Maybe [The Mortal Instruments] {Rewritten}

I Jonathan's P.O.V

A low groan escaped my lips as I gradually stirred from the realm of unconsciousness. Every inch of my body ached, throbbing in unison with my heartbeat. Attempting to shift onto my side, I was met with a sharp pang of pain, causing me to wince and abandon the movement. Opting for stillness, I reluctantly opened my eyes, greeted by the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling looming above me.

Brows furrowed in confusion, I questioned my surroundings, wondering where on earth I found myself. Casting a glance to my right, I observed the morning light streaming through the window. The events of the previous day began to resurface, a chaotic reel of memory flooding my consciousness – a horde of demons descending upon me, my relentless battle against them, sustaining injuries, the weary limping toward an alley, and the unexpected intervention of an unknown woman.

Her voice lingered in my recollection, a compassionate undertone that resonated with gentleness and concern – emotions entirely foreign to the harshness and pain that had defined my existence. It was a stark contrast that left me struggling with unfamiliar sensations.

Turning my gaze back to the nightstand on my right, a surreal scene met my eyes. There lay a bloody scarf, a peculiar small knife, a spool of thread, a needle, and an open computer displaying research on how to sew an open wound. My mind struggled to process the incongruity of the scene.

"What the hell is going on?" I muttered to myself, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. I was accustomed to being in control, always aware of my surroundings and circumstances. The abrupt shift into confusion and dependency on someone else unsettled me.

As my eyes roved across the items, a surge of anger and perplexity filled me. Someone had taken me into their home, meticulously researched methods to mend my wounds, and tended to me with a level of care I had never experienced. It was a vulnerability I wasn't accustomed to, and the uncertainty of the situation grated against my usual sense of command. With a heavy sigh, I attempted to sit up, determined to confront the unknown benefactor and unravel the enigma that now enveloped me.

Almost as if in response, a faint groan echoed from my left side. Reacting with the reflexes honed through years of being a shadowhunter, I snapped my head toward the source of the sound. The sight that met my eyes left me momentarily paralyzed. An angelic figure lay asleep in an armchair adjacent to the sofa where I was situated.

Sunbeams streaming through the window lent a golden hue to her brown-almost-blonde hair, casting an ethereal glow upon her skin. However, it was her eyes that captivated me the most – the most resplendent emeralds I had ever seen. It wasn't a distinctive feature that held my attention; rather, it was the myriad of emotions shimmering within those eyes that stole my breath away.

Within those enchanting orbs, I discerned a mosaic of emotions – concern, happiness, kindness, astonishment, and curiosity, all directed at me. The realization struck me with a certain possessiveness, a darker facet of my psyche greedily claiming those emotions as mine. The question lingered: Who was this stranger, and why had she bestowed upon me a kindness that seemed reserved for the most cherished of beings?

"Hey there. How are you holding up?" Her voice was soft, with a subtle undercurrent of worry. It struck me that no one had ever addressed me in such a manner before. "You ended up running quite a fever last night, I had to wake up and check on you many times during the night. Though, I am glad it did not end up being an infection. I wouldn't have known what to do otherwise."

"Fine," I responded in a detached tone. The ingrained lesson from my father resonated in my mind – never reveal vulnerability to anyone.

"Liar," she retorted, accompanied by a glare that held no real animosity. My heart skipped a beat, fearing that she might leave. I wasn't ready to forfeit those fleeting moments of tenderness. To my relief, she rose from her seat, and my anxiety subsided as she returned with a glass of water and some pills. "Take these," she instructed. If she weren't such an intriguing individual, I might have disposed of her already. "They're painkillers; they'll help."

Reluctantly, I accepted the pills from her outstretched hand and swallowed them dry. "Thanks," I murmured, offering one of my trademark fake, charming smiles. Oddly enough, this time, the smile bore a semblance of sincerity, much like the words I had just spoken.

"You're welcome," she replied, reciprocating with a smile of her own. "Mind sharing what happened to you? And why a hospital visit is off the table?"

"I was attacked, and the reason you can't take me to the hospital is that I've managed to anger a lot of people," I explained, offering concise responses to her queries. It felt like the least I could do for the person who had just saved my life.

A palpable curiosity radiated from her, as if she craved more information, yet she restrained herself from asking further questions. In that moment, I recognized that this hunger for knowledge could eventually become both a captivating quality and, perhaps, her downfall.

"I should take a closer look at those wounds," she said, breaking the silence that lingered between us. "They need to be cleaned to prevent infection." Attempting to sit up, I only managed to emit a groan of pain. "Let me help you," she offered, rushing to my aid and guiding me with her gentle hands.

I tried to maintain composure, resisting the urge to derive any pleasure from her touch. Yet, her soft and gentle hands, brimming with concern as she tended to my wounds, invoked memories of imagined moments with Clarissa. The difference was that these touches were real, not mere figments of my imagination.

"Why bother taking care of me? Why not just leave me at the hospital?" I inquired.

She momentarily halted her movements, and I feared I had posed the question too early. However, she resumed her task and responded to my inquiry. "I couldn't let you die without doing my best to help," she began. "Initially, I wanted to take you to the hospital since I know very little about healing. However, you resisted, so I respected your wishes. Life is full of the choices we make—some we regret, some we are proud of. You chose a path, and I have no right to intervene. Nevertheless, I couldn't let you die. That's why I did what I did."

Surprised by her unexpected answer, I nodded in acknowledgment. It was not what I had anticipated. "Although, things changed afterward," she continued, her hand tracing down my chest and lingering on my back, just above the lingering scars my father had left so many years ago. "I can see that you've suffered a lot in your life. Not just from these scars but from the torment in your eyes. You have beautiful eyes. Dark, mysterious, passionate, deep, and hungry. They vividly reflect your personality and desires."

"And what might those be?" I responded gruffly, not appreciating the scrutiny.

"Love, family, a sense of belonging, something to give your life purpose," she answered with a comforting tone. "Essentially, what everyone seeks. You're not so different from the rest."

"You have no idea how different I am," I snorted, punctuating the statement with a dark chuckle.

"Then, at the very least, acknowledge that you are not alone," she insisted. "We are in search of the same things, walking similar paths. By the way, my name is Katherine Rosa Sangrienta."

I observed Katherine, this intriguing girl, with a mix of curiosity and shock. It was surprising that she admired my eyes, the very eyes that earned me disdain from my mother. She seemed capable of peering into my soul, reading me like an open book. Furthermore, she claimed that I wasn't alone, that she was with me. Despite knowing deep down that this was not true.

My father had made sure to instill in me the belief that no one would ever love or care for me, that I was destined to be alone. He hammered into my psyche that only family could come close to feeling anything resembling affection for a master like me. This was precisely why I was so fixated on manipulating my sister into considering me as more than just a brother, convinced that no other woman would ever entertain such thoughts.

However, as I gazed into Katherine's emerald eyes, radiating sincerity and warmth, I found myself reconsidering my initial instincts. Even though this might all be a facade and destined to crumble, there was a tempting allure in feeling connected, if only for a fleeting moment.

"I am Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern," I introduced myself. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Katherine."