Author's Note: This chapter contains mention of torture, psychological trauma, manipulation, fear, description of a panic attack, suicidal ideation, explicit rape/nonconsensual sex, explicit incest, nonconsensual kissing and touching, Sebastian.

Chapter Seventeen, Part I

The ropes were, unexpectedly, more pleasant than the belt.

Clary had thought they would be rougher, more coarse than the smooth—albeit sharp edged—leather, but instead, they were soft and silky, the fibers thin and tightly woven so as not to scratch and irritate her skin. Of course, if she pulled too hard, they still left a mark, but it was nothing compared to the bruising left by the hardness and width of the belt.

She had to remind herself not to be thankful for things like this. The only reason soft rope was a nicety was because Sebastian had put her through worse. Though—if she wasn't having a breakdown right now—she would at least be more grateful that she had been given a break before he tried to take her again, after how rough the first time was.

For most of the past two days, Clary had been left alone, allowed to wander the house, go through the rooms, sleep, and whatever else she could busy herself with. She had gone through the dresser of clothes Sebastian had stocked for her, reorganized it by things she would actually be comfortable wearing, and had done the same with the bathroom, organizing the items. She'd found several bottles of expensive perfume, all of which smelled wonderful, but none of which she planned on wearing, and a collection of makeup items, which she also likely wouldn't use. She set aside all the shampoo and conditioner, the body soap and razors, the feminine hygiene products, and a toothbrush and toothpaste, into an easily accessible cabinet. Everything else, she left under the sink.

She hated the cleaning and organizing, as it made her feel like she had accepted her stay here, so she told herself over and over that she just needed to keep busy—that if she could keep her hands moving, then she could keep her mind sane. And it had worked, for the most part.

During a closer examination of the library, she had been more than glad to find a section containing an unbelievably perfect array of art supplies. There were graphite pencils and charcoals of every hardness, sketch pads of every size and for all different media types, paints of every shade imaginable, and rows of unused canvas. When she'd found the circular paint brush holder, filled to the brim with brushes of every bristle style she could possibly need—rounds, filberts, angled, fans, riggers, mops, flats, and straights—her jaw nearly dropped. They were all of a matching set: the handles a dark rosewood, the ferrules all a bright coppery material, and the tufts all ombre, a creamy, off-white base that flowed into penny-red tips.

It was the most beautiful set of brushes she had ever seen, and Sebastian had picked them just for her. It would have been sweet, if it wasn't so psychotic. She had stood stroking the soft bristled ends and twirling the cool copper between her fingers for quite some time, trying to imagine a reality where Sebastian, her normal, sane brother had gifted them to her. She had pictured him knocking on the door of her room, opening it to find him standing there with a smile as bright as his hair, the brushes bundled in his hand, wrapped in a shiny red bow. She pictured him at the table with her, Jocelyn, and Luke, all of them laughing and joking and getting along. She pictured Sebastian being her protective older brother, wary of her boyfriends but supportive of her decisions, playing stupid pranks on her for a laugh, helping her with her studies.

The fantasy had died out when the footsteps of the Endarkened guards marching past snapped her out of her thoughts. She had shaken her head and set the brushes down, then. No use in dwelling over false realities. Not when in this reality her brother was literally holding her captive. Presents from him meant nothing if they were stocked in her prison cell. Especially not when the cost was her sanity, and her body. At least, over the past two days, that price had only been paid in small affections.

Though she had had much time to herself with Sebastian sneaking off to the basement to work, he still appeared around bedtime to snuggle into bed with her, and around meal time for awkward dining together, conversation stiff as Clary danced around dangerous topics and tried to get used to biting her tongue when necessary. She'd managed to do okay in regards to not outright insulting him, but it was significantly harder to withstand the affections. It wasn't much, but in passing he might stroke her hair, or pull her to him by a hand on her back, or drag her into a kiss.

Every minute she dreaded being dragged off to the bedroom so he could take her, and sometimes, when she caught the way he looked at her—as though there was nothing more in the world he wanted than to shred her clothes and have a go at her right then and there—she worried that he might just decide to pin her down in the kitchen or living room instead, the Endarkened audience be damned.

Still, it was bedtime that was the worst, when he curled around her, suffocatingly close, his skin too hot against hers. In bed, she was always hyper aware of his hands, where he placed them, the twitching of his fingers and if they might indicate a path towards her chest, or between her legs, and every night the anticipation of it felt like lying on the edge of a cliff.

But, until tonight, he hadn't made any approaches beyond kissing and cuddling.

She figured then, that he had simply been satiated by the fact that she wasn't fighting those little affections. Though she knew she would have to go along with some of his wishes, she couldn't bring herself to actually kiss him back, or be affectionate in return. She still barely managed not to flinch every time he touched her. Despite this, he seemed pleased that she didn't slap him away, or spit in his face every time he leaned in for a kiss. She hadn't been tortured since three mornings ago with the electrocution, and he'd even given her another iratze to finally heal the wounds on her back completely. Though they left long, dark scars across her back, they were now fully closed.

Still, Clary knew he wouldn't be satisfied with that for long. And she had been right. She had waited anxiously for him to make a move the entirety of the past three days, and tonight he finally had. She let herself be thankful for the break—but not for the soft ropes.

Sebastian had pulled them out just as she settled into bed, rolling on top of her and tying her wrists to either end of the headboard before she even registered what was happening.

"W-wait!" She tugged desperately at the restraints. As much as she'd anticipated this, it didn't make it any easier.

"Relax, Clary," was all he said as he finished tying the knots.

"How can I when you're tying me up?" she asked, her voice already beginning to shake. But Sebastian said nothing as he sat back, pulling his shirt over his head and sliding out of his jeans.

"Is this really necessary?" Clary asked quietly, and Sebastian turned his gaze down with a smile. "You tell me. Is it?"

She twisted uncomfortably over the sheets.

"Are you going to try and fight me?" he asked, and she wasn't sure what answer he wanted. When she didn't respond, he reached down, cupping her face and brushing his thumb over her cheek. "Can you tell me you want this?"

Again, Clary couldn't respond. Because, no, she couldn't say she wanted this. She never would.

"I'm no fool. You've been tolerating my hands on you," he said, letting his hands slide down her sides until they settled at the divets of her hips, gripping them and lifting her a bit off the bed. "And you've been letting me kiss you, but I know you're only doing so because you're afraid."

"I'm not afraid," Clary whispered, but her eyes said it all as she looked away, and when Sebastian raised his hand sharply, she flinched.

"See?" he laughed. "It's okay that you're scared of me. But I don't want just your fear. I want your love." His voice was surprisingly steady, an unfamiliar air of patience about him. He dropped his hand, but Clary kept her face turned to the side, cheeks burning hot with embarrassment. She knew she should keep her mouth shut, keep up her good streak, stay quiet so she could get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible. But she just…she just couldn't.

"What if I can't?" she asked, so quietly she wasn't sure he had heard her until he replied. "What if you can't what?"

A sudden sob burst out as she felt the room growing smaller, the air thinner. Her throat seemed to close as she struggled to think, her wrists turning under the fine threads, less an attempt to break free and more a way to find something to focus on.

"I don't think I can love you, I don't...I cant, I can't, Sebastian, please, this—this is so wrong—" Clary broke off, panicky sobs choking her as she began to hyperventilate.

She hadn't had a panic attack like this since she was thirteen, and now here she was, breaking down underneath her demonic brother. She knew she should tense for a blow, that Sebastian was going to hit her for saying she couldn't love him, but she couldn't breathe, and her vision was swimming in tears.

But Sebastian only hushed her, brushing his hands up and down her sides. "Shhh, it's okay. You already do love me."

"N-n-"

"You do, you just need to let me in—"

"I d-don't—"

"Clary." Now his tone darkened, the snapping of her name bringing her cries to a stuttering halt, and when he felt her tense underneath him, he sighed. Some of his frustration slipped away, and he tried again, his voice returning to the cool and patient tone. "We are meant to be, Clary. You are mine. You're meant to be here. No one else could ever have you and be worthy. Our blood ties us together, don't you see?"

No. He was wrong. Their blood couldn't possibly justify this.

Her mind spun, and she again tried to imagine Sebastian if Valentine hadn't used him as an experiment, hadn't poisoned his blood, the brother he might have been. Tears ran down her cheeks and her throat burned as she tried to bring in air—too fast, too slow, too much, god, she couldn't breathe.

"Look at me," Sebastian said, and he was already pulling at her chin, forcing her face towards his. She slowly slid her eyes away from the wall, letting him hold her splotchy face.

"I know this is all new for you; I don't expect you to fully accept me overnight. I understand it will take time. But, in the meantime, I can't have you trying to run away while I show you my love for you. Okay? So the ropes stay on, for now."

She jerked her head, a panicked mockery of a nod, and tried to get her breathing under control. She let her fingers run over the smooth cords, picking at loose fibers with her nails and twisting her skin against the material. She recalled something Luke had taught her when she was younger, a way to pull oneself out of an anxiety attack using the five senses.

"But don't worry, Clarissa. Because tonight will be all about you, not me."

Five things she could see.

One: those deep, black eyes. Those haunting, endless eyes. Though they were softer than usual right now, less intense, she could still see behind the wall he put up, this facade of nicety and gentleness, into that pit of desire and deluded obsession.

"If it was really about me you wouldn't do this," she tried, begging as much as she dared. This couldn't be happening again.

"That's where you're mistaken, sister."

Two—the silvery scars on Sebastian's skin, spiderwebbed across his bare chest and arms, thin and delicate, shimmering in the moonlight and candle glow. As beautiful and faded as any Shadowhunter's marks, as intricate and stunning as her own, a wordless angelic language, so wrong on such polluted canvas. When Sebastian leaned over her to press his lips to her neck she could see a sliver of his back, the stretch of skin just over his shoulders, and the long, jagged scars from the demon metal-tipped whip Valentine used on him as a child. The same scars she now bore.

Those scars make you mine.

She saw that beneath the scars of the stele and the whip, that his skin was nearly the exact same shade as hers, evident as his pale hands laid across her and he began to pull at her shirt.

"W-wait, I can…I can take it off if you j-just untie my hands."

"You have plenty of clothes. Plus, it's more fun this way, don't you think?" A smirk curled Sebastian's lips as he pulled hard at the tank top, and the fragile hems along the side cracked, each thread popping like firecrackers in her ears.

"Like unwrapping a present just for me. God, this will never get old—you're so beautiful, Clarissa."

She felt herself choke on more cries as he ripped the rest of the fabric free, and tried to refocus on breathing, in and out, and on what she could see.

Three: the heavy drapes, cream colored with golden damask patternings, the designs densely inlaid across the bottoms that pooled onto the hardwood floor, dispersing into the off-white of the fabric higher up the curtain. The light from outside the window barely caught the aureate threads, so that they glowed dimly against the dark red wall. If she ever got to open the windows in this room, she could picture those drapes blowing softly in the wind, their ivory shifted to a stark pearl in the sunlight—

—Sebastian pulled her face back towards him, her gaze forced away from the drapes.

Four. The posts of the bed frame. Brown, diveted branches, reaching up to the sunless ceiling only to be stopped short by ornate finials, fake-carved bark cut and rounded into smooth, polished spheres—

Sebastian's face again, cutting off her view, his head dipping down above hers. He had just removed her shorts, and now his fingers stroked at her hair and face as he leaned in for a kiss. When his lips found hers, she was blinded, her eyes pressing tightly closed to try and escape the heat and wetness invading her mouth. Clary felt his hands move down her neck, over her collarbones, landing on her breasts. She couldn't stop the sob, muffled by his mouth, her tongue pressing against his as she gagged for air, and her eyes flew open.

He was everywhere. All she could see. And five…. Five was his hair. A sterling canopy that fell around his face, ash-white in the moonlight. A curl near his brow that brushed her cheek, blurry at the lower edge of her vision until Sebastian turned his head for a better angle, a better way to slot their lips together, and it crispened before her eyes, the stands as fine as the expensive spools of thread used to hem his clothes.

Now. Four things she could feel.

Sebastian at last broke the kiss and Clary gasped in air, her hands again gripping at the restraints to try and ground herself. So, for the first thing she could feel, Clary went back to the ropes.

"Breathe, Clary. Relax," Sebastian whispered, but his voice was distant, like she was miles underwater.

She was trembling, either from fear or lack of oxygen due to her hyperventilations, so she closed her eyes and took in a full, shaky breath as she curled her fingers over the lengths of rope tying each hand to the opposite ends of the headboard. It was made up of thin strings, tightly wound, non-abrasive, corded tightly together so that they slid against her skin instead of harshly gripping at it. She hadn't gotten a chance to actually see them when Sebastian pounced on her and tied her up, but now, as she twisted her wrists against them and ran her fingers over them again and again, she imagined them as a royal blue. But when she looked up to check, though they were a lighter shade than the pitch black of the demon metal band she wore, it was too dark in the room to make out the exact color.

She closed her eyes again as Sebastian's hands moved over her. Watching through teary vision, she saw him lick the pad of each thumb before slowly rolling them over her nipples. Her back suddenly arched, pressing her shoulder blades further into the mattress as she jumped at his ministrations, and she suddenly wished she could trade the ropes for the belt. At least the bruising leather was distracting, grounding in an odd, clarifying way.

Clary tried desperately not to focus on Sebastian's fingers, her breathing quickening even more as she struggled to pinpoint a second physical sensation—that is, anything besides this one, the teasing pinches and cool air across the sensitive skin, something that wasn't so god-awfully overwhelming, something that didn't send goosebumps rushing up her back and leave her gasping and shivering.

Bone on flesh. The second physical sensation: Clary took her bottom lip between her teeth and bit down hard, pinching the swollen skin until it stung brightly, a beacon of clarity in this heated, hazy room, a focal point that let her mind go blank. It was a familiar and comfortable pain, and most importantly, it was a controlled one, a consensual one, like pressing on one's own bruises or worrying one's tongue at a sore tooth. It was a sensation—painful or not—that she chose. Unlike Sebastian's hands on her, which now moved down her sides.

Continuing to chew at her lip, she was able to somewhat slow her breathing, which Sebastian then took the credit for.

"There you go," he said, drawing the words out, "just relax. Let yourself enjoy this." Her eyes were still closed, but she felt his hands move further down, over the slopes of her hips and to her thighs. She chewed her lip harder, and when his fingers started pushing her legs apart she couldn't stop herself from kicking out.

She must have connected with something, because she heard Sebastian grunt, and then he was gripping her thighs painfully hard, his nails surely leaving little half moon indentations as he pinned them to the bed and slid them apart. Whatever breathing she had managed to get under control flew out the window, the air ripped from her as she waited for the feeling of his hips pressing down onto her, but instead, and much to her panicked surprise, she felt him press a kiss to the fabric of her underwear.

Clary froze, her eyes opening wide, and she saw him smirking up at her from between her legs, his shoulders muscled in between her thighs. He kissed her there again, running his tongue up along her thinly clothed folds, and this time she jumped, her toes twisting in the sheets as a cry of shock burst from her. She struggled to form words as he continued languid strokes of his tongue over the quickly wettening fabric of her underwear.

"W-wait…."

But, of course, he didn't wait. Instead, the tips of his fingers slid under the elastic band and began slowly pulling them down, and no amount of thrashing stopped their removal, not when he pressed his weight down into her legs to keep them still. As he settled back down, this time with nothing between him and her sex, she felt her brief control over her anxiety once again slipping and her face burning hot in embarrassment.

It was one thing for him to fuck her mindlessly, violently, but this some how felt dangerously more intimate, his face so close to her most private part, the only person to ever be so close, her brother, and his black eyes seemed to absorb her fear in delight. He could say a thousand times that tonight was for her, and a thousand times over the look in those eyes would show her it wasn't true.

When he dipped his head down again, she could no longer let this happen, like she let him kiss her, and she screamed raggedly. "Stop! Stop, don't!" Though she couldn't close her thighs, she brought her heels up to kick at his sides, but it did little more than anger him, and she felt the sharp bite of his nails return to her skin.

"Clary." All he said was her name, but the low, iciness of his voice was enough to get the threat across, and she froze again, a sob shaking through her.

As her feet fell back to the bed, he took her defeat as sign to continue, and she gripped at the ropes feverishly in preparation for this new form of torture. She jumped when his lips pressed lightly to the crease of her thigh, a kiss so feather soft it made her shiver, and he placed more over her lower abdomen, hips and thighs, until she was squirming with anticipation. When he at last pressed a kiss to the small patch of red curls and his tongue swiped up between her folds, she gasped. The sensation was warm, and odd, and not entirely unpleasant, as he slowly flicked his tongue up and down, and before long her legs were quivering.

She didn't know what she had expected, but it had not been this, not this warm, or damp, or inducing of such a steadily growing tightness in her stomach. Her head rolled unconsciously across the sheets as if trying to deny whatever this was, and as she gripped at the ropes, she searched for another sensation—anything besides Sebastian's mouth on her—to focus on.

Three: she rolled her ankles down, letting her toes twist into the sheets, and felt the coolness of the silky fabric. She could imagine it was water, if she tried hard enough. Like she was dipping her toes into the cold water's edge of the East River, shaded by sparse patches of trees in the summer.

Sebastian flicked his tongue upwards, focusing on her clit now, and Clary's lower back left the mattress as she cried out in surprise. She could feel him smile against her, his mouth sealing around her, adding just the slightest suction as he drew her clit between his teeth, and she yelped, twisting under him. As much as she curled her toes into the sheets, she could no longer focus on the sensation of the fabric as he continued.

She was panting, in a different way than before, her breaths shallow and rapid from more than just anxiety now, and she couldn't help but look down. Sebastian's eyes were already locked onto her face, and when she met his gaze down over the length of her, she could feel her blush practically spreading down her neck. The candle light caught on the slim ring of silver outlining his pupils, only adding to the depth of the blackness of his irises, and she was certain she was falling down into them as that tightness in her stomach grew.

Clary opened her mouth to say something, to again plead that he stop, but then one of his hands was releasing her thigh and a finger was sliding inside of her. Whatever protest was building on her tongue was churned into a gasp as she felt the digit press all the way to the knuckle, and Sebastian briefly broke away to chuckle lightly.

"You're so wet," he murmured, and she shook her head fervently, though found she couldn't look away from those horrible eyes. He just laughed again, a soft, amused exhale of breath, before returning his tongue to her clit. Just as he did, he curled the finger inside of her upwards, and her hips jumped as something dangerously close to a moan fell from her lips. He continued curling the digit as his tongue began picking up speed, and an overwhelming sort of pressure began building in her.

She kicked softly at the bed on either side of him, her hips bucking, though whether in an attempt to shake him off or out of sheer overwhelming and unwelcome arousal, she wasn't sure. Not that it mattered either way. There was no shaking him off. There was no getting away, as he slowly pumped his finger and repeatedly pressed up into her from inside, as his mouth worked, and—

And, four. Four was the dried tears on her cheeks. She wasn't sure when she had stopped crying, but she had, long enough that the tear tracks on her face were beginning to dry. The trails where they had fallen—lazily from eyes pressed closed, down her temples and cheeks, some soaking into her hairline or catching just above the shells of her ears, some down across her jaw, or all the way to her neck—were starting to itch, the salt prickling at her skin and caking her pores.

Somewhere along the way he'd managed to take her anxiety and fold it over on itself, heat it until it changed form, a solid and tearing anxiety that stuttered her breaths and blurred her vision somehow melted into a liquid pleasure, pain and fear and desire all rolled into one until they were indistinguishable from each other. Biology betrayed her, ceasing her crying and coiling her guts. She wanted so badly to rub at the tracks of dried tears, rub the heels of her palms into her eyes and press, until spots of light danced across the backs of her eyelids.

Clary's mouth dropped in a sudden gasp of air, breath hissing through her teeth and down her throat, her thighs trembling as she was pushed closer to the edge. And then Sebastian abruptly stopped. Her hips dropped back to the mattress as she groaned, more relieved than frustrated. She saw Sebastian push up onto his elbows, and, not trusting her voice yet, she jerked at the ropes three times to say, okay, you've had your fun, let me go now.

But when Sebastian remained quiet, she looked down to see him pulling himself out of his boxers. And the anxiety crashed over her again all at once.

"Wai—" Her voice cracked and Clary tried to swallow down her shame, thick and heavy in her throat. She wasn't even demanding he stop anymore. Only begging him to wait, just one more moment, just another second. Maybe it was best to just let it be. Just get it over with. But even as the thought crossed her mind, her heart beat faster and heavier against her ribs as he leaned over her, fear pounding through her temples.

She wasn't sedated this time. As far as she knew, she hadn't been given aphrodisiacs like when she'd first woken up here. Did that mean it would hurt more, then? Surely…surely it couldn't be worse, right? It couldn't get more painful than that very first thrust. Right? Right?

"You're working yourself up," he said teasingly, dropping down to the mattress on his side, sidling up next to her so his elbow was above her head, propping him up. His right hand gripped at her still partially spread thigh and pulled it up in the air by the back of her knee. As he pushed his hips forward, his cock slid between her legs, and her panic spiked again, until she was sure Sebastian must be able to see her pulse thumping in her neck.

She sucked in as big a breath as she could, let it out slowly, building the courage for what she was about to ask.

"I won't fight, okay?" she said, slow and quiet. "So, p-please, can…can you at least use a…?"

Sebastian rocked his hips and the last word caught in her throat.

"A…?" He teased, the fingers of his left hand twirling in her hair.

"A condom," she squeaked, embarrassed and ashamed, and her request must have startled him because for just an instant, he paused. The surprise was gone as quickly as it had come though, and he ducked his head down to her neck, humming in playful consideration. He continued rocking his hips, pressing his member back and forth, back and forth, until it was slick with a combination of his saliva and her own wetness. It made a sickening squelching sound that made her face burn.

Sebastian laughed then, his mock debate over her question ended when he whispered, "No," and angled his hips up until he slid into her.

Clary yelped, trying to jerk away, but with her leg cocked up in the air, her ankle hanging over his hip, there was nowhere to go as he pressed himself all the way in. It burned horribly, her body not ready despite, or in spite of, it all, and fresh tears wet her cheeks as he groaned.

"Ah—it hurts!" she cried, her free leg kicking at the mattress, trying to push herself off of him, but his hips only followed behind her.

He hushed her again, his breath tickling the sweat-dampened hairs at the base of her neck. "Don't move this leg," he ordered, giving her thigh a firm squeeze. He released her leg, letting her knee rest over his hip.

"Plea-se, please it h-hurts—" Her whines broke off as the hand that had been holding up her leg snaked around her side, his fingers settling over her clit.

"It won't in a minute," he soothed, fingers stroking slowly over her until she could feel herself starting to relax, feel herself unconsciously unclenching around him, and when he finally drew back she groaned uneasily at the drag of skin, the wet friction.

When he thrust back in, it was a steady, fluid movement, and her toes curled and breath caught.

"See?" Sebastian slowly picked up the pace, his hips slapping quietly against her ass, his fingers working unfalteringly over her clit. And he was right—the pain was starting to fade, and god did she wish it wasn't. She felt the rush of the now familiar internal struggle between disgust and pleasure, the anxiety taking the back burner, but her mind spun to finish the grounding exercise, to think about anything else but this.

She was on sound now. She needed to pick three sounds.

Clary closed her eyes and turned her head, trying to listen beyond Sebastian's panting in her ear. The first thing she picked up was the creaking wood of the bed, not harsh and thunderous as it had been that first night here when it knocked roughly against the wall, but delicate and rhythmic, a tree groaning as it bowed gently in the wind. A fitting metaphor for the branch-carved poster bed, she thought. But the longer she honed in on the soft squeaking sound of the wood—the harder she tried to imagine she was lying under a forest canopy, the tree trunks complaining at the steadily rising breeze, perhaps warning of an oncoming storm—the more false the scenario became to her, and the dream began to slip away.

Shadow-dappled forest floors faded quickly back to sweaty, tear soaked sheets, the star dusted sky beyond the branches dethroned by the lightless void of Sebastian's eyes.

She needed a new sound then. It didn't take her long to focus on another; the second sound was the soft but rapid exhale of air from her lungs as Sebastian's movements quickened. It felt like each thrust was pressing the breath from her, the forced sighs as rhythmic as the creaking of the bed, a metronome of her own exertion, or anxiety, or pleasure, or whatever feeling this was, only occasionally broken by a stifled whimper, a brief catch in some cog. Clary could almost imagine the sound of her breathing as the result of a cool morning's jog, puffs of air clouding in front of her cheeks only a moment before she was running through them, and then past them, leaving those little clouds further and further behind.

But Clary had never been a jogger, and she certainly wasn't running now.

The only other sound she could pick out, the third, was the rumbling of Sebastian's voice through his chest. She couldn't decipher the exact words he was saying—if they were even words at all—but she could hear the utter depth of his tone, the rich baritone of it, how it spiked to tenor when Clary's spasming gave him pleasure. His voice was the blanketing thunder of a storm directly overhead, and the intermittent crack of lightning.

It was deafening. Suffocating.

And this wasn't working. This wasn't making her less anxious.

But her thoughts were already moving on to smell.

One; sweat. Sour and musky, earthy and damp. Salty, like the smell of a heated pool. The scent clung to Sebastian, not unpleasant like body odor, but smothering all the same as it spread over her own skin and caught where their flesh met and in the crevices of her body: the crook of her knee, beneath her arms, where his hard abdomen pressed to her side and lower back, the bend of her hip, where his brow touched hers, the crease of the back of her neck as her chin turned upward.

And beneath the sweat was the smell of something sweet. Something sweet, and chemical. Man made and imitative, a copycat, just slightly off of the real thing. It was the lavender candle on the bedside, the second scent, too sugary to be the real blossoms of a lavender sprig—just floral and herbal enough to pass as authentic. Clary had never particularly cared for lavender, but now it was explicitly unpleasant as the smell crept through the room. Even sucking air through her open mouth and down into her lungs didn't lessen the smell, as if it clung to the inside of her nose. It was as just as invading as the smell of Sebastian, as the feel and sound and sight of him beside her and above her and inside her, and all that was left was—

Taste.

And Sebastian gave her that, too. Never slowing, he pressed his mouth over hers, his tongue slipping easily between her parted lips, his teeth clacking against hers when she briefly tried to fight it, before instead slamming her eyes closed and letting him have his way. He tasted like brackish water, like the salt he'd licked off of her skin, like the tang of her own slick, like the stingingly cold flavor of mint toothpaste, like blood as he nipped at the skin she'd chewed raw on her lower lip.

His arm above her on the pillow curled under her head, settling behind her neck to tilt her mouth up into his, his hand knotting in her hair as he kissed her. And there was nowhere else to go. No more straws for her to grasp at. No more distractions, or senses, that weren't Sebastian. It was all there was, Sebastian, Sebastian, Sebastian, and she couldn't see or smell or hear or feel or taste anything else.

And Clary realized she was doing this all wrong. She shouldn't have been trying to ground herself in the moment. That was the last thing she needed. Grounding herself might fix anxiety, but this wasn't just a panic attack, no, this was so much more. This was fear. Terror. Mortification. And no amount of focusing on her surroundings—when Sebastian was all that surrounded her—would fix this. She didn't need to be grounded, tied to his environment, she needed to be drawing away from it, as far back into her mind as she could go.

But even as she realized this, no amount of trying to pull herself back was keeping her from feeling herself in her body, trapped in her own skin, her brain refusing to shut off her nerves, even as she ceaselessly begged it to, and it was all for nothing as her brother began climbing to his peak, his fingers dragging her up with him. She sobbed out a moan as his movements grew quicker, though never harsher.

She wasn't going to escape this. She'd never be free again. There was no one looking for her, no one searching her out. Clary wondered if they had burned an empty coffin for her yet, because she might as well be dead.

Perhaps she should drink from the cup, if only to end this misery. At least then she could be mindless. Senseless.

Would she love Sebastian then, in whatever twisted way that he wanted? If she lost all of herself?

But then…then she wouldn't love Jace, would she? And Clary couldn't not love Jace. She couldn't kill herself just to escape this, not when Jace was still out there, alone. How could she think it for even a second? Clary couldn't give up yet. If not for herself, then she would do it for Jace. So, she thought of him—his golden hair and sparkling eyes, his strong hands on her, always so steadying—and slipped back into her mind.