. "I can't. . . If we don't stop now, we wont be able to."

"Don't you want to?" She asked, and Jace could hear the invitation in her surprised breathless tone. He groaned inwardly, yearning to accept. He looked at her—her emerald eyes on fire with excitement, her hair pasted to both of them, and her flushed red lips.

"Yes, it's just I've never—"

"You haven't?" her eyes went wide with astonishment. "Done this before?"

Jace exhaled. "I have." And then he watched her—searching her face for some kind of reaction. When she didn't give him one, he went on. "But not when it mattered," he said as he brushed a finger lightly along her cheek, hoping she understood. "I don't even know how. . ."

"I think it's just been established that you do," Clary laughed softly.

"That's not what I meant," he said as he took her hand in his and pressed it against his face. Didn't she realize that he didn't even see other girls clearly anymore? "I want you." he said fervently. "More than I have ever wanted anything in my life. But I. . ." He hesitated, swallowing hard as he remembered last night. He had been helpless to stop him as he pushed himself on her—and she had allowed it. Had pulled him against her. Jace shook his head. Was it even possible to be envious of yourself? Definitely not normal he was sure. "Name of the Angel. I'm going to kick myself for this later."

"Don't say you're trying to protect me," she said impassioned. "Because I—"

"It's not that," he sighed. "I'm not being self-sacrificing. I'm . . . jealous."

Clary blinked. "You're—jealous? Of who?"

"Of myself," he frowned, his face twisting. "I hate the thought of him being with you. Him. That other me. The one that Sebastian controls."

"At the club . . . last night . . ." she whispered as if reading his thoughts.

But Jace couldn't bear to see the blush on her cheeks as she thought of it, and he dropped his head to her shoulder. He let out a breath as she rubbed his back. "I remember everything about last night," he said, his lips brushing against her skin. "And it makes me crazy, because it was me but it wasn't. When we're together, I want it to be the real you. The real me."

"Isn't that what we are now?" Her breath was hot against his ear.

"Yes," he said. And then he kissed her, but pulled away before it could get to deep. "But for how long?" he asked bitterly. "I could turn back into him any minute. I couldn't do that to you. To us. I don't even know how you can stand it, being around this thing that isn't me—" His tone had been more accusatory than he had meant it to be, and her eyes flashed.

"Even if you go back to being that in five minute," she cut him off. "It would have been worth it, just to be with you like this again. Not to have it end on that rooftop. Because this is you, and even that other you—there's pieces of the real you in there. It's like I'm looking through a blurred window at you, but it's not the real you. And at least I know that now."

Jace swallowed, his stomach flipping, unsure of how to take that. "What do you mean?" He asked, tightening his grip on her shoulders. "What do you mean at least you know?"

She sighed. "Jace, when we were first together, like really together, you were so happy for that first month. And everything we did together was funny and fun and amazing. And then it was like it just started draining out of you, all that happiness. You didn't want to be with me or look at me—"

"I was afraid I was going to hurt you." he said, pleading for her to understand that. Pleading for her to realize how much it had tortured him to to do that to her. "I thought I was losing my mind."

"You didn't smile or laugh or joke. And I'm not blaming you," she said, reaching up and cupping his face in her warm hands. "Lilith was creeping into your mind, controlling you. Changing you. But you have to remember—I know how stupid this sounds—I never had a boyfriend before. I thought that maybe it was normal. That maybe you were just getting tired of me."

And Jace stared at her. How could she ever possibly in a million years think that he would ever grow tired of her? Even back when he had thought she was his sister, he had still been so hopelessly in love—had given his heart so completely to her—didn't she understand that there would never be another girl for him? That he would always love her? "I couldn't—"

"I'm not asking for reassurance," she said. "I'm telling you. When you're—like you are, controlled—you seem happy. I came here because I wanted to save you," She looked away, her voice sad now. "But I started to wonder what I was saving you from. How could I bring you back to a life you seemed so unhappy with?"

"Unhappy?" The word brought him up short, and he shook his head, determined to make her believe him now. "I was lucky. So, so lucky. And I couldn't see it." His golden eyes captured her emerald ones, holding them. "I love you," Jace said with as much earnest passion as he could, "and you make me happier than I ever thought I could be. And now that I know what it's like to be someone else—to lose myself—I want my life back. My family. You. All of it." He could feel both anger and desire building as he looked at Clary—who loved him enough to be with him even when he wasn't him, because it was better than being without him.

"I want it back." he growled, his lips crushing hers, their tongues colliding together in a passionate dance. He needed her. She was his—not his. He pressed harder into her, his fingers digging into her hips as she ground against him rhythmically. And then he was gripping the sheet on either side of her. How could he deny this? Deny her? Never had anyone fit to him so perfectly. She had been made for him, and him for her. He could feel her heart hammering with his in rhythmic unison and his desire for her swelled. He clawed at the sheets as if he would rip them apart just as her fingers found the hem of his jeans—tugging on the button. He jerked away suddenly, gasping for air. "We can't—"

"Then quit kissing me!" she gasped. "In fact—" to his dismay, she pushed him aside and grabbed her tank top. "I'll be right back." He watched as she ran soundlessly to the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Jace rolled on his back and pressed the palms of his hands hard into his eyes. What the hell is wrong with me? And then he laughed a low bitter laugh at his own question. Sitting up he could see the blood that still stained his body and jeans and became sickened at knowing he had touched Clary like this. Getting up, he went to his closet and changed into a clean pair of jeans. As an after thought he pulled out a short sleeve button-up, but didn't have the energy to actually button it. When Clary came out of the bathroom, he saw that she had twisted her hair into a tight bun, and he instantly wanted to to reach up and loosen it. Her top was back on as well, but the flush was still on her cheeks and her lips were still swollen with kisses.

"All right," she said, stopping in front of him with a wash rag in her hand. "Take off your shirt." Jace raised his brows, a small smile playing on his lips as he looked up at her. "I'm not going to attack you," she said when he didn't move. "I can take the sight of your naked chest without swooning."

"Are you sure?" he asked cheekily, sliding the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. "Because viewing my naked chest has caused many women to seriously injure themselves stampeding to get to me."

"Yeah, well, I don't see anyone here but me." She rolled her eyes. Jace wanted to tell her that her being there was all he wanted, but she was already continuing. "And I want to clean the blood off you."

A sponge bath? Even he couldn't say no to that. Jace leaned back on his hands, watching her with bated breath as she came forward and straddled one of his legs. He felt goosebumps as she ran her fingers lightly across his shoulders, over his chest, and down the planes of his stomach. At times she seemed to be tracing the Marks on his skin. She couldn't possibly know what she was doing to him. But then, maybe she did. Her brow was furrowed, her green eyes sweeping his body unabashed as she checked his wounds. As she pressed the cool wet cloth against the heated skin of his forehead, he turned his face up to her, closing his eyes as she ran it along his brows and the side of his face—scrubbing at his neck.

She stopped only to clean out the rag. Tilting back his head, Jace watched with hooded eyes as she brought the rag to his chest, his shoulders, and his arms. When the cloth touched his parabatai rune, he thought of Alec and realized what that sense of loss was that plagued him when he was him. He wondered if Alec had felt it too. Jace frowned, looking at Clary as she continued bathing him. He wanted to ask her—not just about Alec, but all of his family. Would she tell him? He would be able to understand if she chose not to. But, maybe—he bit the inside of his cheek—maybe if he could convince her. Explain the truth of it.

"Clary?"

"Yes?" She said without looking up at him.

"I won't remember this," he said bluntly. And then she stopped, her eyes meeting his. "When I'm back—like I was, under his control, I won't remember being myself. I won't remember being with you, or talking to you like this." He took a breath, his eyes pleading now. "So just tell me—are they all right? My family? Do they know—"

"What's happened to you?" She cut him off, twisting the cloth in her hands now. "A little. And no, they're not all right." Jace closed his eyes. He had asked hoping that she would tell him, and she had. It didn't make it any easier to hear, however. "But you should know," she continued, her voice softer now. "They love you so much, and they want you back."

"Not like this," he said, his voice harder than he meant it to be.

Clary was quiet for a moment, and then he felt as she touched a finger lightly along his shoulder. "Are you going to tell me what happened?" She whispered. "How you got these cuts?"

Jace's heart began to hammer as he looked at her. He didn't want to tell her. What would she think of him if he told her? How would she react? He couldn't bear it if she pushed him away or to see disappointment in her eyes. But she had risked everything to be here with him. She deserved to know the truth. He took a breath. "I killed someone." And I hate myself for it.

He opened his eyes when she didn't say anything and saw her bending down. He realized that she had dropped the rag. As she stood back up, her wide emerald eyes met his and he died a little right then. She was scared. But even then he could tell that she wasn't scared of him—she was scared for him. This was almost worse somehow. He hated both himself and his other self equally in that moment. He wanted to reach for her, but he stayed his hand as he saw the question he knew she would ask in her eyes. The question terrified him. He knew that once she asked it . . . he would be forced to answer it. And answering it would make it real.

"Who?" she finally breathed.