Hey guys! So you may have notice that the rating has changed which means that there's a wee bit of lemonade at the end of this chapter^^ As usual read & review, give your thoughts and comments.

I don't own the Mortal Instruments series, they belong to Cassandra Clare. The story and all the OCs however are mine.

Lilly

Chapter Two: Hold Her through the Night

Clary had always been socially awkward. She would just stand there with a friendly smile on her lips, in the middle of the crowd while people swirled around her in whirls of colors and words. Her heart was beating wildly against her ribcage, her glass of champagne trembling in her shaking hand. She was watching people walk around the gallery, whispering and pointing and nodding. The anxiety was overwhelming and hard to bear, even after she gulped out her flute and Isabelle's – who was forbidden to drink any alcohol, of course. Closing her eyes and taking deep breaths didn't help either, and the only person who could have calmed her down was missing. There was no trace of Jace anywhere. She had repeated over and over to him how important this day was and he had promised to be here and hold her.

She forced a brave smile and waved at her mother and father – Jocelyn and Luke Graymark – who were the best parents she could have dreamed of, supportive and loving. Their thumbs were up as they congratulated her from afar. She nodded in thanks and carried on staring at the door.

"It won't explode."

She jumped back in surprise. A tall man was smiling at her. He looked young, probably around her own age and had broad and strong-looking shoulders, although Clary couldn't help but notice that they were slightly narrower than Jace's. Something was strange about him though, despite his obvious youth, his hair and eyebrows were gray – almost white. She wondered if maybe he had done it on purpose or if he was sick. His eyes were dark and twinkling with the reflection of a candle flame standing on a short pillar next to the fountain. He looked very elegant, wearing all black. She frowned.

"What?"

"No matter how long you stare at the door, I don't think it'll ever explode," he said, holding out his hand for her to shake. "I'm Jonathan. Jonathan Morgenstern."

Clary couldn't help but smile. "Did I say something fun–?"

"No! I'm sorry," she apologized. "My husband's name is Jonathan too; I was just thinking how small the world was."

He smiled a gentle smile and she thought she saw a flash of disappointment at the mention of Jace. "And you are?"

"Clarissa Herondale."

"You're the artist?" he asked, his face a mask of pleasant surprise.

Clary nodded shyly, feeling her cheeks heating up. "That's me."

"Well you're extremely talented, Clarissa."

"Thank you." A waiter walked by them and she grabbed another glass of champagne from his trail, from which she took a long sip, hoping it would calm the blushing – which of course, it only increased. "Did Laurel invite you?"

"Laurel?" Jonathan repeated confused.

"Laurel Miller? She's my agent," Clary said.

"Oh, no I was just walking by. I used to live in this neighborhood when I was a kid and I wanted to see if it was as I remembered it. That's when I saw one of your paintings from outside. It took my breath away. I wanted to see if I could buy one," Jonathan explained. "But apparently they are all sold out."

Clary coughed, choking on her champagne. "What?"

"You didn't know?" She shook her head. "Well I'm happy to be the one to announce it to you. Congratulations."

"Thank you," Clary spluttered, looking for Laurel or Mr. Gold in the crowd. "I'm sorry you couldn't get one. Maybe next time?"

"I won't be in New York next time, I think," he said. "I'm leaving at the end of the week."

"Oh already?"

"Clary!" She turned around and saw Magnus and Isabelle, gesturing for her to come.

"Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:

It was the nightingale, and not the lark,

That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear," Jonathan whispered softly to himself. Clary turned on her heels.

"Did you just quote Romeo and Juliet?" she asked in disbelief and he nodded, the shadow of a smile playing on his lips. She seemed to debate with herself, her cheeks burning harder.

"I was in the play in high school," Jonathan explained. "By the end of the term I knew R&J by heart."

"I'm a Shakespeare nerd. I –that's what inspired me to paint the first one of these," Clary said.

"Which part?" he asked, taking a step closer to her.

She took a step back.

"Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night

And pay no worship to the garish sun."

"Beautiful," she thought she heard him whisper.

"Maybe I could paint you – sorry for you– I mean," she took a deep breath, hating herself for being so skittish around men she didn't know. "I could paint a night sky for you, before you leave. If you want of course."

"It's okay. I wouldn't want to trouble you," Jonathan replied, running a hand through his gray-white hair. "I'm sure I'm not the only one who's going home disappointed."

"Maybe not, but you quoted Shakespeare and I thought I was the only nerd that knew it almost by heart," she laughed and he joined her. "No offense."

"None taken," he smiled.

"I think I have to go before my friends drag me by the hair," Clary said once she had regained her breath. She took a piece of paper from her purse and handed it to Jonathan with a pen.

"If you could write your number," she asked. "I'll call you before the end of the week."

"I don't want to overstep my boundaries here," he replied, scribbling the digits on the small card. "If you had other plans…"

"I like challenges," she shrugged.

"Well in that case, here you go." He handed Clary her paper back. "I'll look forward to hearing from you."

xXx

"Do you know what's even scarier than the thought of Morgenstern in the city?" Alec asked, slamming the door of his car shut. Jace wasn't really paying attention. "Facing Magnus, Clary and Iz pissed off at us for being so late."

Jace rolled his eyes and walked through the golden door of the gallery. He stopped abruptly. He had seen Clary's paintings, but the light inside was different. Hundreds of candles stood on differently shaped and sized pillars, their flames wavering as people strolled around the room, casting strange shadows on the paintings and the floor. Clary was laughing with Magnus, Simon and Isabelle, her hands firmly gripping her glass of champagne. She was beautiful, wearing a short black bustier dress, tighter at the waist with irregular splashes of red, pink, purple and orange paint across it –no doubt that it was one of Magnus'. Her bright red hair had been smoothed and was gracefully falling on her freckled shoulders. He couldn't see her eyes from here but, knowing Magnus, he bet that they looked like two emeralds encrusted in her doll-like face. As if she felt his eyes on her, she turned her head in his direction. He saw a cocktail of emotions rack through her before she marched over to him.

"I'm so, so sorry, Clary," Jace said. "It's–"

"Work, I know," she interrupted him. "Not that it makes it any better." He mentally braced himself for the screaming and the kick in the crotch – Clary was surprisingly good at aiming where it hurts when she was upset. But, she bit her lips before wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him lightly. He frowned, confused. "That doesn't mean that I'm not mad at you, but I'll be mad later."

"Works for me," he smirked and slid an arm around her waist. "I'm proud of you," he added and she blushed, the freckles on her cheeks lighting up.

"Jace!" Before he could react a little girl with brown hair and green eyes launched herself in his arms. He caught her swiftly and smiled.

"Hey Tab," he greeted, pecking her on the cheek. Tabitha was Clary's eight-year-old sister. He tickled her and she giggled trying to escape him. He settled her down gently and she ran off, probably to her parents. Clary and Tabitha didn't look like siblings; not the way Alec and Isabelle did, but they had the exact same eyes – shaped like Luke's and greener than Jocelyn's. He wondered, not for the first time, what their – his and Clary's – children would look like.

"I think Golden Boy is far far away." Jace snapped back to reality. Magnus was staring at him, his eyes twinkling. He was standing in Alec's arms, playing with the spider-like pendant of his gold and shiny necklace. "Oh please, don't let us interrupt your fantasies." He winked at Clary who blushed and looked away.

"What took you so long anyway?" Isabelle asked, looking from Alec to Jace with a suspicious frown on her face.

"What do you think?" Jace replied, taking Clary's glass of champagne and emptying it.

"Hum, knowing you I'd say stripper, or something like that," Isabelle said, faking a smile.

Magnus burst out laughing, Alec chuckled and Clary just rolled her eyes, intertwining her fingers with Jace's. Simon shook his head, an apologetic look on his face.

"You don't know what you're talking about dear Isabelle," Jace said as his mouth slowly stretched into a crooked smile. "I'm way too pretty for strippers."

Clary chuckled. "Cocky bastard," Isabelle spat.

"The hormones are kicking in," Simon whispered to Jace, whose mouth widened even more. "I would be careful about what I say next if I were you."

"I see."

Isabelle shot him an evil look, somehow enhanced by the red of her long silk dress and shimmering lipstick.

"Anyway," Magnus interrupted, "Stripper or no stripper, I'd like to propose a toast." He raised his glass of champagne in front of him. "To our sweet and spicy Clary and her undeniable and brilliant success tonight, may her life be full of starlight and nice long walks on the beach and hot passionate love m–"

"Magnus." Alec shook him a little, his face flushed.

"Oh. Sorry," he smiled crookedly then whispered so low that only Alec heard, "This is for you and me."

"To – to Clar–ry," Alec stammered.

"To Clary," the others echoed.

xXx

The night was dark and cold but Jonathan found it welcoming. The noise however was keeping him from sleeping, screams and sirens and music which sounded as close as if they were in bed with him. He hated New York – or any big American city for that matter. They were busy and loud and it was impossible to breathe without dying of lung cancer. And people like him had to be really creative to bring a new order to the underworld, as his father called it. Jonathan knew the world, he had traveled it with Valentine – or fled around it, depending on how one looked at it – and he had found that everywhere was better than being in the Big Apple, the city where it had all began; where his father had held his mother hostage for nine months before he was born because she didn't want to have him. The same mother, Reyna Branwell, had vanished from the face of the earth not so long after that, because she couldn't look at her own son without feeling disgusted or repelled.

Since then, Jonathan had carried in his heart an unflinching scorn toward womankind with the firm attention of never forgiving them for what his mother did. Even the red headed beauty lying next to him could do nothing to fix him – not in one night anyway, and it's all that he had paid for. He shook his head. He didn't need nor want to be fixed. That's the way he liked it. No feelings, just the mere satisfaction of his basic needs. He had become what his father had always wanted him to be and that was fine with him. The girl turned around, squinting to see through the darkness.

"Well?" she asked, shifting uncomfortably.

"Well what?" he retorted.

"Are you going to untie me or what?" she asked, rolling her eyes. She wore green contact lenses but the color was nowhere near the real shade of the one he had wanted to spend his night with. But he knew her nights belonged to someone else. Her hands were tightly tied above her head.

He shrugged. A nagging voice inside his mind was telling him that Clarissa was different, that she meant something – or would mean something if he ever saw her again, and he wasn't sure how long he could ignore it. Was he going soft? He hoped not, because in his line of "business" soft wouldn't keep him alive very long – neither would love now that he thought about it. He frowned, switching his bedside table lamp on. He ruffled through his hair and slowly stood up, walking toward the door.

"Hey!" the girl called, kicking in the air, trying to escape her bonds.

Jonathan's face darkened as he bent to the girl's eye level, a smile on his lips. "If I were you I'd be very quiet right now, and very cooperative when I come back."

The girl nodded fervently, her eyes wide with fear, and he patted her head before leaving the room.

"Where have you been?" Valentine asked as soon as he spotted his son. As usual, his tone was careful and irritatingly measured.

"I may be mistaken," Jonathan started, "but that is none of your business, Father."

"Very well," Valentine answered, the shadow of a smile on his lips. "You do know that we have a meeting tomorrow morning? I won't tolerate any lateness."

Jonathan shrugged and went into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He opened the tap and splashed his face with cold water. He inhaled deeply and lifted his chin, looking at his reflection in the large silver-framed mirror. His hair had become whiter again, his pale face emphasizing the darkness in his eyes. Even with the bright yellow light hanging above his head, they looked like bottomless holes, the iris undistinguishable from the pupil. What he looked like was no surprise to him, he had seen himself many times before, but the more he looked the more he saw how much of his father he had taken – his narrow nose, the rounded shape of his eyes, his furry eyebrows, and now even the color of his hair was more similar to his father's than ever. A cruel smile was creeping its way onto his lips. Everything he needed to make others do what he wanted was here; people were too scared to refuse him anything, and he knew way too well how to use this power. Only someone had refused him tonight – in a way. He turned his head toward his room. Clarissa. Rage rose like bile in his mouth. He punched the glass with all the fury buried inside of him. The mirror shattered into an explosion of glass. When he looked at it again, blood was dripping from the cracks where his fists had hit the glass.

He took a towel and wiped the blood from his fist, walking toward the bathroom door and his room, where he knew he would find some kind of release from his frustration, even if it wasn't with the girl he wanted.

xXx

"Here," Jace said, handing Clary the warm mint tea she had craved for on their way back to Nolita.

They had changed into more comfortable clothes, Clary in an ivory cami and striped pajama's shorts and Jace in a dark blue T-shirt with gray sweatpants, and had climbed onto the roof's large terrace. Clary always loved the feeling of her bare feet against the wet wooden floor. She looked at the New York night life with a twinkle in her eyes, resting against the railing. She couldn't believe how the night had turned out, she felt silly obsessing over it earlier. Everything went fine – more than fine, it was perfect.

"What are you smiling about?" asked Jace, sitting just beside her on a bench.

"I'm happy," she answered, as he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her to him.

"I thought you were going to be all over me for being late?"

"I changed my mind," she said, leaning over him. She brushed her lips against his, but when he stretched his neck to kiss her, she stopped him with a finger on his mouth, shaking her head.

"Oh." Jace rolled his eyes. "I see where this is going. That's how you're punishing me, isn't it?"

"Whatever works." She shrugged, faking an innocent smile, setting the tea aside.

She returned to her contemplation of New York, trying to keep the smile that was trying to escape inside. Clary had never been in control before; it had always been quite the opposite. Jace could make her do pretty much anything. She closed her eyes, breathing in the hot summer air, enjoying the change of roles. Jace's arms went around her waist, pressing her against his body and she felt him harden through the thin fabric of her shorts. She inhaled deeply. It took all of her strength to keep facing the city and ignore the rising heat that was slowly flooding between her legs. She bit her lip hard and gripped the railing trying her best to regain her composure. She felt him smile as his mouth trailed a path of hot kisses along her throat and on her shoulder.

"It's been a long week," he murmured in her ear. "I thought you'd be happier to see me."

She closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath as her heart was hammering in her chest. She felt his hands play with the silk bow of her shorts, the only thing keeping it from falling down.

"I was – I am." She tilted her head back against his shoulder. "Oh god, I don't know."

He slid a hand under her shirt, lightly brushing her breast with the tip of his fingers. Her lips trembled as she tried to cover the sound of a moan with her hands. She had no idea how, but Clary found the strength to pull away and spun on her heels. "No." She shook her head, out of breath, keeping him at arm's length.

"No?" Jace repeated, with a smirk. He pushed a lock of fiery red hair out of her face. She knew he could smell the victory.

He was right. It had been a long week. She was still not used to sleeping by herself in their big bed.

He saw her flinch and took his chance by picking her up and wrapping her legs around his waist. Then he looked up at her and saw that she had given in, her parted lips breathing heavily as her cheeks blushed.

He didn't think Clary realized how much the combination of innocence and everlasting desire he could see on her face turned him on. She crushed her mouth to his, and he opened his mouth for her tongue, his hands running frenetically up and down her thighs. She didn't notice that her cami had landed on the floor until she felt his burning hands on the skin of her back. As usual, she was expecting him to be disappointed at the sight of her small breasts, but each time she only saw lust in his golden eyes. She lifted his shirt above his head and took a ragged breath, remembering about the car injury. The bruises were slowly turning into a deep purple and the long cut across his chest had been stitched.

"Are you sure?" she asked, her hand resting lightly on his bruised chest. "I don't want to hurt you again."

"You can't hurt me," he whispered, mesmerized by how beautiful her body shone in the moonlight.

His mouth found her lips again and then trailed down her throat until he reached her breasts. He sucked on a pink nipple and she moaned loudly. When he looked at her again she cupped his face in her hands, dizzied by the ecstasy and the pleasure running through her veins.

"B–bed," she managed to say, stuttering, and he smiled, carrying her downstairs, shutting down New York's night life as he slammed the door shut with his foot.

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See ya!

Lilly