It was dark in the alcove, so dark that Jace was only an outline of shadows and gold. His body pinned Clary's to the wall. His hands slid down along her body and reached the end of her dress, drawing it up along her legs. "What are you doing?" She whispered. "Jace?" He looked at her. The peculiar light in the club turned his eyes an array of fractured colors. His smile was wicked. "You can tell me to stop whenever you want," he said. "But you won't.

It's love, not the Battle of Thermopylae. You don't have to treat everything like it's a last stand.

We live and breathe words. It was books that kept me from taking my own life after I thought I could never love anyone, never be loved again. It was books that made me feel that perhaps I was not completely alone. They could be honest with me, and I with them.

Comforting someone when they were stricken with loss was something else. It meant commitment. It meant caring. It meant you wanted to ease their pain, and at the same time you were thanking God that whatever the bad thing was that had happened, it hadn't happened to them.

At least Kyle wasn't home. That would be a hard one to explain to his new roomate. Nobody liked a guy who kept blood in the fridge.

There's nothing you could have done that would cause me to cease loving either of you. Will is myself, my own soul, and if I am not to have the keeping of your heart, then there is not other I would rather have that honor.

He strode to the wall and tore aside one of the velvet hangings. “You want to tell me what this is?” he demanded. “It’s a door, Jace,” said Clary.