| the divine things that doesn't exactly help you with your life.
ultimately about books that I've read and love. | I'm in love . . . with a fictional character | I'm a Demigod/Shadowhunter | I'm here, I'm everywhere | I don't care what people says about Will Herondale, I'll love him always. |
He flinched away from her, and Tessa dropped her hand, hurt. “Jem, what it is it? You don’t want me to touch you?”
“Not like that,” he flared, and then flushed even darker than before.
“Like what?” She was honestly bewildered; this was behavior she might have expected from Will, but not from Jem: this mysteriousness, this anger.
“As if you were a nurse and I were your patient. You think because I am ill I am not like —” He drew a ragged breath. “Do you think I do not know,” he went on more quietly, “that when you take my hand, it is only so that you can feel my pulse? Do you think I do not know that when you look into my eyes it is only to see examine my pupils, to see how much of the drug I have taken? If I were another man, a normal man, I might have hopes, presumptions even; I might -—” His words seemed to catch; either because he realized he had said too much or because he had run out of breath.
She shook her head, feeling her plaits tickle her neck. “This is the fever speaking, not you.”
His eyes darkened, and he began to turn away from her. “You can’t even believe I could want you,” he said in a half-whisper. “That I am alive enough, healthy enough —”
“No.” Without thinking, she caught at his arm. He stiffened. “James, that’s not at all what I meant —”
He curled his fingers around her hand, where it lay on his arm. His own scorched her skin, hot as fire. And then he turned her, and drew her toward him.
They stood face to face, chest to chest. His breath stirred her hair. She felt the fever rising off him like mist off the Thames; sensed the pounding of the blood through his skin, saw with a strange clarity the pulse at his neck, the light on the pale curls of his hair where it lay against his paler throat. Prickles of heat ran up and down her skin, bewildering her. This was Jem — her friend, steady and reliable as a heartbeat. Jem did not set her skin on fire or make the blood rush fast inside her veins until she was dizzy.
“Tessa,” he said. She looked up at him. There was nothing steady or reliable about his expression. His silver eyes were dark, his cheeks flushed. As she raised her face, he brought his down, his mouth slanting across hers, and even as she froze in surprise they were kissing.