He didn't know which was worse: the fact Emma was kissing Mark, or the fact that he knew she loved him and was still kissing Mark. And she knew he loved her. And somehow he knew she was trying to break his heart. And he didn't know why, she wouldn't tell him. It was working and it wasn't. He felt his chest tighten whenever he saw them but he was sure Emma wouldn't do this without a reason. He trusted her, his Emma. And if she thought doing this would make him love her any less, she was wrong. She was so very wrong. And he'd told her as much. She was doing it for him. She was doing it for their kids. Except they weren't his children, they were his brothers and sisters. But he still had to take care of them, because he loved them.
Somehow he loved her more. Like his love had doubled for her each day since they were twelve years old. When he wouldn't let them make Emma go to the Academy in Idris. He knew then that they shouldn't become parabatai. He'd know she'd had a crush on Jace, possibly a crush on Mark. But they were crushes, they'd fade. If he'd known how much he could love her he wouldn't have done it. But there was no way to tie Emma to him, she wasn't a Blackthorn. Their family was breaking apart as it was. His mother had died when he was ten. The Hunt had taken Mark. He had killed his father. And Helen had been exiled to Wrangle Island.
The older he got, the harder it was to hide. Emma lived with them now. And nobody had forgotten the Dark War. Arthur wouldn't love the children, Arthur wouldn't take care of the children. Julian would provide for them. Julian would love them and care for them. At twelve years old, he was the one writing to the Clave, the werewolves, the vampires and warlocks fighting over faerie territory. The children would wake up with nightmares. He would console them. But when he woke up screaming for Helen or Mark, it would be Emma that held him shaking on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. Emma who would train till she was worn out then kept going. It was Emma who'd been his light in his darkest times. His biggest secret.
Emma who was smart. Emma who was funny. Emma who could throw two knives at once into the heart of a target. Emma who was beautiful. With her brown eyes and their flecks of gold. With her blonde hair which was more of a caramel colour with gold and silver and honey. Emma who he would burn the world down for and not regret a thing. Emma in his arms, dancing close to him at the midnight theatre. Emma who he'd carried, almost dying, out of the ocean. Who he'd laid with on the sand. Who filled his heart and his studio and knew it.
Emma who he'd hidden it all from for five years. The girl he'd fallen irreversibly in love with in every way. And now the secret had escaped, he couldn't stop it. He couldn't be angry at Mark, Mark didn't know. He couldn't show it to anyone else, anyone who might tell the Clave or judge him. He couldn't hate Emma. Ever. There was nothing she could do to make him hate her. Even this. The thought of Mark being with her and not him. Knowing this isn't what Emma wanted. Emma trying to ignore his confrontations. They had to pretend, of course, that it was okay. Because they had the kids. The kids couldn't know anything was wrong. The children couldn't live on their own without him. Not with Arthur. He'd told so many lies but this had been the hardest, the one he regretted most. The lie that hurt him every day. Seeing her every day and not being with her. Seeing her with Mark.
"And if my heart were a canvas, every square inch of it would be painted over with you."
