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Dancing With Demons

Chapter 29: Love and War

Song: River – Bishop Briggs


It doesn't take him long to find me after he returns from the office. I notice him immediately, hovering in the doorway, arms folded over his chest, expression unreadable. A standing corpse. He knows I'm ignoring him. I can see it in the slight furrow of his brow, feel his displeasure from across the room, but I keep my rhythm.

Throw from the core.

Step into it.

Steady eyes.

Steady heart.

The words are his, fueling me as the bag swings out farther with each hit. I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to whirl on him and land these punches into his gut. I know enough not to allow my emotions to guide me as I continue training, each hit stronger than the last, splitting my knuckles until blood drips down my arms. I throw my rage into my fists and into the bag until I have to catch it, chest heaving, still refusing to look toward him.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I growl finally, my breaths settling, soft and even. I shove the bag at him when he rounds on me, not as a defensive shield but rather as an expression of annoyance, of anger. He stops it with one, opened palm, his eyebrows raising slightly before his gaze turns to slits. His fist connects with the bag, the sound resonating through my bones.

I know he'd never lay his hands on me, but it's intimidating, a reminder. He's the powerful, deadly leader of the Shadowhunters, and I'd be wise not to cross him. The funny thing is, when you are raised as nothing, as no one, as worthless, you tend to be reckless when it comes to your life.

Jace's eyes are on fire in the dying sunlight, his muscles rippling beneath the fabric of his button-down shirt. His mouth is a hard, set line, like there are so many things he wants to spit at me but he's physically restraining himself. He doesn't speak for a moment, his hand resting delicately against the now steadied bag. And when his mouth does form the words, they're not about war.

"Why do you fight, Clary?" he asks, his voice quiet, but strong. A leader's voice. I just blink at him blankly, shielding the reaction my brain has toward my true motives. "Is it anger?" he asks finally, his fist colliding with the bag, punctuating each new question. "Frustration? Vengeance?" He stops the swinging bag as quickly as he'd begun hitting it, quirking a curious eyebrow in my direction. "Boredom?"

I haven't wiped the blood from my hands, and it begins to drip on the floor, the noise crashing in my ears as loud as a thunderstorm. "I fight because I want to," I grit out finally, angered that I feel the need to answer his questions when he refuses to acknowledge mine. Subordinate as always, I guess.

He tsks, shaking his head in disapproval. "Wanting is not the reason we do things. The reasons cause the wanting." He pushes the bag toward me again, and I fall into the stance, leaving bloodied prints behind with each swing. "Tell me again. Why do you fight?"

I wait for a few hits before chancing a glance at him. His eyes have opened, his face soft but guarded, like he thinks he might be the reason I'd like to throw a punch, like he's the one I need protection from. While I'm looking at him, he catches my throw, running his thumb over my split knuckles, as the other hand undoes the buttons of his shirt. The blue material soaks red as he uses it to bandage my wounds, tender hands working delicately over mine.

"I fight…" I begin, watching as his motions stall momentarily, to look up at me. "I fight because I'm scared." I pull my arm free when he finishes, crossing them over my chest to protect the heart that I'd just opened to him. For a moment, I can read the agony in his eyes, as plain as the daylight filtering through the windows. In a flash of fire, it disappears, his gaze dropping to the corner of the room before returning to me. It had been only a millisecond, but I'd seen it, how much this man can care, about others, about what they think of him. Behind every shield, every barrier, is just a boy yearning for acceptance, the same as the rest of the world. And I find that I want to give it to him. Despite his faults and his flaws, despite his reputation and his brash responses, this man is something other than I've ever experienced. There is a kindness to him, a compassion that all the men before him had lacked. There's a sort of safety in baring myself to him, in sharing with him the burdens of my past. "I fear that this," I gesture around me, "is all just temporary and that I'll fall right back into the Demons' clutches, into Sebastian's clutches."

"You don't have to worry about Sebastian anymore," Jace says firmly, a glare of a memory in his eyes. I can't help the glance at the tally marks on his ribs, my fingers reaching out to the one that had been fresh the night he'd given me my tattoo. He shudders beneath my touch, his hand covering mine over his heart, beating steady and strong. "As long as my heart is beating, you won't have to worry about anyone."

I know he means it, and I want to believe it, but I find myself shaking my head. "You're going to war with my father, Jace. My origins will come to light, and not only will I be an enemy of the Demons, but also of you."

"I'll kill anyone that tries to touch you. Even my own men." I laugh once, a sharp exhale of breath through my nose, at his stubbornness.

"Valentine's been planning this for God knows how long, Jace. I am somehow part of that plan. Anyone with two eyes can see that." He grips my hand now, tightly, like he can't stand to let me go. "I won't be your downfall."

"Don't even say it, Clary. That's an order." His boss voice lacks its usual power, his walls all crumbled, his face raw, vulnerable.

"Maybe it's safer if I return to the Demons." His eyes have hardened to amber gemstones, sharp and unmovable.

"Valentine will kill you."

"You can't strategize with your emotions, Jace." He whirls abruptly and drives his fist into the wall, despite the bag hanging to his left.

"Like hell I can't. I am the boss, Clary. I am the boss, and I'm not letting you leave the Shadowhunters."

"You can't stop me," I challenge. God, I want him to make me stay, but I know that when I'm here, I'm more dangerous than Valentine.

"Try me." He blocks my path as I attempt to move around him, his grip hard on my shoulders, holding me in place. "I won't let you march to your death, Clary. Even if I lose everything, it will be worth it to know that you're alive."

"Jace…I…I," I'm still stuttering when his arms envelop me. His embrace is warm, strong, protective, a feeling I'm not accustomed to. He just holds me, the sunlight heating my back as I listen to the noises of life in his chest. My eyes fall closed as I let him support me, that little training room privy to so many emotions.

"I am so in love with you, Clary," he tells me as his fingers move through my hair. And I can't help the tears as they fall. Not because I don't feel the same emotions, exploding in my chest like an atomic bomb, but because I know the gravity of those words.

Loving me is a death sentence.