Demon Blood (47 page)

Deacon tossed the weapon in a slow high arc toward the other vampire. The demon looked to the side, his gaze following the path of the sword. Deacon whipped out his second blade from the sheath beneath his jacket.

The demon’s head fell that heavily, too, thudding to the floor beside Stefan.

When the cheers erupted, Rosalia was already pushing through the vampires. She sprinted to the center of the room. As Deacon turned, she leapt up and flung her arms around his neck. Pressing her mouth to his ear, she breathed, “Two by the door.”

Holding her at the waist, Deacon swung around. “Run back to Munich,” he called out. “If he finds me at midnight tomorrow, we’ll negotiate.”

She watched them slip through the door. “They’re going.”

He looked down at her. His gaze focused on her lips, and Rosalia’s heart began to race. The arm around her waist tightened, lifting her to his mouth. Then the vampires were on them, jostling Rosalia hard from behind, celebrating, hugging Deacon, shouting—and forgetting their strength. A human shouldn’t be in the middle of this.

“Deacon.” She pulled away. “I’ll wait by the exit.”

She turned at the wrong time. A shorter vampire coming in for an embrace whacked her forehead against Rosalia’s mouth instead. Pain sliced her bottom lip. She tasted—
smelled
—her Guardian blood.

Oh, no no
no
. Not in a room full of vampires.

“Oops!” The vampire laughed, finished the embrace, and danced away.

The vampire hadn’t noticed the difference. She couldn’t have known how Guardian blood smelled. Or that Rosalia’s cut was going to heal, very quickly. But others might notice.

Deacon did.

He swung her back against him. She saw his fangs slice his tongue. His thumb gently pulled down her bottom lip.

“I’ll heal you up.”

And cover the scent. His head lowered. She rose up to meet him. Just like a kiss.

God, she wanted him to kiss her so much.

He licked across the wound. Pleasure flashed through her body—deep, more than a kiss. A vampire’s ecstasy at the taste of blood, echoed back through her veins. Deacon stiffened, his big body going utterly still.

His bloodlust flared hot against her shields. The cheers went silent as the vampires all felt it—as they all realized what it meant.

He’d had a taste of her blood. The bloodlust wouldn’t let him stop until he’d quenched his thirst, and even if she ran, he’d come after her.

Deacon flung himself away from her, vampires scrambling from his path. He slammed his back against a wall, holding on, trembling. Every muscle in his body straining, he fought the bloodlust.

He was going to lose.

Deacon met her eyes. “Run.”

“It won’t matter—”

He reached out, yanked the nearest body next to him, shoved the vampire to Rosalia.
“Get her out of here!”

The young female obeyed, scooping Rosalia up. She hesitated, seemed uncertain where to go.

There was nowhere this vampire
could
go. Deacon was faster and stronger. And he would be coming after her soon.

“The safe room,” Rosalia reminded her.

The vampire’s eyes brightened. Carrying Rosalia cradled against her chest, she turned and sprinted to the stairs. Rosalia’s teeth rattled with every step. The chamber door was unlocked. The vampire swung it open, several inches of solid steel. The interior was bare, utilitarian. Vampires didn’t need much. Two supply cabinets stood side by side, a porcelain sink hung from the wall, and a shower filled one corner. The rest lay empty.

As soon as the vampire set her down on the concrete floor, Rosalia told her, “Go.”

“Are you sure—”

“I’m sure.”

The vampire left—probably more fascinated by the idea of watching outside as Deacon tried to slam his way in until morning than waiting here.

Rosalia closed the door, silencing the noise from upstairs. The chamber had been soundproofed. Perfect. No one would know anything about what went on in here. They’d assume. They wouldn’t know.

She vanished her shoes and stood beside the entrance with her back against the wall, waiting. Her heart pounding.

Deacon wouldn’t have control. And if she lost hers, he couldn’t promise to catch her. But she wouldn’t need him to. If she gave him her blood, he would feel every emotion that she’d tried to contain. He would hear the thoughts she hadn’t spoken. He would know what she’d hidden from him. She’d only needed the control so that she wouldn’t expose herself to him, give everything away.

But now . . . if he wanted it, she’d let him take it.

A moment later, Deacon slammed into the door, the impact shuddering through the reinforced wall, his bloodlust burning against her mind. Then the handle turned—and she felt his shock and despair beneath the hunger. He’d thought it would be locked.

As if she would ever let him batter himself bloody on a door she could open.

He burst through, his momentum carrying him past her position against the wall. She swung the door closed again. Locked it.

Deacon spun around, his eyes narrowing on her, predator sighting his prey. Growling her name, he launched forward, reaching for her.

Grabbing his wrist, Rosalia stepped to the side, yanking him around and slamming her foot against the back of his knee. He fell, and she shoved him facedown to the floor. Holding his wrists, she pulled upward, pinning him with his arms crossed behind his back, and his spine arched away from her, denying him the leverage to rise. She straddled his waist as he tried to break his wrists free, the veins in his arms standing out against straining muscle. Heavens, he was strong. But she had the advantage here.

A part of him must have realized it. Though his body fought, relief rose through his psychic scent.

“I can hold you,” she told him. “But the bloodlust won’t fade. And when dawn comes, you won’t fall asleep. Until you’ve been sated with blood, you’ll keep trying to come after me.”

He shook his head, his chest heaving.
“Run,”
he grated, his voice unrecognizable.
“Get out.”

“Why? I want this. I’ve hated every single day we haven’t touched.” Her hands clenched as he roared, his body bucking as he tried to throw her off. She rode it through, and said as he quieted, “But if you don’t want me or my blood, I can hold you like this all night, until the vampires fall asleep. By then I’ll have thought up a way out of this. Or I can feed you here and prevent you from taking me. It’s up to you, but either way, my blood—everything I am—is yours.”

“You can’t. I’m not a delicate princess.” She felt him fighting through the haze of bloodlust, his body shaking. She bent and kissed his clenched fist. His hand opened, reaching for her. “My blood or me. Just tell me which you want.”

His head fell forward. Self-hatred and longing battled through his psychic scent. Through clenched teeth, he ground out his answer.

She let him go.

Free, Deacon exploded upward. She slipped from his back, landing hard on the floor, rolling onto her side as if to get up.
Don’t let her get away.
Unable to stop the growl tearing from his chest, he caught her slim ankle, dragging her toward him, using his knees to shove her thighs wide. Her fingers clenched on his shoulders and she tilted her head back, exposing her neck.

He drove up, fangs spearing into her throat. Rosalia gasped, arching beneath him. Her hot blood poured over his tongue, a frantic rush of sound and light, driving away thought.

His fingers found her wet. Ripping aside her panties, he thrust deep, her silken heat clenching around him, sucking him in. She cried out, and her hips rose to meet his. Her strong blood rushed through his body, her thoughts lost beneath the psychic roar, a raging storm of emotion and thought that battered his mind about, leaving him only pieces of her to see.

Hidden from him.
He needed more.

Drawing hard from her vein, he pounded into her, and she took every inch. Her nails shredded his shirt, his back, then scraped downward to dig into his ass, urging him to take more. So sweet and warm and welcoming. She’d given him this, given him the hero’s welcome upstairs, where he’d been met with hope instead of the hatred he’d deserved since a demon had poured Eva’s and Petra’s ashes to the floor.

He didn’t fucking deserve any of what she’d given.

Rosalia’s legs tightened around his waist, her arms around his neck, repeating his name with every rough pis-toning of his hips. Her voice had become hoarse as if she’d been crying out for too long, with pleasure and grief and loss. Maybe they were just his. He couldn’t sense her emotions, the blood an overwhelming roar in his head. Then Rosalia shuddered and stiffened, arching back with a primal scream, liquid warmth flooding her sheath. Her orgasm slammed through her veins, into his mouth. The bloodlust shattered and he came hard, jetting into her, thick as the blood that heated him and he could only think that he was cold, cold.

Then sense returned, and the cold became worse.

He’d hurt her. He
had
to have hurt her. Guardians were tough, but not impervious, and he’d used the softness of her throat and pussy like a ravaging beast. His cock still throbbed deep inside her. He lifted his head, began to pull out.

Rosalia caught his face, and he froze. For a long moment, her warm brown eyes stared right through him. He wanted to get up, to take care of her, but
she
wanted him here and so he didn’t move. Then, gently, she kissed his forehead. His lips. His jaw. Every kiss felt like a healing balm, soothing his grief, easing his guilt.

Dear God, how he loved her. And he’d have given anything in the world to deserve the comfort she offered so easily.

Her fingers threaded into his hair, and when he looked at her again, tears stood in her eyes. “I miss my friends, too. And nothing we do ever seems to make up for not saving them.”

Christ. He hadn’t felt anything from her, just that raging psychic storm. But she’d either sensed his emotions or seen them in him, and guessed exactly where they’d come from.

She was always seeing him at his lowest.

Deacon pushed off of her, roughly shoving his erect cock into his trousers as he stood. When he looked down, he had to force himself not to close his eyes. Blood dried in thin trails down her elegant neck. The pale skin between her thighs had been rubbed raw and pink, still wet with his seed. Her ankle was bruised, ringed with impression of his fingers. He felt sick. He’d
bruised
a woman—a Guardian, hard enough that it hadn’t yet healed.

She started to get up.

“Stay put, Rosie.” He waited until she stopped moving before heading over to the sink. He gripped the sides for a moment, grateful there was no mirror above it. He wasn’t sure he could face himself now. And he didn’t want to know what Rosalia saw when she looked at him.

He zipped up and wetted a hand towel before returning to her side. She’d come up on her elbows, her gaze searching his face as he wiped her neck. He turned the towel to the clean side before tending to her sex. The rawness had already faded—the bruises gone, too.

And he’d never felt so much like shit.

Where did managing end and love begin?

Rosalia didn’t know. She was ashamed she didn’t know. And she’d wanted to help him, but she’d promised not to manage him—and so the only thing she’d been able to do was offer her support and strength.

It had been strange and wonderful to be cared for in return, even if that care had only been prompted by guilt.

Now he was far away from her. They’d returned to the abbey early, and he was plowing his way down the length of the pool. But she knew too well that he couldn’t outrace anything. Just churn through the water, turn, and try to punish himself against the same length again. Great for thinking. Not so great for escape.

From the walkway overlooking the courtyard, she watched his heavy powerful strokes, as if he could beat himself against the water until it wore him down. A human would be feeling it. A vampire, even one as strong as Deacon, might break a sweat. But he wouldn’t tire. He wouldn’t ache afterward. He wouldn’t feel any pain—and so it wouldn’t be a solace for him.

Sighing, she braced her hands against the balcony rail. He hadn’t said a single word about what he’d felt or heard as he’d taken her blood, and his silence weighed on her heart like a stone.

She couldn’t bear dragging it out. Perhaps it was best just to address it now.

Spreading her wings, she glided to the end of the pool and sat on the edge, slipping her legs into the warm water. Her wingtips bent against the marble tiles behind her, the stone against her feathers gently rough, like the scrape of a cat’s tongue. She watched Deacon approach in the next lane.