Demon Blood (21 page)

She smashed her knee into his groin.

Sardis went rigid, his face purpling. He didn’t collapse. Rosalia took advantage of his stillness and rammed her fist into his face. A Guardian could pound through his skull. She pulled her punch, and only his nose crunched.

Blood spurted over his mouth. He whipped his hand around, slapped her. Pain exploded through her cheek and upper lip. She tasted her own blood, felt its effect on Sardis as the scent hit him.

The rasp of his zipper seemed to rip through the room.

Fear rushed over her in a cold wave. She hadn’t wanted to make this decision. A human would be unconscious after that slap. A human couldn’t fight this. Rosalia could, but she’d have to reveal herself as a Guardian. She’d risk her plan, risk everything.

But she had to. Even if it meant she ruined any chance of defeating the nephilim. She wasn’t willing to let Sardis rape her.

One punch, through his head. Her fist curled.

Something thudded against the wall next to her ear. Sardis froze.

Deacon’s voice ground through the sudden silence. “Stuff your cock in
this
piehole, you fucking prick. It’s still nice and hot.”

Rosalia turned to look. Deacon had his hand in Valeotes’s hair, holding the demon’s head against the wall. Valeotes’s slack mouth hung open; his neck was a bleeding stump. Blood spattered Deacon’s face and clothes. His grin would have frightened Rosalia if she hadn’t been so relieved.

Sardis whimpered. “She’s just a whore.”

Deacon’s grin vanished. He dropped Valeotes’s head, grabbed Sardis’s below his jaw, and twisted. Steel flashed—her fan. Blood sprayed her face and chest. Sardis’s grip loosened on Rosalia’s neck and her feet hit the floor.

Deacon tossed Sardis’s head next to Valeotes’s. “They’re in Hell now, so I guess they’re both fucked.”

Rosalia almost laughed, but the fury in his psychic scent hit her like a blow. He looked around at the other vampires.

“If I
ever
hear of any of you forcing a woman—human or vampire—I’ll do the same to you. And if you ever watch it again without interfering, if you
ever
hear of it happening without holding the prick who did it responsible, then before I kill you, I’ll make you suck the blood out of your own dicks.”

He turned back to Rosalia, gave her the fan. “Let’s go.” He pulled her along, and didn’t slow until they encountered Maniatis, lurking uncertainly near the door—probably regretting that he’d molested her, wondering if he was next to die.

“My swords,” Deacon commanded.

Obediently, Maniatis handed them over. Rosalia looked behind them. Vampires, male and female, stood in the hall watching them leave. They reeked of terror, of disbelief—and relief.

Deacon pulled her outside, pushed her into the car, and slammed the door. He leaned over, looking at her face. With a gentle hand, he touched her lip. The cut no longer bled, but his rage grew hotter.

He vaulted over her into his seat. The tires screeched as he ripped out of the drive. Someone at the house had the sense to open the gates. He tore through them, onto the narrow road.

Rosalia watched him. Only once had she seen him angrier: when Caym had murdered his people. His rage had been mindless then, burning against her shielded psyche. Though not as volcanic now, she didn’t know what to say or how he’d respond. He certainly hadn’t reacted this way ninety years ago, when he’d rescued her from a similar situation.

“Deacon, I need to thank you—”

As if her gratitude snapped something within him, he slammed the brakes. Rosalia gasped, bracing herself. The car skidded onto the deserted roadside. He cut the engine and got out, blocking his psychic scent. He stalked past the car, into the pool of yellow headlights.

She couldn’t feel his anger now, but she saw it. He walked with his head down, his fists clenched. Slowly, she opened her door and moved to the front of the car, where she sat back on the warm hood. She waited, listening to the distant crash of the sea, drawing in the lush scent of the grass crushed by the skidding tires.

After only a few seconds, he pivoted and stalked back. An erection bulged behind his trousers. Rosalia’s breath caught. He’d fed on the plane, but a vampire’s bloodlust was unpredictable. She could understand why he’d be infuriated if the scent of Valeotes’s and Sardis’s blood had aroused him. As he came closer, she vanished the blood from his shirt and face, then from her own skin.

He still didn’t stop until stood directly in front of her. Bending low, he caged her with his hands. “How far?”

She frowned. How far . . . what? “I don’t understand.”

“No?” He stepped back. “Stand up.”

Slowly, she did. He took her spot on the hood. With his hands on her hips, he pulled her around to stand between his legs. She stared at him, her heart pounding. There was no mistaking this. She didn’t know what point he wanted to make, but she understood this. Excitement thrummed through her veins.

“Kiss me.”

Anticipation and uncertainty spread through her in equal parts. Rosalia hesitated. His face held none of the softness that she expected to accompany such a command. And she hadn’t really imagined it as a
command
.

She also hadn’t imagined how thrilling it would be.

Unknowing what to do with her hands, she braced her palms against his shoulders and leaned in. His lips were cool. A shiver started deep in her belly. Would he open his mouth now? Was she supposed to initiate that?

Suddenly, whether she was supposed to didn’t matter. She wanted to taste him. Parting her lips, she licked between his, caught the faint flavor of blood and salt.

His shoulders tensed under her hands. His fingers clenched on her hips.

She didn’t know much about kissing, but she didn’t need a flashing sign to interpret his reaction. She licked again. His mouth opened and she slipped deeper. Her tongue brushed his fangs, cool and sharp. The shiver in her belly raced outward, over her skin. She shuddered, and his grip tightened. She loved that. She wanted to squirm closer to him but he held her still except for the exploration of her mouth.

Without warning, he pulled back, and her stomach sank when she saw his face. His expression hadn’t softened. His eyes remained flat and hard; not a hint of the desire burning through her was reflected in them. The kiss hadn’t affected him, after all.

The pounding of her heart became a painful thud. “I’m not good at that,” she admitted.

“No.” His laugh was hard, too. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve got other parts I like better. So lose the top.”

She’d misheard him. “Lose what?”

“Lose the shirt, sister.”

Why? She stared into his face, wondering what he was driving toward—and realizing that she had only one way to find out. If she refused, that would be the end of this. Full stop. He wouldn’t force her to go further. But she wanted to know what had brought him to this point.

And she wanted him looking at her.

She vanished her shirt. Released from the confining material, her breasts swayed gently, her nipples already tightly budded. And when hunger pierced his psychic shields, she’d never appreciated the fullness of her body so much.

“Now feed them to me.”

His gravelly command rumbled along her nerves, sparking more heat. Arching her back, she cupped her hands beneath her breasts. Beautiful, and sometimes useful—but she’d never felt this part of her was sexy before. She’d never felt the power in this, but as he lifted his head to meet her, she reveled in it. His big palm smoothed around her hip and flattened against her back. She held her breath, watching his mouth open. His tongue flicked against her nipple, then drew a slow circle around the sensitive tip. Rosalia leaned closer to him, shaking.

His teeth closed over the taut bud, and she froze. Slowly, he sucked her nipple between his lips. Her head fell back. Oh, God. Oh, Heaven. Every pull of his mouth seemed to set her on fire, a line of heat that settled between her legs. A fierce ache burned there, seemed to pulse outward, so strong. Her hips writhed, and Deacon’s hand slid down to her ass as if to hold her in place.

His fingers caught the edge of her tiny skirt. Rosalia stilled again, panting, feeling him everywhere. The press of his fingers nearing her center. The roll of his tongue on her nipple. And still she wanted more. So much more . . . She feared how much more she wanted.

His fingers curled inward and abruptly stopped. He lifted his face toward her, staring in disbelief.

“You’re wet. You’re
so
fucking wet.”

Did he think she wouldn’t react? That Guardians couldn’t? “Yes.”

His voice deepened. “Then come up here.”

A push of his hand told her exactly how. She came up on the hood, straddling his thighs. Her heart wouldn’t stop pounding. She had Deacon between her legs. The thickness of his erection formed a hard ridge against her sex.

“Kiss me again.”

She did, and this time she kissed him as she wanted to. Hungry, deep. And didn’t stop, even when she felt the probing between her legs, the separation of her wet folds. Pressure at her entrance was followed by a faint pain. Oh, God. He was . . .

He stopped, barely inside, and pulled his mouth from hers. His voice was ragged.

“God, Rosie. You’re so little.”

What was she supposed to say? She didn’t know. His gaze locked with hers and the penetration continued, ever deeper, Deacon slowly working himself into her. It felt good. And strange. And she couldn’t stop herself from tensing up, not quite so aroused now, but . . . uncertain.

He must have sensed it. “You want me to stop?”

She shook her head. She just wanted to know what to do. To be a part of this again, because somewhere along the way, she’d become lost. Distant. But she knew the mechanics, didn’t she? She’d
seen
this so many times in her life. She knew how it worked.

But when she moved her hips, she felt him slip out of her. No, she didn’t want to quit now. It had felt lovely and she’d never—

She looked down. It took a moment for her to realize that she’d gotten it all wrong. His trousers were still zipped, the fabric wet. She rode his hand between her thighs. His middle finger glistened.

“Oh,” she whispered, then half laughed. “That wasn’t—I thought—”

“That I was fucking you?” Anger returned to his voice. “You’d go that far?”

“Yes.” Obviously, yes. She’d thought they already
had
.

And maybe Deacon meant to now. He took her mouth again, his tongue pushing past her lips. She felt his fingers working between her folds again, and pressure inside—so deep. His thumb slid up, began to circle.

And that quickly she was back in it, wanting too much, no longer lost. Deacon scraped his fangs down her neck, then sucked the tip of her breast into his mouth. Rosalia’s head fell back, her eyes closing, her fingers clenching as if she could hold on to something, hold something in. Need and excitement swelled within her, growing too fast, too big. She hadn’t thought it would be
this
. Rough. Hot. Urgent. She’d thought it would be sweet, and soft. Not . . . not this . . .

“Deacon—”

She cried out as the pressure increased. A second finger joined his first, thrusting slowly. She hadn’t known the burn, the pain could be so good.
Too
good.

“Stop . . . Oh, God. You’ve got to stop. Before I come.”

And she couldn’t stop herself. She was still moving on his hand when he pulled it away. He watched her, not speaking, his face still hard. Almost sobbing, she quieted her body.

It took a few more moments before she could breathe steadily enough to explain. “I don’t know if I can shield my mind. Sardis’s compound is too close. The vampires there might sense my presence.”

His eyes narrowed. “How can you not know? You’ve come before.”

“Yes. But only alone. Cocooned in the dark.” And that sounded . . . pathetic. She put on a smile and tried to turn it around. “When I’m desperate and lonely.”

Something in his expression changed. She couldn’t read it. And she couldn’t stand not knowing, but wouldn’t ask.

She pulled off. Stumbling to the grassy verge, she sat heavily, her hands covering her face. The pressure inside her built up again, but this time she felt no pleasure. Only panic. She’d come so close to not caring whether she revealed herself. To losing control at his touch—and loving it. This wasn’t the risk she was supposed to be taking.

Behind her, Deacon cursed, and Rosalia steeled herself. She recognized the harshness of his tone. It always appeared in his voice just before he told her to fuck off.

“At least now we know how far you’ll go. You’ll let yourself be raped. You’ll fuck me because you want my help. But you won’t let yourself come. That’s some sick shit, sister, any way you twist it. And you can count me out of your goddamn plan, because I’m not going to be a part of this.”

This was what he’d meant by
How far?
And he’d asked her to kiss him to find out. Not driven by his bloodlust or his arousal, but driven to prove a point.

And he’d missed it by a mile.

She glanced over her shoulder, found him standing rigidly beside the car. The tightness in her throat and chest almost choked her, but she spoke past it. “I wouldn’t have let him rape me. When you arrived, I was a moment away from punching through his head—and for that, I’m disappointed in myself. I thought I’d sacrifice more. But when it came down to a poke between my legs and saving everyone from the nephilim, I tossed the world away.”

His brows drew together. She felt his astonishment, saw the darkening of his expression as surprise turned to rejection. “That’s fucked-up, Rosie.”

An almost hysterical laugh bubbled up. She swallowed it down and turned away from him again. “Maybe.”

“So what the hell were you doing with me? Were you proving to yourself that you could sacrifice and take that poke between your legs?”