Author's Note: This chapter contains psychological trauma, manipulation, fear, nonconsensual sex/rape, explicit incest, explicit nonconsensual kissing and touching, Sebastian, and a very confused and angry Clary.
As a quick note, I realized while writing this chapter that we've seen more time pass with Clary than with the rest of the gang. So, the day Jace goes to the Seelie Court is the day after Clary tried to escape from the house. I wasn't going to note it at all in the chapter, but it bugged me too much, hence the "three days earlier."
Chapter Twenty One
"Next time I find you sleeping on the floor, I'll tie you to our bed for a week."
Clary's face burned, her glower as fierce as the wide grin that split his face at the thought, and his eyes darkened.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you, you fucking creep," she spat, jerking her face away from him, but he only laughed, turning to head for the door.
"I really, really would."
~ Three days earlier ~
The sun was beginning to set here.
It bathed the low, rolling hills surrounding the home in strips of bronzy orange light, and drappings of dark blue shadow were stretching farther and farther out from under the Montezuma Cypresses, their silhouettes spidery and sharp. The young mango trees bordering the back of the property were just past the end of their season, any remaining yield having slipped off the branches to ferment on the ground or to have the brown fleshy remains picked off by animals, and the redolently malodorous scent of rotting fruit was just beginning to leech from the air as the days grew cold.
Well, cold by Mexico's standards, which, in Sebastian's opinion, was not very cold at all.
He'd been all over the world, felt climates and seasons of all variations, but most places he'd lived had, in November, been much cooler than this. Here, 65 degrees was cold. In Idris, this would be considered a mild, if not warm, fall day.
He was still trying to get used to the constant heat. Not that he'd spent too much time outside here yet—not with all the effort it took getting things settled in at the new home. Most of his time since they'd arrived three days ago had been spent securing the property, ensuring Clarissa was behaving, and relocating his Endarkend and demons after the attack in the mountains. And, though the heat was a bit much, he had to admit that this home was better than the previous, at least for allowing Clary more freedom. It felt more permanent, more comfortable, and though there were still several other places they could move if they needed to, Sebastian knew that they wouldn't have to.
Things would proceed as planned without any further interruptions.
So, he was outside now, adjusting to the climate, and contemplating his next moves. The dry, shrubby landscape offered a strange sort of quiet that he found equally soothing and maddening, the stillness as dusk took over similar to that feeling of calm before a storm. But there was no storm. Not yet at least. Now was the time for tidying up any remaining outliers before the climax. Now was the time for getting Clary on his side. Which, as expected, was proving to be quite tough.
After their first night together, and the excitement of the morning that followed, he'd decided that he would let her be for the day. And, as he learned from the frequent reports from his Endarkened, and from the several points at which he'd checked in on her throughout the day, she had spent her time getting used to the house.
Her wanderings had the laziness of someone with nothing to do, the cautiousness and quietness of someone not quite believing they belonged there, and the clinicality of someone looking for something—a way out, or a stele, or the specifics of Sebastian's plans scrawled on paper—but he was glad at least that she was up and about. Glad, too, that she seemed to be hesitantly accepting of his presence. It seemed a significant amount of progress considering, and he would take what little he could get. And as much as he wanted to have her again, as much as he wanted to relive that first night, he'd stepped back. She'd deserved the roughness, but keeping up at that pace would only drive her further back. He needed to slow down this process, give her some time to adjust—
A sudden change in the environment had him snapping out of his thoughts.
He set his book, which he had strayed from actually reading quite some time ago, aside and took a deep breath. The air had smelled of desert rose and hibiscus, and the drying grasses across the fields, but now there was a hint of something sweeter. Lilacs and eucalyptus.
He sat up straighter, a slight smile, a recognition, playing across his face.
Though he heard no approaching footsteps, Sebastian felt the weight of her gaze just moments before her voice announced her presence.
"My Morning Star," she chimed, light and airy, and her hand brushed over his shoulder as she rounded the bench he sat at to stand in front of him. She looked the same as always, beautiful and icy and deadly—a bolt of lighting frozen in time, ever crackling and hissing through the air. Her eyes were clearer than the sky, and just looking upon her made the hot air outside feel less smothering.
"My Lady." Sebastian lifted her hand from his shoulder, pressed a kiss to the back of it gently, formally. "I was not expecting you," he said, his lips brushing over her skin, peering up at her through his lashes.
The Seelie Queen was not someone who could so easily be flattered—really, flattery was more a formality with her than any attempt at favor—but her own appreciation of beauty never hurt to play at.
She smiled sweetly. "May I not check in on my valued ally?"
Though he knew from the moment she'd appeared that her visit was not one with the intent of simply checking in, there was no use asking for the information outright. He returned her casual smile, playing the game. "It is always a pleasure to have you, of course."
"Is it?" she asked, her tone royal and pouting. "It seems you've been neglecting me."
Sebastian sat back, cocking his head to the side. "Have I failed to uphold any of my obligations as an ally so far?"
"Those," she said slowly, dragging a nail down his chest, "are not the obligations I refer to."
He grinned, catching her hand in his again to halt its path. "I've only been busy," he affirmed, and her sigh was exaggerated as she withdrew her hand and sat next to him on the bench. Her white gown fluttered around her as she sat, the glitter woven into the fabric shimmering in the light of the setting sun.
"Busy with her?" she asked, her smile sly and void of jealousy. The knowing, secretive lilt her tone had taken on with the question reminded him of the way she spoke in bed.
Courtship with her had always been nothing short of excellent, in that way it always was with those who were experienced lovers, but it was also always, to some extent, for gain. Their relationship, as passionate as it got, was more business than anything else: their allyship mutually beneficial and their shared pleasure as heated as their distrust of each other. He'd be lying to deny attraction to her or physical satisfaction in their coupling, lying more to say it didn't grant him extra favor, though now, as she brought up Clary, he was reminded, too, of one of the reasons he'd been drawn to her looks in the first place. He'd thought, at the time, it was an echoed attractiveness of his sister's: her red hair and light eyes, her pale skin and delicate frame. Now he saw that her hair was quite darker than Clary's, her eyes too light and sharp, and her delicacy too otherworldly.
Sebastian chuckled a bit. "Well, yes. Busy with her."
The Queen hummed, leaning forward so her hair fell over her shoulder in a long red twist. "The show you put on for her friends—it was cunning. Your glamors are getting much better."
"Only thanks to you, Lady," he replied honestly.
"But it means you have changed your mind about Turning her?"
It was a question, and it was not a question. If the Queen was a master of anything, with all the information and secrets she had at hand, it was deciphering one's intentions.
And as the Fair Folk slipped invisibly through the ranks of his army, aiding where needed and passing along information, the Queen and a few of her most trusted were some of the only ones who knew that the Turning of Clary in the mountains wasn't real. Those of her Seelie who weren't aware that it had been a glamor had only worked to their advantage. Word spread fast through the Downworld, and having fey, who couldn't lie, spreading whispers that Clarissa Morgenstern had been taken and Turned only served to lessen faith in the Clave.
"You are correct," he said, almost subconsciously looking towards the room of the house Clary was currently in. There was no window in the library that looked out over this side of the property, but he knew she was there, digging through the books—either for something interesting to read, or, more likely, some sort of information she could use. "Though I do adore myself, it can grow quite boring being surrounded by those who can only think as I do. Even as efficient as it may be. I'm sure you, of all, can appreciate the occasional entertainment of mortal emotion."
The Queen laughed. "I do, indeed. And yet, for you, it seems she is quite more than simply entertaining."
Sebastian glanced at her side long, not amused by the implication in her words, but she only grinned and waved away the matter with a fluttering hand.
"Something has come up," she said, her voice at last dropping to signify that they were now talking business. Sebastian tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing, as she slid from the bench to kneel at the foot of the small fountain a few feet away. It was run down, the stone chipped and darkened from age, the water unclean and stale from the broken pump that had once kept the water flowing, and her skin looked white and poreless against the dirty granite as she touched the edge.
She reached over the base, trailing the tip of her finger along the surface of the water, and he followed the line of her arm, looking down into the pool. When the ripples cleared, he saw a picture forming on the surface. He leaned in closer.
A young man was standing in a dim corridor—the Seelie kingdom, Sebastian realized, noting the dirt walls and root bound ceiling—dressed in all black gear, his hair bright and curling just above his shoulders.
"Ah," Sebastian said, sitting back and blowing out a breath. "This was to be expected."
"Do you want him back?" she asked, turning back to meet his eye.
"No," he replied, after a moment of thought, standing to look down at the reflection. After a beat of silence, wherein the Queen realized he was not going to offer more information or explanation, she nodded curtly. "Then, do you wish him dead?"
"Perhaps. But not now. It is unwise to have him killed in the Court. Or anytime soon, for that matter. The Lightwoods are, I'm certain, aware of his plans to visit you. If his last known intent was to come to the Queen of the Seelie for aid, it would raise suspicions if he disappeared or wound up dead soon after. And our alliance works best in the shadows."
"I agree. The death of Jonathan Herondale would not reflect kindly on my people if discovered, nor would our alliance with you. When you clean the earth of all who defy you, I will not have my people counted among them. But if in this time of instability it is found that we killed a Shadowhunter, we will be targeted by the Nephilim, and you will not be able to provide aid without uncovering our affiliation. No one knows we were ever involved in the war—not until it is all said and done. That was the plan."
"And it still is," Sebastian assured. "If Jace dies, it will not be traced back to you."
"That being said, it seems that despite the glamor you showed him, he will not stop until he has Clarissa," she said.
"Or is dead," he sighed, "which brings us back to the original matter at hand."
"Yes…what to do with him?" the Queen mused, tapping the surface of the image so that the little image of Jace shivered with ripples. In the picture, he crossed his arms over his chest, hunching inward, as if cold. Even from the tiny reflection, Sebastian could see the dark circles under his eyes, and the way he held his weight just a bit more on his left leg than his right.
"For now, I am not concerned with him interrupting my plans here. It was a fluke that Bane was able to track us the last time. This location is secure. I'll have Jace handled later—killed, or perhaps Turned. He would make a valuable soldier. As for your end…I trust you can speak to him without revealing any real information," Sebastian said, and then after a moment of thought: "if he's persistent for your help, request something he couldn't possibly give in exchange, so that he is forced to turn down your aid."
"His loyalty," the Lady breathed, low and whispery.
Sebastian scoffed a short laugh. "That's one way to go about it. I'm afraid that even for Clarissa he wouldn't give you that. He can be thick, but he's not stupid."
The Queen at last turned away from the reflection, leaning back against the base of the fountain. Her long hair fell over her shoulders and down her back, some of it long enough to spill over into the water. "I could try to entice him into staying. He'd be out of our way, then. Not dead, but not causing trouble. Then, even if the Clave became involved, there would be nothing they could do. He would have entered into the contract of his own accord. They would write it off as grief, or heartache. The great Jonathan Herondale hiding out with the Seelie for the rest of his days, too afraid to face reality."
Sebastian hummed consideringly before giving a stiff shrug. "Far be it from me to doubt your abilities, Lady, but I think you underestimate his resiliency."
"And I think you overlook how weakened he is. I'm afraid he might fall over where he stands while he awaits an audience, the poor thing. You certainly did a number on him during his stay, hmm?" she asked, and Sebastian smirked fondly.
"Well, it certainly can't hurt to try. I'd like to see how you might go about enticing him…. But regardless, if he refuses your offer, he will be out of your way and off on a wild chase to find some other way to track me."
"Indeed. And, at the very least, it will be—as you say—entertaining."
"I've no doubt it will be," he laughed, and watched as Jace disappeared from the water's surface, the dark of the Court's halls fading into a cool, murky green.
Yes. Sebastian would deal with Jace later. For now, he had all that he needed.
Jace had heard of a few rare fey who were born with the ability to grant others dreams, but this was another level altogether. Psychic communication, as far as he was aware, could only be performed by warlocks and the Silent Brothers. And yet, he could hear Callum's voice in his mind, clear as day, while the fey stared intently into his eyes, lips tight and unmoving.
Like this? Jace thought, and Callum nodded quickly, the thin ribbons braided into his ashy hair glittering. He seemed anxious, his words rushed and his grip still tight on Jace's shoulder, the material of his jacket bunching under slim fingers. Jace wondered if touching the person was required for Callum's communicative magic to work.
I know how to help you find your Clarissa.
For a moment, Jace was struck silent, all the frustration and sarcasm from just a moment earlier dying instantly. And then a thousand things rushed through his mind at once.
Did he hear the fey correctly? What did it mean, that he knew how to help find her? Was he finally getting a lead?
But wait…what if this was a part of the trick? What if the Queen was still playing with him, and sent her advisor to feed him some hope just to rip it away? What if there were darker intentions, and this was a trap, or—
Quiet, Callum hissed, a grimace twisting his face, wrinkling the young features. Please, speak only one thought at a time. It is difficult to understand you when you talk all at once.
The absurdity of the faerie's words were not lost on him, but he tried to gather his thoughts all the same. It was hard to focus over the thudding of blood in his ears and the still pounding headache from the Queen's glamor, but Callum's expression relaxed regardless, relieved as Jace reined in his hundreds of concerns.
Good, Callum thought in a sigh, and then his eyes darted around as if to check for eavesdroppers before continuing. Listen closely. There is a grimoire that may help you find Clarissa. It is ancient, and contains dark magics lost to history, but there is a spell that should allow you to track someone who is lost. It is rumored to be in the possession of the demon Azomos—
I've never heard of him.
A muscle in Callum's brow twitched, signaling his annoyance at the interruption—although seeing as they were communicating through thoughts, Jace found it difficult not to think the words as they came to him—and rushed his response. No, you wouldn't have. This demon tries to keep it that way. Believe it or not, Nephilim, not all that exists is written about in your histories. But Azomos will have the book, or will know who does.
How do you know all of this? Jace wondered, again not intending the interruption, and Callum gripped his sleeve tighter. Because the book was in my family's possession a very long time ago. Now, when you summon Azomos, something will be requested of you in exchange. I cannot be sure what it will be, and so you must prepare yourself.
Great. More bargaining, Jace thought, but this time Callum ignored him and continued on.
You must be careful, Callum thought, and you must go now. But Jace? You are weak.
The words struck Jace like an arrow in the chest. The statement sounded so absurd that his instinct was to laugh, but he saw the hardness in the fey's eyes and refrained.
The Queen's glamor should not have been so effective on a Shadowhunter who is as trained as you are. It is one thing to see a glamor and be fooled by it, but another entirely to be touched by one and not see it as it is. Even your runes cannot protect you as weakened as you are. You are physically and mentally exhausted. And if the Queen could sense your weakness, so too can the demon. You must be steady when dealing with Azomos. Do you understand?
Jace gritted his teeth, narrowing his gaze. How do I know I can trust you?
At that, Callum smiled a bit, the corner of one side of his mouth curling. You cannot. But it appears as though I may be your only option.
Then tell me why you're helping me, Jace demanded. How do I know this isn't another trick by your Lady?
Not even in this form of communication can I lie—I do wish to help you, Callum said. But Jace still wasn't convinced. Clary was gone, Sebastian was on the loose, the world was going to hell, and his whole life had been turned on its head. Jace needed more than some shallow reassurance from a member of one of the most cunning species alive.
But why are you so persistent? Why do you want to help me? he asked again, and Callum let out a short sigh aloud.
Very well. I do not support the Queen's alignments. I would never wish to go against her. I truly believe she has our people's best interest at heart. But I also believe she overlooks the threat of Jonathan Morgenstern.
Jace frowned, shaking his head slightly. "I don't—" he started, cutting himself off when he heard his own voice and realized he was speaking. He started again, in his head. I don't understand. I thought the Fair Folk did not wish to involve themselves in sides?
Callum hesitated, looking over his shoulder again to check for others nearby. This is all I can say: Jonathan is not to be trusted.
Why? Jace hissed, grabbing Callum's wrist. You're hiding something.
Jace watched as Callum's eyes flickered, some mix of internal debate and despair, such strange emotions to see in a faerie, always so confident and cunning and sure, and the sly air that had been about the advisor since he'd met him vanished.
At last, Callum replied. Some time ago, Valentine was killing downworlders for their blood as a part of a ritual to turn the mortal sword.
I remember.
Do you remember the Seelie child? The one found in the park. This was my sister.
Jace bit the inside of his cheek. So this is about revenge? he asked slowly.
It may not have been Jonathan who slit her throat, but I believe the Queen is mistaken in thinking that he is any better than his father. But if you plan to do as you say—if you plan to kill Jonathan—then we will be free of his ties.
Jace released his grip on Callum, the meaning behind what the fey was saying clicking into place. So, the Queen has been in contact with him? She's formed—
I cannot discuss this further, Callum said, his voice rushed and urgent. Now go. Quickly. And do not return.
The advisor released Jace, shoving him back towards the exit before brushing off his sleeves and smoothing his shirt.
Wait, he thought finally, and Callum looked up, his light colored eyes catching light despite the darkness of the hallway. How do I get in touch with you?
You don't. Callum's voice was as hard and as sharp as the glare he shot at Jace. I have already risked too much by speaking to you. This is farewell. And without another word, the fey turned his back, his belt tie flowing lightly behind him like a silvery snake as he strode away into the darkness.
~ Present time with Clary ~
Today marked the seventh day in the new house, and Clary was bored out of her mind.
She would have thought that having nothing in particular to do all day would have made her feel restless and overly energized but mostly she just felt exhausted.
It was as though with no specific adventure to go on or challenge to defeat—if she wasn't counting the challenge of Sebastian's very existence, the battle of which seemed to have come to a temporary stalemate—her body had demanded a make up on all the rest she'd lost since that very night she'd discovered Shadowhunters at the Pandemonium. For the months and months of time in which she'd hardly had a full day to relax.
But Clary didn't want to relax and catch up on rest. Not here. Not with such danger lurking about.
So she'd tried drawing and painting, reading, even writing some—letters to her family and friends which she'd immediately ripped up and burned—but nothing seemed to engage her focus enough to keep her entertained.
She wanted more than anything to be working on a plan, a way out, a way to get in touch with her loved ones, but after searching the house over and over, and finding nothing that might help her, she'd stopped looking. She was almost certain now, that anything she might be able to use to her advantage was likely to come in a moment of random luck, like when Sebastian left his stele out.
At the very least, from that experience, she had learned that the house was in fact warded against portals and fire messages. But how far did that extend? Did the wards cover just the house? Or did they reach out past the dry fields outside that seemed to stretch endlessly beyond the bedroom window? Was it best to try and figure out how to break the wards, or to try and earn Sebastian's trust enough to gain being let outside, so she could try to make a break for the barrier and portal away once past it?
No matter which she decided, she would need a stele first.
She could try stealing one, but it would have to be from one of the Endarkened; Sebastian would be keeping a close eye on his from now on. But if she was going to break the wards, she'd need to know how to break them first—before stealing a stele—because once she got her hands on one, she'd be on a time limit. Once the Endarkened found it missing, they'd instantly know it was her.
The other option was to, again, try and gain Sebastian's trust, but she was certain it would take quite a bit more trust to be given a stele than the amount it would require to simply be let outside. In any way…Clary knew the cost of Sebastian's trust.
And she didn't know if she could bring herself to pay it.
Putting up with the more minor things Sebastian did was bearable, and made her chances of being put in unnecessary pain that much lower. But the things he would want to see in her before trusting her enough to give her a stele? Love, and adoration, the entirety of her mind and body, on top of her own unquestioning trust in him? That was a hefty price to pay, even if all those things toward him were faked.
Choosing to be with him, even if a lie, even if only to take advantage of him, felt like a betrayal to herself. But, was it better to lose her soul—or, at the very least, to momentarily give it up—than to have it taken from her?
Again, Clary didn't know.
Perhaps…she was better off trying to figure out another way to send a message, one that didn't require a stele or gaining trust. That way, instead of having to fight her way out, she could have help fight their way in.
A rescue.
But the last rescue hadn't ended well, had it? Sebastian still got away, and her friends nearly died trying to save her. She didn't want them to risk their lives for her. And anyway, would they risk dying for her? Because in their eyes, she was as good as dead. Just another mindless Endarkened—a soldier at best, or Sebastian's queen and weapon at worst. They might think a message from her was a trap. There would be no way to prove she wasn't Turned in writing.
Even still, assuming her reality was the enormously unlikely one in which her friends did believe she was still herself and still worth saving, what would her message say besides that she needed help? She'd need to be able to tell her friends her location if they were going to help. And to find out where she was located, to figure out where it was exactly that Sebastian brought her…she'd need to gain his trust.
Dammit. She was back at earning his trust.
What if instead she could perform a spell to find her location? But no, that would require information and abilities she didn't have. She'd already dug through the entire library—there were no books there that could be of any use to someone trying to escape being held captive by their psychotic brother. There might be more helpful, more powerful books somewhere else in the house, somewhere Clary wasn't allowed access to, but being granted entry into those areas would require Sebastian's permission. Which…would require trust.
Maybe she could break into those areas to find a book to perform a spell to find where she was to put in the message asking for rescue?
Christ, that was complicated.
She should just skip all those steps by instead creating a rune to find where she was to put in the message asking for rescue.
But still, to create a rune would require a stele. Shit, and breaking in would require a stele, too. And, god fucking dammitt—a stele would require trust. Which would require giving in to Sebastian.
No, wait. She still had the option to steal the stele.
But, no. To steal one would mean she'd be on a time limit, which meant Clary would need to have all of her plans laid out beforehand.
Ugh—right back where she started.
And this had been where her mind was at any time she had time to herself. But considering the problem at hand was the equivalent of a snake eating its tail—an endless cycle of thoughts that always left Clary back at the beginning—it was becoming easier to give in to the mindless exhaustion instead.
She'd been pondering all of this for some time when she at last stood from the chair and stretched, tired of thinking in circles, and abandoned the book she hadn't been able to truly focus on reading—an English translation of Candide, whose message was hitting a little too close to home with its regard to pointless evils and the uselessness of optimism.
As she rose, her leg cramped and set to pins and needles, aggravated at her sudden movement after sitting so long. Clary groaned, shaking out the prickling limb.
If she was ever going to escape she couldn't have her leg cramping. She needed to be prepared. And that meant being physically fit. Perhaps that was another way to spend the time in a useful way. What better way to stay sharp and ready for escape than to train? Plus, getting up and actually moving, not just languidly wandering the house, might help in boosting her energy.
She moved down the hall to the training room. The first time she'd come here it had been to simply raid the weapons. Her intake of the room was quick and urgent, and with a very specific goal in mind. The second time she was here, it was during Sebastian's tour of the house, and then, she had been tired and jumpy, her observation of the room sparse and distracted. Now, as she entered the room for the third time since she'd arrived here, alone and here of her own accord, she was almost instantly excited to be in the presence of such a familiar space.
She turned, taking in the entirety of the room. The matted floors, the various weapons organized across the walls, the beams and rungs for working on strength and balance. All of it reminded her of the training space in the Institute, of long sessions with Jace, and occasionally Izzy, of strained joints and bruises and the satisfying ache of a properly worked muscle.
Pre-Shadow World Clary would have had a panic attack looking at this room and imagining having to run about it like completing stations in high school gym class. Now, she was thrilled at the idea. Maybe it was the thought of staying fit in order to break free, the idea that she was actually doing something to help herself—no matter how small—or maybe it was just the comfort of the smell of leather and metal and sweat, and the pleasant memories it brought, but either way, she happily began inspecting the rack containing sheaths and belts, donning a few to be filled.
Surveying the weapons she found there was an array of almost every size sword imaginable. At first she went for the shorter lengths, the kind she might usually select for better control, but then her eye was drawn to a much larger one—a broadsword that measured the entire length of her arm, from the tip of her fingers to the base of her neck. It was nothing extravagant, a plain silver with a worn edge from training, hung on two small pegs with its blade toward the floor, but she approached it, mesmerized.
She'd always been just the slightest bit jealous that her brother and Jace could wield such massive swords. Perhaps it was worth trying out this one, to get used to the feel of something heavier. Afterall, if she was going to be fighting someone with a long sword, she should know how to use one herself.
Clary reached for the sword, her fingers wrapping the cool hilt, but as she freed the handle from its slot, the weight of it shocked her, and it went crashing to the ground, dragging her shaking arm with it. She cursed and tried to pull it upright, but to keep it up and steady, she had to use both hands. It was giant, and clunky, and far too encumbering.
Setting the broadsword down with a sigh, she selected a lighter sword, one more her speed, and tucked it in her belt. She would have to work her way up to the broadsword.
Now that she was armed, she looked out across the room. Looking at all the training tools, she longed for the tough and flexible Shadowhunter gear. But she supposed for now denim shorts and a tank top would have to do.
Starting on the balance beam, Clary worked her way across the length practicing slow passes of a ten count drill Jace had taught her once. When her arm started to shake from holding out the blade, she dropped to the floor to practice strikes with a lighter dagger, keeping her arms in close. The repetitive motion of the drills and the exhaustion of the exercise began to lull her into an almost meditative state, her mind beginning to go quiet after days of nonstop worrying.
She recalled the first time she felt the rush of a good fight, back when she was with Sebastian and a brainwashed Jace in the antique shop. Back when Sebastian had still been pretending to be one of the good guys, planning to save the world instead of ending it. The rush of the fight had been the most amazing thing she'd ever felt. Well, besides the way Jace made her feel when he'd kissed her, like he had on the bathroom counter following the fight, or how she'd felt when he'd made out with her in the club afterwards. Now, she longed for the heady distraction of fighting a demon.
It must have been over an hour of going through the motions, scraping together all that she could remember from her previous training sessions, switching from proper falls, and hand to hand, and blades, then back, and over again. She had rotated back to the dagger when she was broken from her rhythm upon a shuffling sound near the belt rack, and nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard someone speak.
"I didn't know you studied Arnis," the voice remarked with some intrigue.
Huffing in frustration, she dropped her stance to glare at Sebastian, who was now smiling slightly at the scare he'd given her. She would never, never get used to the way he could sneak up without a sound.
"Would it hurt you to knock when you enter a room?" she asked bitterly, sheathing the dagger before adding, "and—what?"
He laughed and picked himself up from where he'd been leaning back on the wall, arms crossed. Clary wondered how long he'd been watching before he chose to make a noise.
"Arnis. Escrima. Kali. The name of the martial art you were just practicing with the dagger."
Oh. She didn't study it, per say—hadn't even realized she'd been practicing any particular method or style of fighting, only remembered the motions themselves that she'd been shown. But she didn't share any of that.
"Jace taught me," she replied honestly, and Sebastian hummed dismissively. "Want to train with me?" he then implored casually, as if he had nothing better to do.
Clary scoffed and began gathering up the items she'd been using. "Don't you have some evil bidding to be doing?"
"Nope," he replied, walking over to a target she'd used earlier to inspect her aim— most of the knives had landed in the outer rings or even on the floor, much farther from the bullseye than she would have liked—"all my evil doings have been wrapped up for the day. I'm off the clock."
"And here I thought evil never sleeps."
He plucked one of the thin throwing knives from the board. "Well, to stay this gorgeous I have to get some beauty rest."
Clary rolled her eyes. He smirked, flipped the knife, and offered it to her handle first with a raised brow. "So?"
"I'll pass," she said, snatching up the blade and then reaching beside him to pluck up the others to return them to their spot on the wall.
"I'll have you know I'm an excellent sparring partner," he insisted, following behind her, and she bit her tongue to keep from commenting on the fact that she bet he'd never had any sparring partners, that he grew up alone, with no siblings or friends to practice with, only Valentine to beat and abuse him, before he became a monster who only raised his sword against another with the intent to kill, not spar.
Anyway, it was one thing having awkward meals together, and being forced to sleep in the same bed, being forced to be intimate, but actually hanging out with him when she was free to move about the house as she pleased, actually doing things with him of her own accord, that was another story. Clary didn't want to spend any more time with her brother than she absolutely had to.
She brushed past Sebastian, who was now fiddling with the broadsword she had left leaning against the wall earlier—prayed he not make some snarky comment about her being too weak to use it—and hung her belt on the rack. "I think I'm done training for the day," she said, stooping to retrieve the sword she'd been using from the floor. "Starting to feel tired. I'm going to—"
Her words died in a gasp as she rose and saw a flash of silver driving down towards her. There was a loud clang, the reverberations of metal on metal shaking up through the hilt of her sword and into her arms, nearly rattling her teeth, as she just barely blocked the blow from Sebastian, who had somehow armed himself and attacked all within seconds.
"Sebastian—!" she cursed, shoving at his blade with her own so his weight was forced off of her, and he laughed gleefully, skipping back a step.
"Awe, c'mon, Clarissa. Don't be such a spoil sport," he teased, and before she could reply he was striking out again. She had just enough time to raise her blade again, stopping the blow mere inches from her face, before she staggered back and slid out from under the attack once more. No sooner had she pushed his sword away than he lashed out a third time, in a movement that he made look as light and as easy as flicking a blade of grass but that struck with a force so hard that she nearly dropped her weapon.
Despite the playful glint in his eyes, something about his strength and movements now was so very different from when they fought the other day. Though before she'd been fighting with all she had—and at the time had managed to get a lash in—now he was precise, his moves sharper. It was as if the other day had been the game, and now, in the training room, was the real fight.
Clary should have been careful what she wished for. This was not what she meant when she thought she wanted the distraction and rush of fighting a demon.
She managed to dodge the next slash, her arms aching from blocking him three times in a row, and she danced around the balance beam, placing it between them to catch her breath.
"Sebastian! I said no, you ass! I'm tired," she panted, pacing around the length of the beam as he tried to round it to get to her.
"Excellent. That's the perfect time to practice. After all, one can never be fully rested and at their best in battle. Except for me, of course," he said, only half teasingly. Clary scoffed again, but Sebastian continued. "You should be able to defend yourself even when you're exhausted."
Defend herself. God, Clary was tired of trying to defend herself. She was tired of constantly shrinking back, constantly being on defense. And the one reason, the number one fucking reason she was so vulnerable and powerless, was the very person in front of her.
"Fine. If we're going to do this…" she grumbled under her breath, continuing to pace him around the beam, then I'm going to be on fucking offense, she finished silently.
In an instant, she tossed the short sword to her dominant hand and used her other to push herself up on the wood, swinging her legs up and vaulting herself over the beam and into Sebastian's space. As she landed, she struck out, propelling all of her weight down through her arm and the extended weapon.
Sebastian beamed madly as he parried with his broadsword. "That's the spirit!" he praised, shifting his weight lightly on his feet as they began to exchange blows. The room was filled with the sounds of echoing metallic clangs, harsh and sharp in her ears as Clary tried to set the pace, keeping him moving and blocking. For a moment, she was surprised that she was doing more than just keeping up, surprised that she was actually holding her own as she followed each strike with another, and another, pressing in on his defenses more and more, but Sebastian was still managing to block every slash, and the sheer length of his sword compared to hers kept him just out of reach.
Still, she pressed on, and they skipped across the room, seamlessly moving around and over any obstacles in the way, until her arms trembled and her breath became short and choppy. Sebastian, on the other hand, though his hair was ruffled and his cheeks were flushed just the slightest with excitement, didn't appear to be wearing down at all. He was as cool and collected as ever, his breaths coming calmly and with ease, and there was no move she made that he didn't already have a block prepared for.
And then suddenly, Sebastian was taking the lead, closing in on her, somehow managing to steal the offensive from her as her body struggled to continue the exhausting effort. Panting and desperate, Clary struck out when she should have blocked, and only just managed to dodge the pass his sword made at her side.
"Ah, ah," he scolded, "don't get careless, now."
Clary huffed, gripping the hilt so tightly in her hand that her fingers whitened. She wanted to protest that she didn't have any runes and that he did, but Sebastian was at least right about one thing: there was no such thing as a fair fight. There was no such thing as a fight for your life when one was guaranteed to be perfectly rested and ready to go. Though, maybe that was what made a fight so exciting.
But this didn't feel exciting. This felt frustrating.
She struck out carelessly again. The edged blade scraped loudly off of his as he deflected it to the side, and then she was stumbling backwards with a gasp as she nearly lost her grip on her weapon, before finding the point of his own pressed lightly into her chest.
"Hah. What happened to the skills you showed me the other day?" he teased, and she stepped back enough to smack the sharp point away from her.
That had been a fatal strike. She would have died if this was a real fight.
He tilted his head, indicating that his question wasn't rhetorical, and she took advantage of the break in action to suck in a few deep breaths of air. Though, given his stance, he wasn't done yet.
He was referring to her attacking him during her escape attempt, she knew. He'd been armed with only a dagger, then, and she two short swords, but though it had given her some advantage, they both knew her victory had been due to more than that.
"I was pissed off, then," she argued, collecting herself and raising her blade, but her answer was only half true.
"Are you not now?" he said skeptically, in a half-laugh that let her know he knew exactly how annoying he was being. He spread his arms wide to let her know he was open and exposed to attack, tossing his sword up a few inches and catching it, twirling his wrist so that the blade arched through the air in a blurred figure eight at his side, the metal gleaming under the yellow lights above.
Show off.
"I'm getting there," she said, and then threw herself forward in a charge. He ended his flourishes with the weapon at the last second and drew it in close, side stepping her easily so that all of her weight tumbled past him, before flicking it in a backhanded motion. The flat of the blade struck her hard between the shoulder blades and she cried out as she toppled over to the floor, her blade skidding across the mats as she caught herself on her hands, the friction of her skin across the tough rubber burning her palms.
"Nothing wrong with using anger as a fuel, sister, but letting it make decisions for you never ends well," he said, and she made a choked off noise of indignation.
"You're one to talk," she mumbled under her breath before grabbing at her sword and scrambling to her feet. But by the time she'd stood and whipped around, his blade was already leveled at her throat, and she let out an embarrassing, surprised squeak, belatedly swiping it away.
"My anger may get away from me at times, but never during a fight. If you were relying on anger to let you win the other day, then you're more stupid than I thought."
"Well, it also appears you were going easy on me then," she grumbled, admitting the only real reason she'd managed to cut open his stomach that morning. She sucked in another big breath, steadied her sword, and stepped back to put some distance between them.
"Perhaps," Sebastian said with a shrug, but his grin replied, duh, obviously, and then she was driving forward again, her anger flaring hotly. This time she dropped low, under his blade as he struck out, and lashed out from the side. She would have severed the muscles and tendons in the back of his knee, but he jumped over her swing as if he was no more than jumping rope.
Clary rolled and pushed up to full height, turning back to face him. "Are you going easy on me now?" she asked breathlessly as she thrust her blade towards his charging form, but he pressed up his sword, the flat edge catching hers, and manipulated the angle of the blade so that within one long stroke—which ended with the tip of his sword catching on her cross-guard—her own weapon was twisted out of her grasp.
It clattered to the floor, the sound dulled by the mats, and without her weapon to block his, the fluid motion he'd used to disarm her now arched up toward her. Clary rocked back on her heels to avoid the metal, and just as she did, Sebastian closed the distance between them and swept her feet out from under her, taking advantage of her off balanced footing.
The air rushed out of her as she landed on her back, and in an instant he was straddling her waist, one hand beside her head and the other holding the sword in a reverse grip so it hovered over her throat, his forearm pressing down onto her chest to pin her. She froze as he leaned in close, his face inches from hers.
"Yes," Sebastian answered in a whisper with a small smile, his breath hot on her cheeks, and they stayed there for a moment, Clary struggling to pull in air with his weight crushing into her and the sharp of the blade pressing dangerously close to her skin under her chin. Even as compromising as the position was, Clary was shocked to find herself more pissed off than scared, and she had to clench her jaw to keep from screaming in irritation.
When he at last sat back a bit, he pulled his arm away from her and she gasped in air, breathing hard. He dropped the sword beside them on the mat so he could place his palm aside her head, mirroring the other and bracketing her in, signaling an end to the training session.
But Clary wasn't done yet. She wanted a win, no matter how small.
She needed a fucking win.
His eyes were still bright with excitement, but darker now than before, and she saw them drop briefly to her lips. His own parted slightly, but before he could lean down to steal a kiss, she spoke.
"Maybe…" she started, pulling in one last steadying breath, "maybe you shouldn't go easy."
Sebastian leaned back a tad and his gaze skipped back up to her eyes, calculating.
"Maybe you shouldn't keep underestimating me," she continued, and whether he thought she was being playful and coquettish, or was simply amused by her boldness, he smiled slightly.
"Twice now it's only ended with your blood on my blade," she said, and as discreetly as she could, she shifted under him, pulling her knees up and placing one leg outside of his.
He didn't seem to notice, just laughed and raised an incredulous brow. "Twice?"
"Once, the other morning in the foyer. Twice, now."
Faster than she thought was possible for her to move without the aid of angelic marks, Clary hooked the toe of her tennis shoe under his foot and bucked upward, forcing his weight to the side and using the tip of her shoe to pull his leg beneath her. As she rolled them over, she slipped a dagger from its sheath on his outer thigh before landing on top of him, lifting the blade, now gripped between both her hands, high above her head.
Everything seemed to move in slow motion then, as she drove the knife down towards his heart. She registered the satisfying look of genuine shock on his face, saw his understanding that she wasn't pulling this punch—that she was really trying to stab him—saw his fingers twitching to grab for the abandoned sword before he realized Clary had flipped them the opposite direction, so that it was just out of his reach, and then with only milliseconds to spare, only centimeters left before the cool metal split through his pectoral, slipped through his ribs to drive into his heart, he moved—faster than she ever could, even with runes—and with both hands grabbed her wrists, stopping the tip of the dagger just before it landed.
There was a beat of silence and stillness between them, as he held her there, still trying to force down the knife.
And then he spoke, at last appearing out of breath. "Almost," he panted, his stunned expression melting away into a strange mix of elation and anger. The corner of his mouth quirked up, his tone still teasing but now with just the slightest air of what seemed like confusion and disbelief. "Almost. But not this time."
Clary growled in frustration, trying harder to push the knife down, but her arms were shaking with the effort, and when it came to a battle of pure strength, she always lost. He slowly turned her wrists to the side, rotating them until it became painful, and she fought to keep her grip, the dagger beginning to tremble in her hands.
As quickly as she had gained the upper ground, it crumbled away, and he rolled them back over so he was on top, slamming her wrists down above her head. She grunted as she was pinned again, the knife plucked from her hands, and this time he sat his weight further down on her body, pressing her thighs flat on the mat so she couldn't bend her knees or use her hips to buck him off. He held her wrists in one hand, pulling back the knife with the other, staring down at her.
At the strange look on his face, Clary felt a wash of emotion rush through her, and it was as though at his chilling look all of the adrenaline from the fight rapidly drained from her, leaving her with the reality of what she'd done and a roiling concoction of panicked terror and something else she couldn't quite place but that made her chest feel heavy and cold.
Clary had just genuinely tried to stab him. She hadn't planned to—she'd only wanted to cut him, to shut him up and wipe that smug grin from his face, to show him that she wouldn't so easily roll over, but her body had just reacted on instinct. There had been an opening to stab him, and so her body moved without thinking.
If she had managed to stab him it would have been a dream come true.
So why did she feel so…?
"What was it you were saying so confidently before? Something about being underestimated?" he chuckled, and whatever odd emotion she'd felt instantly returned to frantic anger and annoyance at his needling.
Clary glared up at him, winded, exhausted, and aching. "Let me up," she demanded, when, after a good long moment of catching their breaths, he still hadn't moved.
Sebastian's eyes narrowed, the look dangerously playful.
It was never a good thing to be the target of his play.
"Get off already. I'm done training," she spat, wriggling beneath him, tugging her hands and trying to push up with her feet.
"Clearly," he quipped, "seeing as you genuinely tried to stab me just a minute ago." He slowly turned over the dagger in his palm. "You want to fight for real?"
"No. Let me go."
"But that wouldn't be very realistic, now would it?"
"Sebastian—" she groaned in frustration, tugging harder at her hands but he was already continuing the bit.
"An opponent wouldn't let you go. They'd take advantage of the position you're in. Which is a very vulnerable one if you haven't noticed," he said, dropping his voice, and the knife, as he spoke. He let the tip of it slide under her chin so that she froze up again, holding her breath. His eyes never strayed from hers as he moved it in a gentle, taunting path across her windpipe to her carotid, pressing it down just enough that she could feel her pulse thudding against the metal.
The message was clear enough: in a real fight, her opponent would slit her throat.
But eventually, his eyes shifted down from hers and he pulled the knife away.
"But, if you insist you're done training," he said with a sigh, "then I'm sure we could come up with something else to do." His voice was quiet and heavy, and its roughness betrayed his intentions even before the tip of the dagger moved down her chest, catching at the scooped neckline of her tank top.
Clary choked on her next breath, twisting her shoulders to try and pull away, but he was unphased, his eyes locked on her chest and dark with arousal. Sebastian slid the point along the neckline, pulling it down as he did until it was stretched out and caught under the cups of her exposed bra.
His eyes briefly returned to hers, alight with a different sort of excitement than before when they were sparring, and the mischievous glint in them seemed almost to be daring her to stop him, the calculating tilt of his head reading her every move. Adrenaline began to pulse through her again, setting her heart hammering and her skin prickling.
"Don't," she said quietly—not pleading or teary eyed, but with the rekindled anger and hatred she'd felt before. She would almost be scared of the purity of the emotion if it had been directed at anyone else. But if the fury in her eyes conveyed even a fraction of her enmity, Sebastian didn't seem to care.
Instead, his eyes were locked on her chest, on the soft flesh rising and falling rapidly above each cup, and then on the ring that rested just below the middle of her breast bone. The tip of the knife slid through the center of her ring and, like her shirt, Sebastian pushed it too out of the way, moving the necklace slowly over her shoulder. The drag of the chain across her chest made her shiver, and as the ring landed on the mat in a pool of her own hair, just beside the curve of her jaw, the chain pulled taught high up on her throat.
Funny how something that was so precious could so quickly return to being a part of her, despite her week's absence from it. Clary had never been one much for jewelry, and she'd thought she'd have to get used to wearing it again after it was returned to her yesterday, but its weight and presence were so familiar that it was nearly unnoticeable where it hung on her chest. Unnoticeable until, of course, attention was drawn to it. Now, though it wasn't much pressure at all, the necklace felt far too tight on her neck.
But Sebastian's attention was moving on, forcing hers to follow as he hooked the dagger under the band of her thin, lacy bra.
"Seb—ah!" Clary's protests died in a sharp gasp as he quickly flicked the knife, forcing the bra up her chest and landing the slim flat edge on her now naked breasts. She flushed, more out of anger than embarrassment—much to her surprise, though perhaps there was only a certain number of times he could undress her before the humiliation of it dulled—and she yanked at the grip on her wrists to show it.
He at last looked up to her face, grinning as he let the cold metal drag across her skin, pressing it to her nipple, and watching her gasp.
"Get that away from me," she said shakily. "I don't want to do whatever deranged, kinky shit it is you're planning." Even as she said it, she knew it wouldn't make a difference.
"Really? I bet I can change your mind."
She knew she could try and slip back into her mind, that place she'd learned to go when Sebastian did things like this, but the sharp edge of the blade kept her tied to the present, and besides, she didn't want to have to keep slipping away. She was tired of hiding. She was so tired and angry and frustrated that she thought she might burst into tears or start screaming her head off. She wanted so badly to fight, but how do you fight something like this?
Clary was pissed, and exhausted, and tired of being taken advantage of, and god she hated this, this situation, this desperation, this rage, and she didn't want to hide or run away—
But when Sebastian turned the blade, the sharp edge just slightly pressed into the peak of her nipple, hardened by the cold surface, she still closed her eyes, unable to watch. She tried to slow her breaths, to control how fast she pulled in air so as not to risk the delicate flesh being cut, but it was growing increasingly hard to do so as he circled her nipple with the blade.
It was an odd sensation—cold and hard, mechanical-feeling despite the ease with which he maneuvered the weapon. He used varying amounts of pressure as he turned and rolled the dagger over her breast, though never enough to cut the skin.
Still, just because he hadn't cut her yet didn't mean he wouldn't, and her body jumped and trembled on the mat, instinctively terrified that with just the slightest slip, the edge would slice her.
"Stop. You'll cut me," she managed to say, screwing her eyes shut tighter, and as she turned to hide her face in the crook of her elbow he let out a soft laugh. She expected him to say something mocking, something to tease and degrade her, but he kept quiet, letting her heavy breathing fill the silence.
Dragging the point slowly over to her other breast, he started teasing lightly at her right nipple until it was just as erect as the left, the metal finally beginning to warm against her skin.
Clary swallowed thickly, afraid to open her eyes. She knew what she would see: Sebastian's lust filled gaze, dark and heavy over her like a weighted blanket, pinning her in place just as much as his hands and body did. She could hear his own breaths growing heavier, and he shifted his legs above her just slightly.
Just as she was growing accustomed to the strange feeling of metal across such a sensitive place, the knife shifted and at last, blessedly, moved away from her chest. She let out a stuttering sigh of relief, and was about to open her eyes to gauge what might happen next, when a warm, open mouthed kiss was placed over her nipple. She jumped, squirming, the sensation amplified and contrasted by the still lingering feeling of the knife. In comparison to the cold, hard metal that had been there a moment earlier, his mouth felt like a furnace, his tongue velvety soft and moist.
When little whimpering moans began slipping from her lips at the treatment, she felt her hatred for him growing as rapidly as her self-loathing was, and almost resorted to shouting and thrashing, though she knew it wouldn't make a difference either way, but before she could she felt the point of the blade again, now digging into the fatty part of her lower abdomen.
Clary went stiff. Sebastian used the dagger to drag up the bottom of her tank top, then briefly lifted it away, using his fingers to pop open the button of her jeans and tug them down a bit. Again, she was about to protest when he moved over to her other nipple, pulling it into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it slowly, pinching it lightly between his teeth, and she was at a loss for words.
God, she hated this. She hated this.
The dagger slid over the band of her underwear, and she couldn't stop herself from yelping and flexing her hips down as the flat edge was pressed over her through the thin fabric.
Eyes snapping open, she struggled not to instinctively close her legs tightly around the knife between them. "What—what're you d—you'll cut me," she stuttered, and Sebastian pulled away from her chest so his face was above hers.
"I won't," he said plainly, sliding the knife down a fraction, then back up again, so she flinched and jumped. "You trust that I won't," he whispered, and she looked up, baffled, her mouth dropping, a string of protests primed in the back of her throat.
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
She scoffed, but as he watched her with those eyes—that piercing gaze that seemed to be trying to dig into her head and read her thoughts—and started moving the knife again, sliding the edge very carefully between her folds, she was once again at a loss for words.
Her legs trembled and jerked minutely, her torso twisting uncomfortably against the floor, but despite her body's uncontrolled movements, she found herself somehow believing that what he said was true. Sebastian wouldn't actually cut her.
Which was one of the most absurd thoughts ever, because he'd certainly shown no hesitation to hurt her before.
And she'd just tried to stab him. He was bound to want to punish her, to hurt her. So why did she believe him?
It was just that she was scared, and didn't want to argue with him. That was it.
But then he moved the knife up a bit, pressing the flat edge down over her clit, still through her underwear, although it didn't lessen the intensity of the sensation. Her eyes closed again, her breathing quickening, and she had to try much harder now to not give in to the way this was making her stomach tighten.
God, this was so fucked. She'd been with Sebastian for too long. How could her body actually be turned on by this?
Screw not hiding away, she needed to shut her mind off. She needed to go somewhere happy, somewhere she wasn't so angry and scared. Clary tried calling up a memory of Jace, something to focus on so her mind could slip away, so that she wasn't present as Sebastian did as he pleased. But the harder she tried to summon a memory of Jace, or Simon, or her family, the more they slipped away from her.
She jerked hard as his pace sped up, careful to keep only the flat edge on her.
"Sto—ah. W-why are you doing this?" she choked, her eyes starting to burn.
"Why not?"
"Y-you said there'd be no—no pleasure if I went against you," she stammered, Sebastian's voice from that very first night echoing between her ears, goosebumps spreading up her arms as she recalled the roughness of his body against hers.
"So this is pleasurable, then," he replied with a slight laugh, and Clary groaned out a sound that was half protest, half sob.
"No, I don't—I mean, why…why aren't you hurting me?" she panted, still twisting and turning fruitlessly. He had promised her then that she would get no kindness, no pleasure, if she didn't give in to him. And yet, here he was trying to tease her after she'd tried to stab him. Just a few days ago, she'd bet her life on him whipping her or beating her in retaliation. To show her her place. And really, she thought she'd prefer that to this.
"If you're asking why I'm not going to cut you here," he said, pushing the tip of the blade down just enough that she could feel the sharpness of it through her underwear, making her yelp, "well, I think that's self explanatory. If you're asking why I'm not punishing you in general for trying to stab me, it's because I was the one who asked to spar. And, because you meant it," Sebastian said slowly, though his voice was still low and rough.
He said it in the same way that he said he knew she was just like him. The same way he said he knew she wanted him. The way he said he knew she wanted to be with him. Or that she didn't want to kill him. That she couldn't. He said these things like they were fact, like they had already been decided. Like she had no choice in the matter—or that there was never any choice to begin with. Like she was the crazy one for not believing them.
She wondered if he thought that if he said these things enough that she would start believing them too.
If he did, he was wrong.
"Except I did mean it," she gasped, "I despise you; I want to kill y—mm!" She closed her mouth against another yelp and winced as the blade twisted. Sebastian sighed and leaned over her, kissing her neck and then collarbone.
"Stop trying to get a rise out of me. Why not just let yourself enjoy this?" he said in her ear, and at last released her wrists to trail his other hand through her hair, still working the blade slowly against her.
"I can't enj—Sebastian, it's a knife!" she hissed. Whether she trusted that he wouldn't cut her or not didn't matter, it was still a freaking blade at her crotch.
Sebastian chuckled. "Fine. You'd prefer my hand?" he asked, pulling back enough that he could look her in the eyes, pausing the rhythmic rotations of the dagger.
"No," she said quietly, cutting her eyes away, and then closing them when he tried to gently turn her face back to his by a grip in her hair.
"You're sure?"
He slid the knife down from her clit, letting it inch to the side until she felt the point on her flesh, slowly slipping beneath her underwear.
"Okay! Okay! Your hand!" Clary shrieked, tears at last spilling down her cheeks, her legs shaking violently, but the knife stopped and slid out from her underwear. Her relieved sigh was broken by little, hiccuping sobs as his fingers ran over her hip and into her underwear. But as disgusted as she was, the pads of his fingers against her were so much better than the blade, and her breathing became less panicked as he started to find a rhythm again.
She shuddered, a rush of pleasure and hate washing over her, a feeling that was rapidly becoming too familiar the longer she was with her brother, and she began to involuntarily relax against the mats, her thighs no longer trembling in fear. And then Sebastian was shifting his weight off her legs, leaning over her so he had better leverage, so he could speed up, so he could breathe hotly in her ear.
"You're right. This is much better than using a knife," he said, tugging at her earlobe with his teeth until she was panting and turning her head away to escape the sensation. "Afterall, I wouldn't be able to put a knife inside of you."
Before she could even register what he had said he was pushing two fingers into her, and the movement was smooth and frictionless and awful, and she bucked off the floor, her jaw dropping and her eyes flying open.
He kept his thumb circling over her clit as he thrust his wrist and curled his fingers up, until all the lights in the room began to blur and spin. She whined as he quickened his pace and began sucking bruises up and down her neck and collarbone, and it wasn't until she let her head roll to the side that her eyes finally focused on a bit of glinting metal to her left.
She blinked away the last of the tears still clinging to her lashes, and the broadsword from before came into focus. It was only a few feet away.
Clary jumped as she felt Sebastian's other hand move up her side, gripping tightly at her ribs, his thumb moving over her breast.
And then she realized that both of his hands were on her, and she saw that the dagger, too, had been set aside, right by her hip. She swallowed, slowly moving her hands away from where Sebastian had pinned them above her head earlier, from where they'd lain still there since he'd released them.
She let one slide into his hair, and for a moment, he froze, his lips parting against her neck and his fingers slowing in what must have been surprise. But when Clary made a sound like a whine and moved her hips up just the slightest, Sebastian groaned softly, and pressed harder into her, biting roughly at her throat and gripping her side tighter.
With the hand that wasn't tangling in his hair and keeping his head down against her, she reached out to her left, until she could wrap her fingers around the hilt in a reversed grip.
The fingers inside her paused just briefly enough that a third could be added, and for a split second, her intentions died out in a flash of white as she groaned and arched off the floor. And then, before he could go any further, she used all of the strength she had to drag the blade off the floor.
He must have sensed something was off, because his lips broke away from her neck and he leaned back just as she brought the blade into the gap between their bodies. But even as he realized what was going on, it was too late, and she was pressing the edge of the weapon into his chest and the arm that was down between her legs, using it to shove his weight back and force him to the side.
In the rush of adrenaline, she barely even felt it as his fingers slid out of her, pushing him over and rolling to get above him for a second time that day, keeping the sword gripped in her left hand and picking up the dagger with her right. Just as his back hit the ground, she landed atop him, pressing the length of the sword against his chest. His hands moved to grab her hips, to throw her off of him, but she was already moving again, and with her right hand, she drew the dagger across his cheek.
The skin split easily, a long gash opening on his face, his eyes widening and his fingers digging into her hips tightly, and a strangled noise of either shock or pain rose in the back of his throat as blood quickly welled over and spilled down his jaw.
"There—twice," Clary panted, throwing the dagger aside so it skid across the mats and out of reach.
Twice you've underestimated me. Twice I've earned your blood.
Sebastian's expression was open shock. He moved one hand slowly to his face, the tips of his fingers, which were—much to her disgust—still slick from being inside her, touching the cut before pulling back. His eyes took in the blood on them, his expression going blank.
And as Clary watched his lips tighten, saw the side of her brother's face turn dark with the blood that ran down it, she was hit so hard from the strange feeling from earlier that she nearly gasped aloud.
Partly because of the way it felt—a horrible cold-hot that twisted her stomach and tightened her chest—and partly because now, Clary recognized exactly what that feeling was.
When she stiffened, sucking in a horrified breath, Sebastian's eyes found hers, quickly scanning her face, and as he took in her expression, the blankness of his own cracked with understanding.
He reached for her hand, the one still holding the sword across his chest, and pulled the hilt away from her pliant fingers, smearing the blood on his fingertips across the back of her hand as he did so, setting the weapon beside them.
The feeling welled up in her uncomfortably and his grin widened as she shoved off of him, her cheeks burning as she fixed her bra and top and raced out of the room.
When the door to the training room slammed shut, Sebastian was still lying on the floor.
His heart was still pounding from before, from their sparring and from what it'd turned into, from the way she responded to him—involuntary or not—but it wasn't any of that that had him intrigued.
He held his hand in front of his face, fingers red with his own blood.
It was a deep cut—nothing a stele wouldn't heal, but it stung regardless, the pain bright and sharp. When his lips curled up into a grin, he could feel the laceration pull wider and start bleeding heavier, the pain more crisp, but he didn't care.
When she'd first tried to stab him, he'd thought he saw something odd pass over her expression afterwards, something beyond the raw anger and something more than just fear of his response. But he'd marked it down as an over-analyzation. Afterall, the warlock had said it would take a few days for the spell to start working, and it had only been one. Almost twenty four hours exactly.
But then, after Clary had cut him, after that blinding rage that reminded him so much of his own had drained from her face, the expression came again.
Not fear. Not hatred.
Guilt.
It was true that she'd wanted to injure him—perhaps it was still true that she thought she wanted to kill him. The ring wouldn't take that away completely. Not an emotion that was so pure and so deeply embedded. But it was also true that once Clary had realized what she'd done, some part of her, no matter how small, had regretted it.
It meant the impressions were beginning to work; it meant Clary was starting to see things as they should be. It meant she was starting to see that underneath her fear and anger there was something more that she felt towards him.
Sebastian sat up slowly, listening to Clarissa outside the door. She was still standing there, trying to quiet her crying and labored breathing, hesitating, unsure what to do. It was a long moment before he heard her step away from the door, and then he could hear her feet padding off down the hall, footsteps softened by the rug.
Brushing himself off, Sebastian's grin widened as he got to his feet. He touched his cheek once more, smearing fresh blood over his fingertips.
The cut burned, and the bleeding still hadn't stopped. But Sebastian didn't care.
He didn't care, because the ring was working.
Author's Note: I know. I'm soooo very late with this chapter. Please accept my sincerest apologies. Things have gotten busy with work and life, but I hope you enjoyed this annoyingly long chapter. I'll post again as soon as possible. Thanks for reading!