Clary closed her eyes. Remembering the way Jace had looked at her the night she'd freed Ithuriel, she couldn't help but imagine the way he'd look at her now if he saw her trying to lie down to die on the sand beside him. He wouldn't be touched, wouldn't think it was a beautiful gesture. He'd be angry at her for giving up. He'd be so--disappointed.

Her throat ached: adoration, heartbreak, in equal measure. “Kiss me,” she said. “Please.

I screwed her over. I didn't want to see her screwed over by someone else.

Actually," said Jace, "I prefer to think that I'm a liar in a way that's uniquely my own.

What were you dreaming about?" "You." He twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. "I always dream about you." "Oh, yeah? Because I thought you were having a nightmare." He tipped his head back to look at her. "Sometimes I dream you're gone," he said. "I keep wondering when you'll figure out how much better you could do and leave me.

Usually I'm remarkably good natured. Try me on a day that doesn't end in y.

A Mark that spoke of loss was still a Mark, a remembrance. You could not lose something you never had.