Demon Blood (32 page)

“I have to try, and to believe I can.”

“You’ll set yourself up for a lot of failure if you take that view.”

Her ferocity receded, leaving a bleak smile in its place and her eyes dark. “I know.”

A faint noise came from one of the speakers—St. Croix, making a phone call from the bugged library. Rosalia turned away from Deacon, listening close.

Deacon watched her profile, wondering about her last reply. She’d sounded as if she had a close acquaintance with failure, as if she’d fallen down too many times in her life.

In all of that time, why hadn’t anyone been there to catch her?

A few minutes before dawn found Deacon in bed, listening to Rosalia working in the War Room. She’d been busy, but not with anything Deacon could help her with. Mostly trailing through financial information, searching for anything about St. Croix they might have missed.

St. Croix had given her more to look at. Over the course of the night, he’d called in several favors. Someone to provide coffins, another to provide transport to the airport. Another to smooth his way through customs, so that no questions would be asked. He took care of the vampires, and each person he contacted was a link to his past. Now Rosalia was discovering how he’d intersected with these people, and why they owed him.

And that was all she’d been doing. Though she hadn’t pushed Deacon out of her space, she’d shut down emotionally. He could still hear her, though—that strange new sound, a strong psychic sense. Pain sang a dirge just below her shields, and told him that her shutting down had been a defense.

A defense against what, he had no fucking clue. He posed no danger to her. Christ, if anyone was in trouble, it was him. Every look, every smile, and those hooks she’d gotten into him sank deeper.

Hell, she could probably see it. After years of watching people, she had the ability to read them like no one he’d ever met. No surprise, then, that she was so good at managing a potential enemy and arranging situations to her advantage.

What he wouldn’t have given to have someone like her around six months ago, Guardian or not. Caym wouldn’t have known which way was up.

Of course, maybe Deacon wouldn’t have, either. She might be able to read him, but he couldn’t make heads or tails of her—like why she was sitting in the next room, her psyche humming like her heart ached. He only knew that it tore at him.

Christ. As soon as they were done with the demons and the nephilim, he needed to get the hell out of here.

He closed his eyes, waiting for dawn, for that instant drop into sleep. The black would fall over him and the dreams would start. Maybe tonight, they’d be of Rosalia. Her silken skin. Her gorgeous lips and hot mouth.

But if he didn’t stop thinking of it now, he’d end up forming a tent of her sheets before he fell asleep and stay hard throughout the day. Daylight had to be coming soon. A few minutes felt like it had stretched into a dozen—the nephil blood, still slowing his perception. Maybe it’d wear off as he slept.

In the War Room, the quiet clacking of the keyboard fell silent. Rosalia’s sigh floated across the corridor, and was followed by her approaching footsteps as she entered the bedchamber. She paused, as if she stood near the bed, looking at him.

Unbelievably, Deacon felt the mattress dip beneath her weight. His eyes popped open as her cheek came down on his chest. Her hair spread over his shoulder. She inhaled his skin. Her body pressed against his side, and she seemed to do a fluid roll as if snuggling in as close as possible.

She stiffened. Her head jerked up from his chest and she stared into his face. Shock rounded her eyes. “You’re awake!”

Was he? Deacon wasn’t convinced he hadn’t slipped into daysleep and begun a vivid dream. “Am I?”

“Yes! The sun is . . .” Her eyes darkened. That subtle shift was the only thing that saved him, the only thing that gave him time to catch her wrist before her bladed fan sliced through his neck.

Jesus Christ. He’d reacted fast enough to catch her wrist . . .
and was strong enough to hold it
.

Rosalia still had the advantage of position and leverage. Shaking with effort, she shoved the tips of the blades into his skin.

“Demon! Where is he? Where’s Deacon?”

Fear and anger screamed through her psychic scent. She thought someone had killed him, took his place.

“Rosie . . . feel.” Her skin was hot against his. His must be cool against hers. Whatever else had changed, he was still the same temperature.
“Feel.”

Her hand trembled. “The sun is up. How are
you
up?”

Realization hit hard. “The nephil’s blood.”

And afterward, everything around him had seemed slow, but that wasn’t right.
He
was faster. His senses were stronger—and his body, too.

Deacon prayed it wouldn’t wear off.

Her eyes rounded again. Beyond her amazement, however, Deacon recognized one clear thing: She’d come to hold him while he was sleeping. Using him as a substitute for the other guy, most likely. He didn’t give a fuck. If she’d come, she probably wanted someone to grab onto.

That guy wasn’t here. Deacon was.

And God knew he wanted her, too.

Rosalia could not wind back her astonishment. The sky outside had been light when she’d come in here. Yet he was awake.

The realization in Deacon’s expression shifted into something heated and intense. “You’re in my bed,” he said.

And he was
awake
. Incredible. So far as she knew, only one other vampire could resist the daysleep—and that vampire could also survive the sunlight. Could Deacon? They’d have to be careful, but they had to try.

She vanished her fan and tugged on his hand, half rising. “Let’s see if you can go out—”

His hand closed over hers, pulled her back down. She recalled how he’d caught her before. Not just awake. Strong. Fast.

“You came to my bed. Wrapped yourself around me.”

Oh. Now she felt a hint of color in her cheeks. “Yes. But Deacon, you’re
awake
.”

How could that not overwhelm any other concern right now? But he wouldn’t be put off.

“Have you come before?”

“Yes,” she said, and tugged again, but he wouldn’t let her move.

So he wanted to deal with this first. All right. He did deserve to know. She settled against him again, and with her astonishment fading, became aware of his body beneath hers, the cool hardness of muscle. She looked into his green eyes, focused intently on her face. Waiting for her explanation.

She moistened her lips. How to say this? His body beneath hers
was
the explanation.

“I do it to think,” she said.

His eyes narrowed. “To think?”

“Yes. To remind myself why I’m risking so much. It’s easier when I can . . . hold on to someone.”

He looked doubtful, but it wasn’t a lie. Although she didn’t just want
someone
. It had to be Deacon, who risked the most with everything she did. Who she had to send into battle over and over. Who she’d almost lost that very night, in a battle she hadn’t foreseen.

And who she could have lost again, because he’d turned down the offer of her blood and risked the nephil’s, instead. She’d spent the rest of the night trying to suppress the ache of that rejection—and now, faced with the amazing fact of Deacon awake in her bed, that pain seemed far away.

“You want to
smell
someone, too?”

Her cheeks caught fire. So he hadn’t missed that. “I wanted . . .”

To imagine this. That he wouldn’t be sleeping. That he’d take her into his arms. That her mouth would find his. That he could know her—know everything she’d felt for him.

“What did you want?”

Her heart seemed to shrink in on itself. When she told him, he could reject her again. But she could show him instead, and take a little first—just a little bit of what she’d wanted.

“Damn you,” she whispered, and lurched forward.

Though Deacon was fast enough to stop her, he didn’t. His mouth opened beneath hers. Her stomach performed a long, slow dive and she stroked her tongue against his.

He kissed her back as if he’d been waiting for the touch of her lips. As if he was relieved. And so careful with his fangs, though with every lick and taste, she felt her control slipping.

Need rushed over her, like a whirlwind catching her wings, spinning her about. Her fingers framed his face and ran down to clench on his wide shoulders. She couldn’t taste him enough, touch him enough. Her heart pounded. Fear crashed into her. She didn’t know how to manage this.

She pulled back.

Deacon caught her waist, rolled her beneath him. The linen sheet wrapped her left leg, her knee cocked and trapped by his weight. He settled over her thighs, his heavy erection burning into her awareness through the linen, through her skirt. She clutched at his back to steady herself. Beneath the sheet, he wore nothing, only cool skin over iron muscle. Her short shallow breaths sounded panicked. She made herself stop.

He braced his hands next to her shoulders, his biceps bunching as he lifted to study her face. His mouth glistened from her kisses. A soft yellow glow washed over his features . . . Oh, God. Her eyes.

“Is this what you want, Rosie?” With a deliberate roll of his hips, he rocked against her.

Yes.
Rosalia’s lips opened on a gasp and her hips rose to meet him. That rush sped through her again, made her feel like crying.

His mouth took hers before she came down. He palmed her left knee, pushed her leg higher. The sheet slid over her thigh, the fabric a soft burn against her skin. Deacon settled firmly between her legs, open to him, and the rhythm of his rocking hips matched the thrust of his tongue into her mouth. Rosalia clung to him, drowning.

He lifted his head. She gasped for air, for control—afraid he’d kiss her again and take her deeper.

Afraid he wouldn’t.

“Rosie?”

Concern softened the gravel in his voice. She looked up at him.

“Your nails are tearing up my back.”

What? A glance over his shoulder revealed her fingertips, wet with blood. Long gouges striped his flesh. Oh, God.

“I’m sorry.” She tried to get up, but he didn’t move. She pushed at his chest.

“Hold on,” he said, and she did. His dark brows drew together. “You’re sorry?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t care. Rip me up if you want. But if you’re saying sorry, princess, it means you weren’t trying to get me off of you.”

He hadn’t stopped because of the pain, but because he’d been worried she wanted out? “No.”

Her misery etched into the word. Only a few kisses, yet she’d been scratching up his back. That wasn’t supposed to come until later, when he was inside her. She felt her color rise again. How many times had she seen people do this? She knew how sex worked. Yet she was losing control, getting it wrong.

Anger darkened his face. “Don’t look like that.”

“I don’t know how to handle this.” She wished he’d been asleep. Holding on to him wasn’t as frightening as trying to hold herself back. “It’s not safe.”

Tension hardened his muscles to steel. “You’re not safe from me?”

“No. You from me.”

She showed him her fingertips, then vanished the blood. His eyes narrowed as he stared at her, as if he could open her up and peel away the layers. She struggled not to flinch away from that flaying gaze, tempted to recede into darkness. To just let it surround her and take her.

Then his face softened, and his long, slow smile appeared. “You don’t have to handle it.”

“What?”

“I won’t make it easy, but I’ll catch you. I’ll take care of you, keep you safe. If you’ll let me.”

His hands found hers, folded over them. The possessive gesture seemed to say,
I’m strong enough
. It promised to give her control that she didn’t have . . . by giving control over to him.

Could she? Her fingers trembled.

His grip tightened, pinning her hands to the bed. “Let me show you, Rosie.”

Oh, she wanted to. Surely it was no different than the trust she’d put in him the past three nights, when she’d sent him in to slay demons. She’d trusted his strength then, trusted that he would prevail, that he wouldn’t expose her, that he would take control of the situation. She had been frightened then, too—but he had succeeded each time. And her heart had been at risk each time . . . as it still was.

Yet every kiss had been worth that risk. This would be, too.

With a deep breath, she nodded.

“Say it.”

“I’ll let you.”
Take control. Take
me.

“Trust me.”

A command, not a question. She answered it anyway. “I do.”

His heavy-lidded gaze fell to her lips. “Then give me your mouth again.”