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Kit started after them. What was it Jace had said, after all? Herondales couldn’t resist a challenge.
“Emma, don’t,” he said. He didn’t know what he was asking, exactly. Don’t be close to me, I can’t bear it. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t be everything I want and can’t have. Don’t make me forget you’re Mark’s and anyway you could never be mine.
You didn’t grow up with someone, dream of them, let them shape your soul and put their fingerprints on your heart, and not know when the person you were kissing wasn’t them. Julian yanked himself away, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
The gown fell away slightly as she climbed onto the bed, and Julian realized to his horror that it was slit up the side almost to her hip. Her long legs flashed against the material as she settled herself onto the bedspread. The universe didn’t just hate him, it was trying to kill him.
“You’re one of the only real things in my life, Julian.”
“That is love, son of thorns. We welcome its cruelest blows and when we bleed from them, we whisper our thanks.”
though there were valuable first editions of books in the enormous library, most of them had been scribbled in by some idiot named Will H.
Julian was the kind of person who could descend into Hell and come out with the devil himself owing him a favor.
Gwyn’s lips twitched at the corners. “Speaking of dreams,” he said. “You have been in mine, and often.”
That where Julian Blackthorn was concerned, there would always be more to it.
Neither Julian nor Emma slept well that night, though each of them thought they were the only one troubled, and the other one was probably resting just fine.
There were two height charts scribbled on the plaster, the kind you got by standing someone against a wall and drawing a line just above their head, with the date. One was marked Will Herondale, the other, James Carstairs.
“You’re a Herondale. That’ll never be nothing.”
