Thanks go to amaggiepie and sunshiiine23 for their beta work on this chapter. I love you ladies.

Warnings: Mature themes including perceived incest, explicit sexual content, and strong language. Immature themes including excessive dash usage and copious amounts of unapologetic relationship angst. Proceed with caution.

Context: This story is set after a City of Glass in which Clary and Jace do NOT figure out that they aren't really brother and sister. They never got the Book of the White to Magnus, so Jocelyn is still comatose. (This ignores City of Fallen Angels entirely.)

Keep the Next Breath

PART SIX

Jace doesn't chance Clary not showing up a third night in a row. When they get back to the Institute, he follows her into her room even though Isabelle and Alec are awake just down the hall. But the adrenaline from the fight has seeped from her body along with any will to protest his breach of caution. Neither of them speak as Jace places locking and silencing runes on the door, and Clary changes in her pajamas.

By the time she pulls her hair out from beneath the t-shirt collar, Jace is sitting on the edge of the bed, hands fisted at his sides. He's staring at the floor stone-faced, and Clary knows this is going to be a long night.

"Jace, we shouldn't—"

"I never suspected, not once. I'm a Shadowhunter. I'm trained to detect and hunt demons, and I didn't even recognize one when I shook its hand."

"If anyone should have noticed, it's me," Clary says adamantly. "I'm the one who knew him best. I should have realized it wasn't him."

Jace is silent; he doesn't agree.

"And how could he have been a demon," Clary continues, "when we saw him in the middle of the day?"

"Inside."

"What?"

"We saw him inside the shop. Not out in the sun."

It's Clary's turn to fall silent.

"He was alone with you outside Magnus's. He could have…" Jace shakes his head, jaw clenched. "I've never seen an Eidolon do such a perfect transformation. One's never gotten past our Sight before."

"Maybe it had help. Or maybe it wasn't an Eidolon at all." She closes the distance between them, climbs onto his lap, and kneels so that she's straddling his legs. Jace's hands go to her immediately, touching her face and then gently sliding down the column of her throat. She pulls at his coat zipper. "We'll figure it out tomorrow with Maryse and Robert."

It feels good having him here like this, almost as if they're a normal couple—turning in for the night together, getting ready for bed, talking about their day. No waiting for everyone else to fall asleep before sneaking into a dark room.

"It's true, you know."

Clary continues with her task of pushing the coat off his shoulders and down his arms. "What is?"

"Demons are drawn to humans by raw need. The desire to consume is irresistible."

It takes Clary a moment to recall the conversation from that evening, but when she does, she frowns down at the buttons of his shirt. She undoes them one-by-one with care.

"I think that's why I want you more than what's humanly possible. No one's wanted anything as much as I want you, and I don't think we're supposed to."

His shirt joins his coat, both lying draped over the foot of the bed. "You mean it's not my dazzling you want?" It doesn't come out sounding as teasing as she intended. She looks down at where her hands are resting against his chest to avoid meeting his eyes but doesn't miss the small shake of his head.

"No. That's what I love."

There are many things a person could get tired of hearing over and over. Jace saying he loves her isn't one of them. Her fingers fan out farther against the smoothed, lined skin of his chest. She takes a moment to soak in the heat. "Do you know why I want you?"

He shakes his head again.

"Because you're ridiculously hot."

She feels his laugh against her palms. It rides her bones and warms her veins. "Well, I can hardly blame you for that."

"Do you know why I love you?"

His chest rises and falls unevenly. "No."

The list of reasons is a tireless, but she picks the one that feels especially true right then. "Because you make me feel strong. Like I could do anything." Anything but walk away from you. "Most of the time I don't think you're even doing it on purpose. You just do and say things that make me feel good."

His fingers dig into her hips, tugging her closer so that their chests bump together. "You can do anything," he affirms. "And some day you're going to realize you can do better than me."

She shakes her head because the idea is ridiculous. Jace may not be perfect, but he's as close to perfect as she'll ever need. She wishes she could make him see that, especially in moments like this when he lets all pretenses of certainty fall away. But no number of kind words from her will make him realize his self-worth. That sort of acceptance is earned, not bestowed, and she can't fight this battle for him.

But she can reassure him that she'll be here no matter what.

"Do you know what I want to do right now?" she asks, fingers tracing the runes to his shoulders then following the contours of his biceps. Gently, she scrapes her nails down his forearms, watching the trail of goose bumps that appear in their wake. She can feel him his eyes on her as she wraps her hand around his wrists.

"You're asking a lot of questions tonight," he notes, almost sounding dismayed.

She hums. "Well, if you're not interested…"

A moment after she tugs his hands from her hips he's wrapping an arm around her back to keep her still. There's a breath of air against her neck followed by the fleeting touch of his lips. "I'm always interested."

She threads a hand through his hair, directing his mouth to that place on her shoulder he has a habit of biting. "Even if I want to go spar for an hour?" she asks, gasping at the sensation of teeth on skin.

The world tips and Clary ends up beneath Jace on the bed, his hands shackling hers to the mattress. She peers up at his face, only to find it half-hidden by the fringe of his hair and the darkness of the room. "If it's you on your back with me on top of you that you're after, we don't have to go all the way to the training room for that."

He lowers himselfso that their bodies are perfectly aligned, hers bearing the weight of his. He's all firm planes against the softness of her curves, and she belatedly wishes that she had taken her own shirt off as well. She shifts and feels the hardness pressing into her thigh, and there really are too many layers of clothes between them for her liking. Her mind is spinning with the events of the evening, and the last thing she needs is to think about it all a moment longer.

With a bit of wiggling, she gets her hands free. She pushes at him until he rolls sideways off of her, and she's straddling his hip and reaching for the button of his jeans before he gets a chance to protest the change of positions.

She feels the need to clarify when Jace raises an eyebrow at her. "I want to be on top."

[ - ] [ - ] [ - ]

The council chamber is one of the many rooms in the Institute that doesn't see much in the way of use. The room, located near the back of the Institute, isn't particularly large, but it's long and narrow with a sleek, wooden table running the length of it. The only other pieces of furniture are the twenty cushioned chairs designed for lengthy tactical meetings, six of which are now occupied. Jace, slumped back in his own seat, listens absently as Alec recounts the weekend's events to Robert and Maryse, who both look unreasonably alert for the early hour. Next to Jace, Isabelle has her face hidden behind a cup of coffee and offers the occasional muttered commentary to Alec's straight forward explanation. Across from them, Clary blinks sleepily at the table and swats at a chunk of hair that's escaped from her hastily done braids.

Despite his foul mood, Jace can't help smiling smugly to himself. She didn't get much sleep last night. Neither of them did.

"...and then it crumbled into rubble. That was when Clary got the call about Hayden," Alec finishes. He's watching Robert expectantly, but it's Maryse who responds.

"You took a Mundane to a Downworlders' party?" She sounds more than a tad scandalized, and her left eyebrow twitches at the question—never a favorable sign.

"That's not the point," Alec says, leaning forward in his chair, and Jace can't blame him for being impatient. They spent the last twenty minutes relaying the weekend's events and thatis the detail Maryse hones in on. Never mind the murderous statue or the demon they had dinner with. It'll be a small wonder the day she stops viewing them all as anything other than children in need of instruction or chastisement. "The point is that a demon killed a Mundane in order to get close to us."

Maryse shakes her head. "But why? You aren't privy to any of the Clave's private dealings, and you never would have brought him inside the Institute no matter how close you thought you were." The last bit is said rather sternly.

Jace would have rolled his eyes if it weren't for the shining example of Simon's brief stay post-rat. Alec, meanwhile, looks insulted. "Of course not. But what else would a demon be doing hanging out with a bunch of Shadowhunters? It could have something to do with the lack of demon activity."

"The Clave," she responds quickly, "has found no evidence to suggest that anything the flux in activity is anything but the natural fallout from—"

"That's only because they're not looking for any evidence." Everyone's eyes slide to Clary, who's been uncharacteristically quiet to this point. "They aren't looking for anything."

The quiet accusation has Maryse straightening in her seat. "There are a number of matters the Clave is facing, many of which are far more pressing than our local demon shortage. They allocate their recourses where and when they can."

It's a knee-jerk reaction for Maryse to defend the Clave; it has been for years—ever since they effectively banished her and Robert to New York for treason. And even though the events surrounding Valentine's return tainted the infallible image the Clave had maintained for so long, her loyalty towards the Nephilim's governing body remains firm, if not a little battered. Jace knows it's something Maryse can't afford to lose.

Clary might be exhausted, but there's no mistaking the familiar, determined glint that enters his sister's eyes in that moment. "Then we'll just have to deal with it ourselves."

Alec readily nods his agreement. "If we wait, the trail will go cold."

"What are you thinking?"

The low rumble of Robert's voice catches Alec off guard, and he takes a moment to collect his thoughts before responding. "We'll need to find whatever it was that impersonated Hayden. It couldn't have been working alone, so we need to question it. Hayden's house would be a good place to start looking for trails to follow. It was staying there for a few days, and it might have left something behind."

Jace can feel Alec's eyes on him, searching for some sign of approval. But Jace doesn't look up from his task of dislodging the dirt beneath his fingers nails with the tip of his stele.

"Maybe not. Hayden,"—there's a hesitation when Clary says his name—"was staying home alone this weekend because his dad was out of town. The demon wouldn't have had to stay there to keep up appearances."

"But it's a place to start," Robert adds.

"Clary…do you think you could get inside Hayden's house?"

Jace's eyes flicker up at Alec's hesitant question, watching carefully for Clary's reaction.

Her lips curve in a small frown. "I…I could maybe come up with a reason to stop by, but I'd like to wait a couple of days before trying."

"Of course. It wouldn't be appropriate," Maryse agrees with a curt nod, and Jace catches a glimpse of the woman who recently lost her own son. But it's only a glimpse, a lapse, and a beat later she's stoically lifting her chin. "If this is going to be handled appropriately, it will require research. Find out what it was that attacked you last night. You'll also need to step up patrols accordingly. You've been getting lazy."

"I can help," Clary offers.

Jace's refusal is burning on the tip of his tongue when Robert nods. "This would be a good opportunity for field experience. You'll patrol with me tonight."

Jace straightens in his seat. "But she—"

"We'll split into two teams," Robert continues, leaving no room for argument. "Isabelle goes with Clary and I. We'll patrol the area where you encountered the demon last night. Alec and Jace, you take the docks, working your way north."

And that's it. Robert pushes back from the table and rises to his feet. Maryse watches him exit the room. Looking a little bewildered, she nonetheless voices her agreement. "Yes, I think that should work well. In the meantime, you can begin your research."

Jace is already on his feet and doesn't spare her or anyone else in the room a second glance as he leaves. Briefly, he considers following Robert and trying to talk some sense into him, but Jace knows it will be a wasted effort. Until he turns 18—the age at which he can potentially claim legal custody of Clary—he has no say in her training or any other risks she's allowed to take part in. It doesn't matter that he's the only family she has; she's a ward of the Clave until Jocelyn regains consciousness, and they can do with her as they please. It doesn't matter that he loves her more than anyone else here—or anywhere—and that it would destroy him if anything were to happen to her.

"Jace!"

He stops, turning to see his parabatai striding purposely down the hall. Reluctantly, Jace waits until Alec stops a couple feet away and waits again as Alec regards him wordlessly for several moments. Blue eyes flicker over his features as carefully as if they're measuring them. It's the sort of intent expression Jace has only ever seen Alec give a convoluted map or a particularly difficult passage of Ancient Greek. He finds it unsettling to be the subject of its scrutiny now.

"Did you start the silent game without telling me?" Jace finally asks. "Because that's cheating, you know, and I demand a restart."

"You're worried about Clary."

Jace opens his mouth to protest because it's a survival instinct to deny Clary publically, to deny anything and everything because he can hardly recognize the line between innocence and debauchery now that he's crossed it so thoroughly.

"I know that you think it's too soon for Clary to be patrolling," Alec says, "and you're probably right."

"Naturally."

"But Dad will keep an eye on her. You know that."

"And letting her run off into the fray without more than a few months training is keeping an eye on her?" Jace argues. "It's reckless. She's reckless. And I'm her brother. I'm supposed to—"

"Protect her," Alec finishes.

Jace shakes his head. "Keep her alive. It's dumb luck she made it through everything with Valentine. And now this."

It's not fair.

But life never is. Especially not his.

"We'll figure it out." With that, Alec begins stepping away, but Jace stops him with his next words.

"Thank you. For last night."

There's no need for elaboration. Jace sees the understanding pass over his parabatai's face along with a flush of red along his cheeks. But there's something else there, as well, and Jace finds himself looking at him more closely.

"Jace…" Alec meets his eyes. "I would never let anything happen to her."

Jace nods his acceptance as Alec claps him on the shoulder before heading down the hall.

[ - ] [ - ] [ - ]

It's a relief when Clary hears that a public viewing for Hayden will be held at his home. It means she doesn't have to find an excuse to stop by the house on her own. She only has a vague recollection of Hayden's father, and that's from years ago when he would pick up Hayden from the middle school the same time Jocelyn was there to get Clary. She doubts that he would recognize her or let her into the house—no matter how tactful the request.

The local news has been following the story of Hayden's death, and within 48 hours it's announced that he died of heart failure. A healthy 18-year-old athlete dies from natural causes, and no one questions it any longer than it takes to label the whole thing a terrible tragedy. It angers Clary that no one but them will ever know the truth about what happened, and a father will be left to wonder why for the rest of his life.

The viewing is scheduled for Friday, and the preceding days are spent tucked away in the library pouring over book after book on demon identification and shadow world history. They're looking for any accounts bearing similarities to the stone creature they encountered Sunday night. It's a tedious and largely fruitless task that causes Clary to begin loathing the feel of thin pages between her fingertips. She's not very good at this sort of research, she decides, as she's alternatively distracted by Isabelle's sporadic humming and Jace's resounding silence. Alec doesn't join them, and if he were anyone else she would assume he's shirking his duties. But it's Alec, so she's fairly certain that he and Magnus really are making an effort to help sort this thing out.

Clary doesn't think she would have made it through Thursday if Simon hadn't agreed to meet up with her for a short break. She drops by the school during his lunch period, and he utilizes some inherent vampire sneakiness to get off campus. There's a small playground a block down, and they settle cross-legged on the old merry-go-round. As Clary unpacks her sandwich and chips, Simon relays the school's reaction to Hayden's death.

"I'm pretty sure half the student body prefers to think that he was murdered," he says dryly. "And that his jealous ex-girlfriend Shayna orchestrated it all. I guess that means there's a chance you'll be next."

Clary grunts over a bite of turkey and sourdough. "They're not the only ones who think that."

Simon looks surprised. "Really? I never pegged Shayna as the hire-a-demon-to-kill-and-impersonate-her-ex-boyfriend kind of girl. Sure, there's the scary, claw-like manicure, the shoes without shoelaces, and the age-inappropriate Dora the Explorer backpack, but that doesn't really scream homicidal cult worshiper like it used to. Now it just says: I easily get lost in department stores."

"Hmm," Clary hums thoughtfully. "Write that one down. Could be your guys' next big single."

"Will do. But can we go back to the part where you might be murdered?" Simon pulls a small flask of blood from his inside his coat. His fingers work the cap with ease, immune to the chilly air. "That sounded like it was getting interesting."

"Maryse doesn't seem to think that a demon would bother getting close to us for the purpose of infiltrating the Clave. We're too insignificant. So whoever it was must have been hanging around for some other reason."

Simon frowns. "Like what?

Clary shrugs a shoulder. "We're not sure." Leaning back against one of the handle bars, she idly twists the Morgenstern ring hanging from her neck. It's a habit that soothes her. "Usually the only thing demons want is to kill us. And to eat people."

"So maybe it's not a demon."

"Maybe not. We're looking for anything at this point." This reminds Clary that soon she'll have to go back to the Institute soon to resume research.

"So they're really letting you go out on patrols now?"

"Who told you that?" she asks, curious because she hadn't mentioned it in any of their phone calls.

Simon pockets his flask. "Alec said something about it yesterday. Just before he and Magnus had a big fight."

Simon has taken to dropping by Magnus's apartment on occasion, and it doesn't surprise Clary that the two of them have struck up a friendly rapport. They have a similar sense of humor and—Clary rarely lets herself linger on this thought—neither of them would age another day in their lives.

"Magnus and Alec were fighting?" It would explain why she saw Alec in the kitchen early this morning. He obviously hadn't slept at his boyfriend's. "What about?"

"I don't know," he says with a shrug. "I'm not as nosey as you. I didn't eavesdrop."

Her crumbled chip bag bounces harmlessly off the side of his face. He raises his eyebrows in offense.

"A special Shadowhunter technique you've learned?"

"Yes." Clary pushes to her feet. "In a few hours time you'll be completely transformed into a Dorito."

"Just when you thought I couldn't get any cheesier."

She stops then, smile slowly fading. She takes in his mused hair, pale skin, dark eyes, the Tim Burton t-shirt beneath the old bomber jacket, and the jeans worn white in several places. They're details that are essentially Simon and yet feel only distantly familiar; like puzzle pieces warped with rain and age so that they don't quite fit together they way they used to—don't form the same picture.

The realization is a sobering one.

"You can't ever change, Simon."

"Well, according to you I'm gonna be a corn chip here pretty soon so—"

"I mean it."

The forcefulness of the words brings him up short. He touches a hand to his temple in a nervous gesture—a remnant of the days when he still wore glasses. "Everybody changes. Maybe not physically," he allows, "but in other ways."

She looks away.

"You've changed."

There's a heaviness in those words, and she's glad she can't see his face and what else might be lingering there. Her eyes linger on the playground. "I bet I can still swing higher than you."

The merry-go-round squeaks and then Simon is walking past her. He looks normal and even smirks as he heads towards the swing set. "I am vampire. See me soar."

[ - ] [ - ] [ - ]

The sound of the front door opening pulls Davis from sleep. For a moment he reaches blindly for his glasses on the nightstand, only to remember that there are no glasses, and there is no nightstand. Three nights in this place and he still expects to wake up in his old bedroom—a bedroom he hasn't seen in over a month.

Pushing away the covers, he slumps off the bed and onto his feet. The floor is cold, and he hears his mom's voice in his head. Go get a pair of socks. If you get sick, I'm not letting you stay home from school. Those are things he never thought he'd miss—his mother's constant nagging or getting up to go school. But Davis would trade anything to go downstairs and find his mom standing in the kitchen or to get on a bus and go to the high school where he's just a no-name freshman. He would trade anything not to be a werewolf.

Voices he wouldn't have heard a month ago are now distinct whispers in his ears.

"Luke's keeping the heat on?"

"I guess. Probably so the books aren't damaged. He has Maia keeping an eye on the place."

Hearing the names of his alpha and the girl who's the closest thing he has to a friend only relieves some of Davis's anxiety as he quietly leaves the room. He makes his way to the stairs, and the voices—one male, one female—continue on conversationally.

"They'll be over here."

"You seem confident that we'll find something."

"Well, we've exhausted the Institute's library, so we better hope we find something."

Davis is careful to avoid the third step from the bottom, which always creaks, and listens for any indication that whoever is inside Luke's store has detected his presence. But there's only the sound of heavy books being shuffled around. The downstairs of Luke's house is dark, but the door to the bookstore is cracked open, sending a shot of pale light across the floor.

Davis steps as close as he dares and peers inside. The room is bathed in a sheen of gray light that's brightest at its source—a glowing orb the size of a fist sitting on one of Luke's tables—and fades to blackness by the time it reaches the shelves of books lining the walls.

He immediately recognizes the girl perched beside the strange light source. The petite profile distinguished by a head-full of thick red curls is impossible to misplace. Clary. The girl whose pictures cover the refrigerator in Luke's kitchen. The one Maia told him is a Shadowhunter. A sort of superhuman who is different from werewolves—or vampires, warlocks, or fey for that matter. Davis knows most of the pack doesn't think very much of Shadowhunters. Something about their demeanor of superiority and fickle nature. But Luke is away in the Shadowhunters' homeland, and Maia is of the mind that not all of them are a complete waste of space. Clary, she told him, wasn't even raised as a Shadowhunter, and she and her mother mean a lot to their pack leader.

Now Davis's eyes fall helplessly to her bare legs which start at the hem of a short dress and dangle a couple inches from the floor. They're smooth, toned, and almost shine in the ghost-like glow of the bizarre object at her side. She leans forward to grasp the buckle of one of her high heels.

It's only then that Davis notices the boy sitting in a chair just beyond her. He's golden haired, and lithely built. The black markings on his skin mark him as another Shadowhunter, and Davis thinks this must be Jace, Clary's brother. He's the one who Maia doesn't like very much. She had only reluctantly admitted that he was one of the best fighters she's ever come across. Dangerous. Arrogant. Reckless. And too pretty.

"I'm never borrowing Isabelle's shoes again. They kill my feet."

Clary continues struggling with the shoe as Jace flips through the pages of a book he's got open in front of him. Davis would wager that it was a volume from Luke's private collection that he keeps locked up behind the counter. He should announce himself. They probably don't know that Davis has been staying here for the last few weeks—with Luke's permission—and he didn't think it would end well if they were the ones who found him, a stranger, in Luke's home.

But this is the first time he's laid eyes on a Shadowhunter. Since being bitten by a rogue Were over a month ago, Davis has been exposed to creatures and curiosities that, for him, had never existed outside of his television. This whole other supernatural world hidden beside, beneath, and between the human one both fascinates and frightens him. He's curious about this Angel race.

There's a barely discernible scrape of the chair legs against the wooden floor as the boy—Jace—stands, abandoning the open book. He steps in front of Clary, takes her ankle in his hands with all the care and delicacy of someone cradling a wounded bird. His fingers are nimble on the dainty buckle of the high heel, and he unclasps it patiently. Once that shoe is free, he places it carefully on the table beside them and moves on to the next. He removes this one just as diligently and sets it beside its match.

This time Jace doesn't relinquish her foot. Instead he holds it to his chest, pressing a thumb into her arch, massaging the first the sole, then the heel, ankle, calf.

Clary lets out a pleased noise, sways forward, and then rocks back until she's lying on the table. Her chest heaves a sigh.

Davis watches Jace watch her and doesn't miss the subtle change that overcomes the Shadowhunter at having Clary in this vulnerable position. Davis thinks maybe it's the warrior in Jace subconsciously responding to the display of defenselessness—maybe fighting and survival is so ingrained in Shadowhunters that they can't escape it even in moments like this—but then there's nothing unintentional about the way Jace lowers her leg back beside the other and steps between them.

"Comfortable yet?" he asks, and what should have been an innocent questions thrums like a warning in the silence of the room.

But this girl doesn't seem to notice. "Much better," she responds almost drowsily, eyes closed to the world.

His hidden spot behind the door affords Davis a clear view of their illuminated profiles—Clary stretched out like a cat on the table and Jace looming over her, fingers moving in slow, methodical circles along her parted legs. His hands linger on her knees for a moment, pause, and then slide up her thighs. They don't stop their ascent, but dip beneath the hem of her jostled dress as if it's not even there.

Davis blinks, looks down at his bare feet, blinks again, knowing for certain that he saw that wrong, and, well, they are a good ten meters away and there are shadows, so maybe…

He returns his gaze to the oblivious pair, but nothing has changed. Jace's hands are still hidden by embroidered cotton. There's just enough light for Davis to make out Clary's eyes as they appear from beneath her lowered lashes. She stares at Jace, and he stares unflinchingly back with his hands on her hips beneath her dress. "We're supposed to be researching."

Davis realizes he's holding his breath and his knees are bent, his body poised to act. Mind racing, the only coherent thought he recognizes is the realization that this guy is about to do something terrible to his sister.

Davis nervously licks his lips. He's heard stories about Jace, about what kind of fighter—about how good of a fighter he is. Would Jace retaliate if Davis stops him? Would Davis be able to take him one-on-one? Would Clary be able to help?

Jace's voice snaps Davis back to attention. "And what about these?" His hands are moving beneath Clary's skirt. "They're uncomfortable, too, aren't they?"

There's a quiver in her voice as she says yes, and that should be all the incentive Davis needs to spring forward and act, but something holds him back, keeps his feet this side of the light shining on the floor. And it's not intuition or anything inside of him at all. It's something about them. There's something about the way Jace pulls the scrap of blue lace down her legs and the way Clary strokes the back of his jean-clad calf with pointed toes.

"The dress," Clary murmurs. "It's scratchy."

So Jace gathers the bottom of it in his hands as Clary lifts her hips, and he guides the thin, clingy material up to her waist.

Davis knows he should look away, that this is all wrong, wrong, wrong, but he can't take his eyes off the silhouette of her smooth thigh and curved ass as its revealed inch by inch. He's never seen a girl this way before and a part of him wants to know...

Jace helps Clary into a sitting position on the edge of the table and finishes pulling the dress off over her head. His fingers skim the edge of her lace-trimmed bra with dissatisfaction. "You know how I feel about these."

Davis sees Clary smile for the first time. It's small and personal—only meant for her brother. "And you know how I feel about these." She curls her fingers into his shirt and begins pulling it upward, forcing his arms above his head. But she can't reach past his elbows and Jace has to finish the job for her.

Black marks like tattoos are scrawled across Jace's chest, arms and back. Some are dark enough to swallow the light from the glowing orb, while others are faded as if someone has attempted to wash them away. They aren't really tattoos, Davis knows. They're the Marks that give Shadowhunters their power. Maia called them runes. She said they fade away once a Shadowhunter has used all of their power and leave behind the faint white scars that Davis sees spiraling across both Jace and Clary's skin.

When Jace reaches for the clasp of Clary's bra, she pushes his hands away. "You don't like it? I picked it out for you. It matches the underwear." She sounds amused. Davis can hardly breathe.

Jace leans forward as if he's going to kiss her, but he stops just shy of her lips. "I didn't notice."

Jace's hands make another move toward her back, but she brushes them aside. "Nuh-uh. I like it."

Jace groans, but Clary isn't swayed. Her fingers hook into the front belt loops of jeans and pull him forward so that he returns to his spot between her now bare thighs. As she works the button and zipper, Jace sweeps back her mane of red hair and presses slow kisses to her neck. Clary frees his erection, takes it in her hand.

Davis's eyes drop to the floor. He tries to think back to every conversation he had with Maia discussing Luke's family, thinkingmaybe he'd misunderstood. Maybe they aren't related, and there's a reasonable explanation for them to be doing…this. But the harder he tries to recall some bit of rationality, the more quickly 'Jace' and 'Clary' are chased by 'brother' and 'sister' around and around his head.

A low moan pulls him back to the couple in the bookstore. Clary's arms are wrapped around Jace's neck, her legs around his hips, Jace buried in between. He rocks slowly against her as they trade brief kisses, lips barely grazing. Clary sighs, her hands falling to his shoulder blades, where she traces the runes without needing to open her eyes.

Jace's mouth becomes more fervent against hers. He moves his hips quicker, then slower, constantly changing tempo. Clary struggles to meet the irregular thrusts.

"Jace," she moans in frustration, and her hands drop to his hips as if to guide him into a steadier rhythm.

But he continues his pace relentlessly. "I want it off," he mutters.

Clary sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes squeezed shut as she grinds herself gracelessly against him. Davis knows that it's friction she's looking for, and he feels his own blood begin to race at the thought.

Dissatisfied, Clary groans, and Jace stops moving all together. He lowers his mouth to Clary's ear and whispers words Davis can just make out. "Take it off, and I'll fuck you the way you want."

Her body quakes with a shiver that shakes loose all pretenses of resistance. Her hands fly to the clasp of the bra, and she doesn't even have it off her arms before Jace is laying her back on the table. His hands hitch her legs higher on his waist as he pulls out and then slams back into her.

Clary lets out a startled cry.

Just thrusts into her again and elicits the same response. "That's right, baby," he breathes. "There's no one to hear you tonight."

"God, Jace. Oh, God. God. Jace, yes. Yes."

He's steadily pounding into her now, and Davis watches Clary's body writhe and buck under the assault. He follows the dark pink of her erect nipples as they heave up and down with each frenzied thrust of Jace's hips. Clary's nails scrape blindly across the table in search of purchase until her fingers catch the edge of the table above her head.

"Jace! God, Jace…" She's practically humming, head thrown back, face flushed, and knuckles turning white. She's beautiful in an almost frightening way. There's a tightening in Davis's pants.

"Fuck, Clary," Jace pants, "I can feel you coming."

Her eyes are open now—fastened on her brother—as her body tenses and her legs clamp tightly around him. Her lips part but don't let out a sound.

Jace's pace turns sporadic and rushed as he pushes into her several more times before jerking to stop with a final thrust between her thighs. He lets out a guttural groan and slumps forward onto her body as if incapable of bearing his own weight.

Their deep breaths mingle loudly together in the sudden silence of the store. Clary's legs drop feebly from their place around Jace's hips, and he leans forward until his elbows rest on either side of her head, their bodies still joined together.

"You feel so good." Jace's lips skate over her chin. "You have no idea."

Trembling hands cup the back of his neck, as Clary guides his mouth to hers. She kisses him deeply, and it's long and soft. When she pulls away, gasping for breath, Jace's face drops to her chest. He closes his eyes.

In the hallway, Davis backs away from the door. When he can no longer make out the two intertwined figures in the next room, he turns and silently ascends the stairs.

AN: Yeah, this is a bit of a transition chapter (I'm not a fan of that term, but I guess it applies here). It's long, though, which counts for something, right? If anyone is interested, I added a link to my profile where you can see the chapter art for this story. Whenever I update, I post a link on my tumblr along with a graphic. And sometimes I make a graphic for a teaser.

When I started this story, I didn't expect to have a lot readers because of the content (the "incest"), so I was prepared for a minimal amount of feedback. But when I look at my story stats now, apparently there are lots and lots of people reading each chapter of the story. It's great to have a large audience, but it's also disappointing that comparatively so few people are leaving feedback. I know it's not just a TMI fandom quirk, because I see a few stories that do get a large reader response. If no one were reading my story, I wouldn't be worrying about this, but people are reading it, so I'm sort of left scratching me head. (If you don't want to leave feedback in the form of a review, you can always PM me a comment instead.) Reviewing/PMing is a great way to encourage fandom participation in fanfiction. I know several good writers who read TMI but don't write fic because there doesn't seem to be much demand for it (because of the small number of active readers). I think that's really unfortunate because I would love to be reading some quality TMI fic.

That being said, I hope that the people who do review know how much I appreciate them taking the time to do so. I'm going to try to come up with a way to show my gratitude, so stay tuned. ;)