Begin – Shallou, Wales
Work is as usual, all tight-lipped smiles and curt responses, tasks yelled gruffly through his closed office door, a seemingly scheduled storming in and out of the building, growled insults into his cellphone, deliveries that need to be tracked and completed, Alec breezing in and promptly getting kicked out. I can barely keep my eyes opened, my mouth hovering over the empty mug of fourth cup of coffee, blinking exhaustedly as I attempt to organize Jace's weekly agenda, accidentally planning two overlapping meetings. The only new activity is the series of phone calls, strategically on the hour. "This is the office of Jace Herondale. My I ask whom I am speaking with?" There are a few, soft breaths, a whispered hello, and then a click.
It should be terrifying, would be, had I not been able to hear Jace's desk phone being returned to its cradle after each call, followed by a muffled chuckle, a reminder that every angered look, every ignored remark—they're an act. They mean nothing, a simple façade to protect their dynamic. This time, though, when the phone rings, it's at 2:37. The smile slips from my lips. "This is the office of Jace Herondale. May I ask who is speaking?" There's a sigh of relief.
"Clary—" It's Isabelle, sounding a bit frazzled. I can hear the afternoon rain hitting the pavement around her, the wind whipping into the microphone. "I'm coming from the warehouse, and I forgot my access card, can you buzz me up?" I open the security tab on my computer, just as Jace had taught me, seeing Izzy shivering and soaking in a tissue blouse, clinging to her skin while her hair is pasted to her cheeks. "Of course." I hang up the phone as I unlock the doors to the building, feeling only a bit creepy watching her walk toward the elevators. I minimize the tab once she disappears into it, continuing with Jace's schedule. Minutes later, Isabelle bursts into the room, a trail of water following her as she tosses her damp hair over her shoulder.
Even soaking wet, Izzy is quite easily the most beautiful woman I have ever met, with enviable curves and makeup that's never smudged, she's the perfect woman, the perfect warrior. "Thank you so much," she breathes, and I reach beneath my desk to produce the sweater I'd left there a few days ago. Just the two of us in the room, Izzy strips off her wet shirt, pulling the sweater over her head. Even my own clothes fit this woman better. "You are honestly a lifesaver." I give her a curt nod, returning to my seat and pulling it closer to the keyboard. "Listen, Clary—"
"Please, don't even mention it," I tell her with a dismissive hand, making great effort not to clip my words. "Just don't try to tear my clothes off in public anymore." Isabelle laughs, a sound like a nervous bell until I find myself joining in. There's something so real about Izzy, so genuine that I can't be mad at her. She's a woman that knows she's beautiful but doesn't flaunt it. She's self-aware and unapologetically herself that I find myself wanting to be her friend.
"Got it," she replies quickly, before her lips part like she's had an epiphany. She reaches into her handbag and removes a travel cup. "It's from your favorite coffee shop. Jace mentioned you liked the macchiatos there." She extends it in my direction, and I tentatively take it. "Jace might not always show it in public, but he cares about you. More than you know." She winks, and for lack of reply, I begin to drink the steamy beverage, like it's the only thing keeping me alive.
"Jace is in his office," I tell her when I'm finished, but she shakes her head.
"Oh, no, Mrs. Herondale, I only came here to see you." My name sounds foreign to me. I've only ever been Clary. To those my family, to those men, to Jace—but I like the way it flows, like that it links me to the powerful man behind that closed door. "I still need to get your measurements for the gown. Maybe I can swing by tonight…?"
She dangles the question out for me like bait, a hopefulness in her eyes, almost like she imagines we might become…friends.
The Hunter and the Siren—there is not a more fitting duo.
"I think that will be okay—"
"What will be okay?" Jace asks, emerging from his office with a folder in his hands. "Isabelle," he nods his head toward his sister, though his eyes flicker back to Clary.
"Izzy is going to come over tonight to fit me for my dress." Jace's brows furrow, like he's asking me if that's what I want, like he's ready to give me an out. "I think it will be fine." I say it like it's directed at Isabelle, though Jace knows it's really for him.
"Great! I'll swing by right after work."
Isabelle leaves with a flourish, and I can feel the blood draining from my face. The reality is crushing down on me all at once, as if the impending party is going to solidify everything.
It's not that being married to Jace is horrible. He's kind and generous, and he hasn't asked me to give him anything I'm not ready for. But the idea of being owned by other mafia leader, of falling into the same loop that I've been in endlessly for seventeen years. It's suffocating, strangling.
"It's too late for cold feet, Clary," Jace murmurs, his lips pressed right against my ear. It makes me shiver, pleasantly. "We're already married." And just like that, my fears are quelled, because a stupid party isn't going to change anything. "I've got a delivery tonight but have fun with Izzy. She can certainly be a handful." I roll my eyes at the understatement of the century, and Jace's laughter disappears with him down the hallway.
X.O.X.O.X
Say It First – Sam Smith
"Don't come in," I manage to shout later that day as I hear the front door opening, clutching the lace folds of the ballgown, the sparkling beads pressing into my skin as I lift the skirts, hurrying from my position in front of the floor-length mirror to the safety of the walk-in closet.
"Are you okay?' his voice floats in through the vents, concern edging every word. I can imagine the furrow in his brow, his hand reaching for the gun in his waistband.
"I am fine," I affirm, sliding my arms from the long, lacey sleeves and shimmying out of the dress before zipping it securely into the bag. Pulling on one of Jace's t-shirts, I pull open the door, revealing the exact image I'd formulated in my head. He blinks at my outfit. I blink at the gun pointed over my shoulder.
"Sorry," he apologizes, setting the gun on the table in the hallway. "Habit." I nod, unafraid of the cold, unyielding piece of metal. The only thing that makes it scary is the person wielding it, and Jace is disciplined enough to know when to pull the trigger and when to hold his fire. "How does it look?" I'd expected him to be rather blasé about the dress, but there's genuine curiosity in his eyes as he peers around me toward the closet. I push on his chest, leading us from the bedroom and to the sofa.
"Not so fast. Isabelle said you aren't allowed to see it." He groans, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
"That woman is ruining my life." I laugh in soft agreement, tucking my feet beneath me when I notice he's wearing his leather jacket and combat boots, typical attire for a delivery. He notices my gaze. "Routine stuff. I should be back by midnight. If you're still awake, I could grab takeout, and we could see what's on HBO."
I crack a smile. "Why HBO? Are you embarrassed of your Netflix list?" If Jace Herondale could blush, he would be right now, pleading with his eyes not to reveal his secrets. "Macho mob boss Jace Herondale secretly watches Phineas and Ferb." He groans, covering his eyes with one hand and sinking further into the couch.
"If you tell anyone," he says in his boss voice, though there's humor in it, "I might have to lock you up and never set you free." I'm doubled over with laughter as his half-hearted threats continue to fill the space around us, punctuated every so often by me listing off another show from his Netflix. Powerpuff Girls, Scooby Doo, and various Disney movies all come to mind. When I finally settle, he's looking at me with unreadable eyes.
"How did you get this one?" he asks suddenly, his long, agile fingers gently sweeping over the scar at my shoulder, exposed by the sleeve slipping down my arm. It's the only one the tattoo couldn't quite hide. I shiver under his touch, but I pull the blanket on the back of the couch over my shoulders, hoping to hide the effect he has over me. The TV in front of me remains all but forgotten as I lose myself to those eyes—blue, set with resolve. They were the eyes of a man who knew he was going to die, the eyes of a man who'd long ago accepted this fate. "You don't have to tell me," he whispers, so lowly it does little to break my trance.
I can feel his hand covering my own, clenched into fists tight enough to leave crescent moons in my palms, but all I can see is that cement parking structure, with its blood-spattered floors and my stolen innocence. I shake my head to clear away the vision, chewing my lip enough to draw blood. Jace gently smooths it from its confines, his finger coming away red. "I will…someday," I qualify, shrinking in on myself as if becoming small enough would just make me disappear. He nods silently, understandingly, lapsing into silence once more.
"I'll be back soon. Don't touch my Netflix!" he says finally, and my heart beats unsteadily in my chest. Routine delivery. Stuff they do every week. He's gone out on so many in the short time that we've been together, but something seems different.
He disappears before I can decipher these emotions, but I realize they all lead back to one thing. The macchiato. "Jace!" I yell, running for the door and wrenching it open just as the elevator arrives. He's startled but catches me as I throw myself into his arms, kissing him desperately, with more passion that all of our previous kisses. "Be safe," I order him, our lips still brushing against each other, the elevator forgotten as he cradles me in his arms. Our foreheads are pressed together, our breaths mixing in the air between us, chests heaving.
And then he smiles, the most heartbreaking, panty-dropping smile that I've never seen on his face before, lighting up his eyes, his face, his aurora as he presses the button for the elevator once more. "I will."
X.O.X.O.X
I've already fallen asleep by the time Jace returns. I don't hear the door open, just the sound of his footsteps as he shuffles through to the bathroom. Light floods through the opened door, and that's when I see him, stripping the shredded shirt from his body, throwing it to the floor as he appraises the wounds in the mirror, a series of scrapes and bullet grazes, burned black at the edges. The way he eyes them is cool, calculated, like he's unconcerned by the mapping of fresh cuts lacing up his chest.
I can see the three fresh tallies at his hip, a list of kills, I'd deduced, and his wedding ring glints between specs of blood as he runs his thumb across them. "Jace," I whisper, a quiet but earth-shattering sound. His eyes find mine, all the smiles, all the laughter from earlier gone, replaced with two, hardened amber gemstones, flickering across my face, searching.
"I'm fine," he tells me gruffly, moving to close the bathroom door, but I'm already beside him, taking the washcloth from his hands and running it beneath hot water. He doesn't hiss when I clean his cuts. He doesn't flinch or shrink away. They are shallow, not worthy of stitches, but I disinfect them, gnawing on my lip as he watches my actions. He refuses bandages, rinsing the rag in the sink until the water no longer runs pink. Then he tosses it on the floor, a motion so unlike Jace. He doesn't touch me as he passes by, removing his boots and jeans and falling into bed.
"What happened?" I whisper, touching his face with gentle fingers, hoping and praying that he doesn't pull away. He does.
"The Demons knew we were coming," he replies, not without anger. I know it's not specifically directed at me, but it stings all the same, like he might be accusing me of sharing secrets, like he thinks I'm a rat. "Max got in the crossfire. I had to save him." Max, Izzy and Alec's younger brother whom I have yet to meet.
"Is he alright?" Jace sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, revealing bruised and swollen knuckles.
"He will be. He just hit his head pretty hard. Took a bullet to the arm" He falls into silence, leaving me to wonder if he's fallen asleep. I don't look at him, fear paralyzing me. He thinks I've done wrong, that I've stepped out of line. He could hurt me, sell me, or if he's feeling merciful, kill me. I know the kind of things he's capable of. They're the kind of things my own father would do.
I don't realize my whole body is shaking until Jace's arms are around me, pulling me firmly against his chest. It's calming, his heartbeat steady against my spine, his breath fanning over my ear. "I know you had nothing to do with it, Clary." Heat bursts from me when his lips move behind my ear, placing sweet, chaste kisses against the sensitive skin there. "I'm not going to hurt you."
I release an unsteady breath, and Jace's warm, throaty chuckle resounds in my ear. I can't deny how much I want this man, how much I desire to run my hands over his skin, to mold our lips together, to scream his name in the throes of passion.
But his soft snores have replaced the kisses, his arms still like iron bars holding me against his chest. And for once, I don't feel trapped. I feel loved.