A/N: So I kind of like this chapter. Lol, weird, I know. I'm hoping that you'll agree with me. So...there's not much to say here. I'm gonna be away for fifteen days, beginning this Saturday, so I'm going to try my best to get as many chapters as I can up this week. Uh...R&R!

He was ready to lunge at her and wrap his fingers around her neck—tightly. He would squeeze her very last breath right out of her. His hands around her neck would be so hard and merciless, he would snap her trachea and watch her eyes pop right out of their sockets. That's how angry he was with her. There were a million and one ways to kill her. No, no. There were a million and one ways to slowly and painfully kill her. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his dark eyes boring into the back of her head. "How could you not tell me?"

His coat was pulled tight about her shoulders even as she hunched them, and Valentine became livid. This had nothing to do with the fact that he'd kissed her. If that was the only reason why she hadn't spoken a word about it, he wouldn't have minded. In fact, he'd probably be mad with himself, knowing that he'd been the cause of her bearing that much pain. However, that wasn't the reason. They fell out of the Portal last night which meant that she'd aggravated her ankle last night which also meant that it had started swelling to the size of a balloon last night, not this morning, and all of that made it perfectly clear to him that she was a fool.

They hadn't said anything to each other since she'd untangled her body from his, and that had been almost a quarter of an hour ago. He had been perfectly comfortable with the idea of not speaking to her ever, even after they'd gotten themselves to his family's home, but then he'd motioned to her that they should make a start while there was still so much light to be had and she'd yelped even before she'd been able to stand up properly. And then she fell, landing on her hands and knees, providing Valentine with a rather nice view of her derrière. He may have never had the inclination to acquire himself a lover, a girlfriend (whatever it is that it was being called these days) but he recognized the sudden surge of heat that had entered his person, and he felt ashamed for it. He brushed it off, and though he had his doubts of approaching her once more, when she uttered a soft "Ow", all resistance disappeared and he rushed to her side. He'd placed his hand on her upper arm, his coat preventing his skin from actually making contact with hers—thank the Angel!

And that was where he was now: next to her, his hand still on top of the jacket, and fury of all sorts stirring inside him. He sat down, folding his legs as elegantly as he could, given his closeness to the girl and his six foot frame. Whereas before his hand had merely been resting on her arm, now he gripped it and pulled her closer to him, slightly unnerved by how close she was once again, and sat her down in front of him. "I still find it hard to wrap my mind around the fact that you didn't bother to tell me about this," he said to her, his anger beginning to subside a little.

All was quiet between them as he took her injured ankle gingerly in his hands and placed it on his knee. He didn't want to touch her—there was an electric-like tingling in the tips of his fingers every time he did—and especially not so soon after he'd kissed her against her will, but faced with such a terrible injury which might've been less painful to her had she said something to him last night, he didn't have much of an option. He rubbed the pad of his thumb against the joint connecting her foot to her calf, otherwise known as her ankle, where the swelling also held traces of bruising, and she flinched. "Did it hurt? When I did that?" He looked up from her injury to gage a response, but she'd turned her face away. He should've known she wouldn't want to see him after what he'd done. "If you'd only said something earlier," he started.

"My ankle's the size of an elephant's. It is what it is. I don't think I'll die from it."

Valentine could feel his jaw drop the littlest bit at what she'd said. She spoke to him. She actually put together a string of words, formed a sentence and directed said sentence at him. He wasn't expecting that at all. He cleared his throat and began to rub her ankle again, "No, but the swelling could have been bad enough that it'd cut off the blood circulation in your foot."

He heard her murmur, "Oh," and proceeded to get a grip on her ankle the way he would hold his seraph blade, and squeezed. Hard.

Naturally, her response to the pain was to scream, and as expected, she made to move away from him, her leg jerking to get her injured ankle out of his hand. However, he was relentless and he held onto it, and she screamed yet again. A second later, tears trickled down her cheeks and she bit down on her lower lip in an attempt to come to terms with the pain pulsating endlessly from her ankle.

He set the offending body part down next to him and released his hold on it, getting up and making his way to a tree. Her eyes followed his movements and when he disappeared behind her, out of her line of vision, she turned her head and never once removed her gaze from him. He reached up above him, the movement causing his shirt to lift up and expose some of his skin. When he'd held her in his arms earlier, she could feel his biceps and the hard planes of his chest, so she knew he was fit, but to see the taut skin of his lower abdomen, the waistband of his trousers riding low on his hips, made it almost impossible to look away. She did manage to do so, however, and she looked up to see what he was doing.

Bad idea.

Instead of his body, she now saw his face, his brows furrowed as he wrapped his hands around a branch. There was something else there, though, aside from focus as he performed his task. For a brief moment, she thought she caught him glancing her way, and his eyes, which had been so hard when he snatched her into his embrace, softened and the firm line of his lips relaxed the smallest bit. But it was only a moment and in the next, she heard a snapping sound and watched him return to her.

She shouldn't be thinking this way, seeing everything he did as something more than what it actually was. She was just some girl he'd decided to help for God knows what reason and he'd kissed her even though she hadn't indicated that she wanted him to. He was a mean psychopath and her breath shouldn't catch every time he touched her. Like it was doing now.

The young man plopped back down to his original spot and proceeded to peel his torn shirt off of his body. He'd hoped he wouldn't have to. After having treated her the way he did earlier, having done what he did, keeping his shirt on to preserve her innocence seemed stupid, but he'd wanted to do so. Nonetheless, her foot needed to be put in a slab to restrict the movement, and since there was nothing available to him to bind the two branches to her foot at that precise moment, he had to take off his shirt.

Red. Her cheeks were so red when she saw what he was doing and he forced himself not to look at her. Valentine tore the seams of his shirt so it'd open up to a big piece of cloth and then wrapped it around her ankle loosely, wedging in the branches on either sides of her ankle leading up to her calf as gently as he could. He then tugged at the cloth resulting in its tightening, and finished bandaging her leg. "Is it too tight?" he asked.

This time, there was a response. She gave a small shake of her head and, satisfied with his handiwork, he got up, pulling her up along with him. She hissed as she stood up, unable to rest her injured foot flat on the ground. He could not have been more masochistic had he started hitting himself with a bat, but he picked her up anyway and started walking. He'd grown up in the Shadowhunter capital and he knew his way around both the city as well as its outer perimeter. He'd been this far out only twice in the seventeen years he's lived, but he was sure that he remembered the way back to the city. From there, he shouldn't have a problem making his way back to the manor.

Everything passed by him in a blur as he moved as quickly as he could through the forest to make it back to the city. He barely noticed the trees he'd walked by. He barely noticed anything, really, save for his weaving through trees and ducking under low-hanging branches on his home-bound route. He was, however, glad that his mind was so busy mapping out a path because not too long after, he was no longer registering what he was carrying as a girl he'd kidnapped and then taken advantage of. Instead, she was merely a weight that he had to keep in his arms until he reached his house.

Two hours later, he reached a small dirt road, and something inside him was nagging at him to take it, holding onto a vague memory from his childhood of a path that looked exactly like the one he was on converging with the road to the manor. "It's very beautiful here," she said, her voice softer than usual, looking up at the face of the man whom, to her, was the very embodiment of everything that left her confused. "Where is here?"

"This is my country. This is Idris." He said each word carefully, as if he'd never used them before. He could feel her eyes on him and damn it, he wanted to look at her, too. And he wanted to apologize. Not for being so harsh to her and not for kissing her without her okay—although perhaps he did want to apologize for that as well—but for actually enjoying it. He liked kissing her and he wanted to kiss her again.

"I've never heard of it."

"It's not on the map. It's not on any map."

She laughed, a low, melodious sound. "How is that possible?" He kept his eyes trained on the road ahead, his face a blank mask. "It's a secret country?" He still didn't look at her. "Like a spy's headquarters. No one knows where a spy's headquarters is. It's like they don't exist." For a second, he looked away and she thought that he was going to look at her and give her some type of response. He could stare at her seriously, grimly or he could say that she shouldn't indulge in such fantasies—but he didn't. He shifted his gaze to his right for a little bit, and then it was back to looking at a dirt road without blinking. "You could be, like, James Bond and this place could be the MI6's top secret facility for their very special agents."

James Bond. James Bond. James Bond. The name sounded familiar to him. He knew that he was some mundane or another, highly praised for his skills and whatnot. He could take him, though. He knew it. James Bond—whoever he was—was a mere human and he was a Nephilim. A highly trained Nephilim at that.

Once more, silence took them into her embrace and unlike before, when he'd simply allowed time and preoccupancy to take his mind off of her, this time he made an effort to speed up the process. "With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate harsh thunder that the lowest bottom shook. Of Erebus, she opened, but to shut excelled her power; the gates wide open." It didn't take very long for him to take his mind off of her, and it took only a few more moments before he managed to numb himself completely to his surroundings. There might've been a bird sitting on his shoulder, pecking violently at his ear, and he wouldn't have cared. Thankfully, there was no bird. All that was present was silence, and he eagerly rushed into her waiting arms.

He couldn't have known how long he walked, what with the absence of his watch and his utter determination to not notice anything, but his vision was greeted by the sight of a carriage bearing the Morgenstern emblem racing towards them. He stopped where he was and watched quietly as the carriage got ever closer, slowed down and finally rolled to a halt in front of him. "Master Valentine! It is you! One of the watch reported that he'd seen you walking towards the manor. We didn't believe it, any of us, because you weren't supposed to be back until tomorrow. I'm happy I came out here, though." The driver jumped down and opened the carriage door. "Please, sir, make haste. We cannot have you standing out in the open air, dressed as you are. You'll catch a cold."

Valentine stepped into the carriage. It was a little tricky to do so with the girl still in his arms, but he managed it and he set her down on the seat diagonal to where he would be seated. The Morgenstern carriage was big, but it wasn't nearly big enough for him to feel comfortable with the distance he'd been able to put between him and the girl. Were he to reach out, he could probably touch her knee with the tip of his index finger. Outside, the driver shut the door with finesse and grace, and he said not a word about the girl his master had brought with him and for that, Valentine was grateful. The Morgenstern household boasted some of the most discreet help, and in the face of what he'd done, he was glad for it. There had been an unspoken rule in his home ever since his father's passing—if the master doesn't speak of it, then no one shall.

He sank back into the chair, catching just a glimpse of her before he closed his eyes. She'd been looking at him again, her hands turning into fists in her lap. When they reached his home, which shouldn't be too far from here if he'd been spotted by the watch, he'd put her in a guest bedroom and ignore her. As long as she was in his house, he could keep her safe and he wouldn't need her help to figure out what was happening to her.

Cottages and rose bushes began to spring up outside the carriage, almost as if they'd appeared out of thin air. However, he knew them to be the houses of the tenants. Morgenstern manor sported one of the largest estates in all of Idris, and people tended to build their homes on his father's—on his land due to the care and security provided. Within minutes, the sprawling manor itself came into view, its dark windows restricting any insight into the lives of its inhabitants even as the soft yellow and white of the structure gave an impression of happiness and hospitality.

He could feel the carriage slowing down, and he hoped that his mother was locked up in his father's study as she'd been for most days since the man had been killed. Valentine didn't know what she did in there, and he didn't want to know. It was easier to get on with his life if he pretended that his mother still smiled when she saw him. There was a tap on the outer wall of the carriage, signifying that they'd reached their destination. Shortly after, the door swung open and he could see the driver again. He knew now what he was going to do.

"Ivan, see to it that my guest has a room to retire to and provide her with some clothes. She's injured her ankle rather severely, but I want no physicians. Search instead within the house for someone who knows how to deal with sprains and the like. Have a bath drawn for me and have my sheets turned down, then leave me. I am not to be disturbed." And with that, he exited the carriage, leaving the girl with Ivan. She was watching him, he knew. He probably shouldn't have left her just like that, but the sooner he got away from her, the better. For him. And for her. Mostly for her. Or him. He wasn't making sense right now.

The great oak double doors that led into his house were open. He made a beeline for it, but behind him, he could hear her apologizing for causing everyone so much trouble and that it wasn't necessary for Ivan to carry her. "Ignore her," his own voice chimed in his head. "Just ignore her. She's better off without you anyway. Remember what you said? You're not a good person."

Valentine shoved his hands into his pockets, realizing that he must look every bit the jester, sulking around with no shirt on, but he ignored everything. He ignored her and he ignored his aching wrist, and he entered his home like he were a ticked off Zeus, thunderous and wanting to spear down everything he saw. He took the steps two at a time and when he reached the top, he made a right and walked down the hallway. Portraits of his ancestors lined the walls flanking him and he looked at each and every one of them as he walked by. He wondered if any of them had ever imagined a day when their descendant, their flesh and blood, would commit a crime—both in the mundane world and in their world—and then come close to raping a girl, which is yet another felony, and then feel like falling onto the ground in a sad, pathetic heap of self-pity all because he wanted to hold her again. And again. And again. And again.

He reached his deceased father's portrait and stopped completely. Standing before it, Valentine clasped his hands behind him out of habit, and he simply stared at the one thing he and his father never shared—deep set blue eyes. He could only imagine what his father would think if he were alive now and found out of his only son's exploits. Jonathan Morgenstern would be furious and disappointed and tell him that nothing good could possibly come out of what he's done. And maybe his father would be right. But Valentine would defy him on that and continue trying to help the girl anyway.

God, but she was doing things to him that he never thought possible. He went on his way to the end of the hallway and came face to face with his bedroom's door. He twisted the doorknob and let himself in. The windows were barred out of sight by the heavy curtains, drawn and allowing not a slither of light to enter, and a single, dim witchlight illuminated his room. Good, he thought. At least his room mirrored exactly the way he felt. He approached an armchair and then let himself fall gracelessly into it. His plan had been to ignore her the minute he returned home and work things out on his own, but by the Angel, his head was spinning. He didn't know the first place to start looking for answers!

"Master?" Valentine looked to the door to see a woman standing in the doorway, a lock of her brown hair resting next to her cheek, somehow having managed to escape the tight bun the rest of it had been put in. Through the dim light, she was only a faceless woman with brown hair—and his heart palpitated for the shortest time when the passing thought of it being her hit him. But, of course, it wasn't her. "Master, Ivan sent me up to draw a bath for you and ready your bed for use. Which would you like me to tend to first?"

He swept his arm in the direction of his bed and she scurried to it, fluffing his pillows and doing whatever else it was she did that made his bed so comfortable to sleep in. "For God's sake, Valentine! Not all brown-haired girls are her." There it was again, his stupid voice ringing in his mind. He was right, though. There were millions of brunettes in this world and they can't all be her every single time he looked at them.

"Where is she?" he suddenly asked, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. The maid turned to look at him, and opened her mouth to voice the question he knew she was going to ask. A single syllable was uttered by her before he got out of the chair, ran a hand through his hair exasperatedly and said, "My guest. The girl I brought home. Where is she?"

"I saw Ivan steering her upstairs, Master Valentine. I imagine she's in one of the guest bedrooms."

He didn't realize it when he started walking, so strong was the urge to see her. He needed to speak to her. He didn't know what reason he would have to see her and to expect her to say something back. He couldn't ask her about the people hunting her right now, not when she was most likely to be recovering from their journey. Perhaps he could apologize to her. For kissing her, not for the other thing. He couldn't tell her about that. He moved swiftly up the second flight of stairs and pushed open every door he came across, peering inside for any signs of her. Three doors later and he found her, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Although nothing in his house creaked, and this door certainly was no exception, she heard it open and she turned onto her side and propped herself up on her elbow, the neckline of her hospital dress dipping a little to reveal her collarbone. "Angel," she said. Her voice was soft, but it travelled through the room and snaked into his ears, hitting him as if someone had delivered him a blow.

Valentine pulled a chair out from under the desk and brought it with him to her bedside where he put it down and sat. He took her hand in his, looking elsewhere—anywhere!—to avoid her eyes. "I wanted to…"

There was something underneath her collarbone, almost to her chest. His eyes zeroed in on it—part of a black marking, a rune. He moved forward in his chair and grabbed her by the shoulders, seeing memories of him doing the exact same thing to her in the woods. Her face displayed her shock and when he bunched up some of the fabric of the dress's neckline in his hands, she screamed his name, knowing what he was about to do. "Valentine!"

He tugged fiercely, harshly at the material and it tore with a single ripping sound that seemed to drag on forever. The black of her bra peeked out from underneath the torn dress and he had just enough time to get a good look at the rune before he felt a sharp sting to his cheek. She'd slapped him. She pulled the covers up over her shoulders and said through clenched teeth, enunciating every word, "Get. Out."

So he did. He got himself out of her room and sent himself down the stairs, along the hallway and back into his own bedroom, entering his bathroom, stripping down and sinking into the bath tub. It was a simple rune—an X with a horizontal oval at the crossing of the two lines. He'd seen that rune before, he was sure of it. He just didn't remember where.