Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding.

I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change.

So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)

During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!

Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3

I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that.

Love you all.

Dancing With Demons

Chapter 6: Flesh and Scars

Song: Shot Down - Khalid

The rhythmic pounding of my fist against the weighted bag steadies my heartrate, sweat beading on my neck and forehead as I reset my stance, slowing the swinging bag as I prepare for another set. It had been a well-deserved miracle that my feet had led me to the training room this morning, the burning muscles a welcomed sensation after another restless night. Each night, I've awaited his appearance, for him to break down my door and take me as many have before. Each night, I am left to myself, curled beneath the heavy quilts and completely alone with the shadows.

I'm not entirely free of restrictions, as I've been corralled into the top two floors of the expansive penthouse. They say it's a safety precaution. I know it's because Jace has not yet told his men he's wed a Demon. His betrothal to the sworn enemy is surely to cause an uprising, or at least become a topic of discussion amongst the house staff. In fact, from what I can deduce, everyone is completely in the dark about my identity. Here, I'm not Clarissa Morgenstern, the heiress of the Demons, the woman shared by the members. Those men owned me. My father controlled me. I was nobody. I was nothing. Here, I am feared. People refuse to meet my eyes. They do not speak unless addressed. I am respected. I am powerful.

Of course, it is because I am married to the most powerful man in New York, with connections that reach farther and run deeper than any of my father's, with a sea of loyal men and women willing to die for his cause. I'm just waiting for the catch, for Jace to approach me and force me to carry on with my expected duties, for his eyes to turn black and his mouth to curl into a sneer. I'm waiting for him to become Valentine.

The bag is swinging violently again, and I stop it with a huff, curls falling loose from my ponytail and into my face. "You're throwing from the wrong muscle," a smooth and powerful voice murmurs from behind, and I turn in time to see Jace peel himself from the wall. He's barefoot, dressed only in a pair of black sweatpants, a black baseball cap sitting backward on his tousled curls. He could pass for a regular twenty-three-year old. With his good looks and charming smile, he's the last person to be expected to run an entire gang. Yet there's authority in the way he walks. His voice commands a room. His piercing gaze demands attention. "Here."

I can't help but shiver when his calloused hand grips my waist, sliding under my tanktop to put pressure on my abs. It's electric, the way his skin feels against mine, but I fight my instinct to lean into his touch, instead hardening my muscles and glaring at the bag. "Throw from here." I blush at the squeal I release when he pinches my skin gently, but it quickly turns bright crimson at his knowing chuckle. Steeling my nerves, I turn around and land a punch in his gut, only earning an amused glance when I cradle my injured knuckles against my breast.

This is the first time I've seen him since that night in the hallway—the second time I've attacked him—and yet he doesn't lash out at me, doesn't leave marks on my skin and demand apologies. Instead, he smirks broadly, crossing his arms around his toned chest and arching one perfect blond eyebrow. "Is that all you've got, love?" I shake off his taunt, tugging my sweatshirt back over my head and grabbing the water bottle from the side of the room.

"What do you want?" I growl when I turn around and find him still staring at me, possibly at my ass.

"I came to talk about your status with The Shadowhunters." How ironic.

"Which is…?" I prompt him to elaborate, certain he can hear my heartrate steadily increasing.

"Well, you are my wife and will be introduced as such at the upcoming gala."

"Gangsters have galas?" I can't hide the incredulousness in my voice. The Demons were lucky to get a Happy Meal, let alone a seven-course meal followed by a dance.

There's a twinkle in his golden eyes. In my experience, it's rare for one in his position to maintain a sense of humor, to cling to any shred of humanity. "Only the successful ones." He laughs once, but I don't return it. He clears his throat. "Anyways, even though you are my wife, you will have to contribute to the Shadowhunters." Here it is. I pull my lower lip between my teeth, waiting for a crowd of men to pummel through the door and take me right on the mat. "I was thinking maybe you could start with some office work and move up from there."

"What?" My mouth reacts before my brain. I could leap at this man. I could kiss him. Instead, I stare at him dumbly, blinking much to rapidly for any sane person.

"Just normal secretary tasks, nothing too heavy." He's mistaken my relief for confusion, so I just nod, hoping not to allude to the idea that I'd expected a much, much different job. "As for the wife situation, only my most trusted men are to know of your true identity. The alternative would be far too dangerous." I nod, still waiting for the crushing blow as his lips continue moving. "Because of this, we are going to have to sell the husband and wife bit. I don't want anyone to become suspicious and dig too deeply into our relationship."

"Oh-kay…." I push out despite my chest constricting so much I can barely breathe.

"We will have to go out in public together. Eat dinner together. Normal shit." I nod again.

"I can do that."

His mouth lifts in half a smile, his lower lip pulled between his teeth as he restrains a laugh at something he's said in his mind. "Good. Now let's work on that pitiful right hook." Again, he grips my waist, tighter this time because I'm expecting it. Except it lifts my shirt, revealing the skin of my lower back. There's an intake of breath, followed by a tense silence.

"Who did this to you?" he whispers finally, his lips so close to the skin behind my ear I can feel the air stirring the curls around them, imagining how they might feel pressed against my body, full of heat and passion, erasing all the others that had touched me. His voice is low, dangerous even, casting a fog through my brain that momentarily distracts me from the grotesque carvings on my skin. I'd never been one to leave them on full display, hiding them beneath t-shirts and tank tops, making a secret of my shame. Yet Jace's fingers are gentle as they trail against the thick, jagged scars, deftly maneuvering the mapping across my pale skin, never lingering too long, never faltering.

I can only imagine what he sees—angry red slashes spelling out a name, a name painstakingly carved line by line, a tally of his time with me. He hasn't flinched, hasn't called me disgusting, hasn't banished me from the room. And suddenly, I don't want this crushing secret weighing me down. I don't want to be in this darkness alone. And I don't know if it's because I want him to know, or if I think he deserves to know, or if he's just conveniently there, but I find myself telling him the darkest part of myself. I almost choke on the words, so I keep it short, my eyes downcast to avoid his pitying gaze.

There is no commotion, no stilling of his ministrations as he waits in silence, wondering if I'll continue, to tell him why Sebastian made sure I bore his mark forever. I don't, my arms and chest shaking with the terrifying release. And Jace just stands there, now running his fingers up and down my back, quick and soft like kisses. I can't help but wonder what it might be like to be kissed by this man, a man so strong yet so gentle, so hardened yet empathetic. He's a living contradiction, between his public and private lives. He's tough for his men, brutal, the all-powerful leader. He doesn't let anyone in, doesn't even let anyone close. Alone with me, he's almost fragile. Broken, maybe. Crumbling, definitely. Finally, his hands leave my skin, and I wait for the inevitable, for him to demand divorce from a woman who is anything but pure, from someone so repulsive he can barely stand to look at her.

Again, he surprises me.

"Pain is an old friend." His voice is still quiet, but softer this time, like he's finally confiding the truth as he grabs the neck of his gray t-shirt and lifts it over his head. I've seen him shirtless plenty of times, often too distracted by the hard planes of his chest and stomach, dizzied by the intricate swirling pattern of his inky tattoos. In this low light, I see them, long thin scars, faded to white with age, covering his honeyed skin. They're not the wounds typical of gangsters. He has plenty of those—four bullet wounds, two stabbings break up the webbing of scars, raised and thick. No, these are the scars of torture, strokes shallow enough to ensure life but deep and long enough to instill pain. I can't stop myself from reaching out to trace them, following them to the bullet that pierced just left of his heart.

My breath hitches in my throat when his palm flattens over mine, his heart beating strongly beneath my fingertips. There's clarity in those molten eyes, resolve in his face. I hadn't asked for an explanation, but the words flow freely, his gaze moving to over my shoulder, as if he's not talking to me at all.

"My father led the Shadowhunters, and his father before him." He takes a shuddering breath. I can feel it beneath my palm. "They had many secrets…secrets only the heirs could know." His brows furrow, like he's trying to push out the images matching his words. "At five, I was kidnapped. I didn't know much, but I knew enough to sabotage a few operations. After that, my father made sure no amount of torture could ever get me to speak."

I can't comfort him. I don't know how. Here he is…so honest and open, and my mind is completely shutting down. So instead, I crack a smile. "I guess I don't have the monopoly on bad dads then." Somehow, it had been the right thing to say because the tension from his shoulders lifts, and there's a glint in his eye as he shakes his head.

"No, I guess you don't."