Demon Blood (58 page)

On behalf of the vampire communities, he would be asking for the protection from the Guardians. Of course he would—he was strong, but not so arrogant to assume that he could handle everything alone. And Irena had told Rosalia that she had been providing Deacon his blood.

He did not need her.

But she could not stop her pulse from racing, and the joy that a glimpse of his face brought. She steeled herself against hope, crossing her arms over her chest as if that could muffle the pounding of her heart.

His gaze found her from across the garden, and seemed to take her in all at once, as if devouring the sight of her, hungry for it. And he looked like hell—his shirt buttoned wrong, his collar crooked, his hair in all directions. He came into the courtyard, stopping at the edge of the fountain.

“I’m a fool, Rosie.”

Her lips parted. That hadn’t been what she’d expected.

Deacon took a step toward her, then stopped himself—as if determined to have it all out first. “I should have listened. I should have trusted. But I didn’t believe you loved me. And I almost threw away the best thing I’ve ever had.”

Almost? “You did throw it away.”

Though his gaze remained locked on her face, softly searching, his shoulders were rigid and hands curled into fists. “Yes. I did throw it away. I couldn’t imagine that the man you’d waited for, the one you’d told me about, could have been me. I couldn’t see myself like that. But I swear to you, Rosie, that I will—”

“The man I’d waited for?” Realization swept over her, followed by sudden anger. “Camille told you?”

Uncertainty flickered through his green eyes. His answer was low and rough. “Yes.”

“So
now
you believe that I love you? Not because of anything I’ve done or said in the past weeks, but because of what
was
? What
you
were before Caym got to you? I deserve better than that, Deacon.”

She let her anger ride over her, so that her tears wouldn’t. She hadn’t thought she could hurt more than the day he’d pushed her heart away. But she could.

He took a step toward her, but abruptly stopped when she backed up. He swallowed hard.

“I know you deserve better, Rosie. You deserve the man you loved.”

So he could believe she loved the man he’d been, but not the one that Caym broke. He saw himself as a man who betrayed and failed. She saw a man who almost destroyed himself trying to save his people, and then again trying to avenge them.

She shook her head. “I didn’t love you then. I hoped I would, someday. I admired you. I liked you. But I didn’t love you until the night you returned here to help me.” And now she conducted a postmortem on her heart. She couldn’t do this; she would break soon. While she could still manage it, she said, “I don’t expect you to believe that or to trust it, just as you could not believe me the first time. And so we are at the same place, with no reason for you to stay. You’ve come to ask for the Guardians’ protection. Of course you have it. Now go.”

Deacon stared at her, his throat working. Slowly, he fell to his knee and bowed his head. “I did not come to ask for your protection. I came to offer mine.”

The hoarseness of his voice scraped her raw. It took a second for his words to penetrate, and still she did not understand.

“What?”

“I came to offer mine,” he repeated. “Mine, and the protection of every vampire in whose service I fight. We all pledge to protect you, Rosalia Acciaioli, and to assist you in every mission. Every need you have, we will see it fulfilled. Our swords, our lives—if ever they can protect you or help you, they are yours to call upon. We owe you more than we can ever repay. And I would stay here, to protect and help you.”

She could not speak. He wanted to settle a debt. She understood that. But it was unnecessary. “You helped me once, Deacon. Now I have paid you back. You owe me nothing else.”

“No. It’s not in balance.” He lifted his head, and the torment in his eyes ripped at her heart. “You deserve more, but this is what we have to give—this is what
I
have that is worthy of giving. Everything I am now, you gave to me. Without you, I would still have nothing.”

“You are welcome to what you have.” She had created the plan, but he had seen it through, taken the most risks to his life and his soul. “You’ve earned it, several times over. But I deserve more.”

More than repayment. More than gratitude. Just to be loved in return.

He bowed his head again. “Yes. You do. So much more.”

It was so low and hoarse, she barely heard it. And she couldn’t bear to hear any more. Her tears were coming now, and she couldn’t hold them back.

“I need you to go, Deacon.”

His pain slashed against her psychic shields. Through the blur of her vision, she saw a motion that might have been a nod. But he didn’t get up.

“Deacon,
please
—”

“I’m trying to think of any reason.” Longing and loss wavered through the broken whisper. “Any reason that you might let me stay long enough to prove myself to you.”

For God’s sake, she loved him! What more proof did he need that he was worthy?

She didn’t have this strength. To argue again. To not be believed again. She tried to summon her anger—anything to get her through this. “You don’t have anything to prove.”

“I
do
. I didn’t trust your love. I didn’t believe you. And so when I say that I love you, you will have no reason to trust mine.” His fists clenched at his side. “So I need time . . . I am
begging
for time . . . so that you can believe.”

She could not believe. But she hoped. She flew forward, fell to her knees in front of him, tried to look up into his lowered face. “You love me?”

He raised his head. His body stiffened, as if bracing for a blow. “More than my life.”

Oh, God. Oh, God.

She surged upward on a wave of joy, catching his face between her palms, melding her lips to his. Laughing and crying at once, she could barely kiss him, but his mouth was just as awkward, almost unsure, until she felt the acceptance and wonder flooding his psychic scent. Then his strong arms wrapped her tight, his hands cradling her head, and he kissed her deep, hard, as if to convince himself that she was there, that this was real.

She had to convince herself of it, too. Rosalia pulled back, her gaze searching his, her fingers confirming his face, his throat, his hair.

He bent to her again, gently kissed her wet cheeks. “Don’t cry, Rosie.”

His soft touch, the love she heard in his voice only made the tears fall harder. “I’m happy,” she assured him.

He looked into her eyes. “I see you are,” he said, low and rough, and his green eyes were suddenly swimming; then he was kissing her again, hard and sweet, and she never wanted him to stop.

But she had to know, had to hear it from his lips. She broke away just enough to say, “You are staying here with me?”

“Yeah. You’re stuck with me now, princess.”

“Oh, good.” She kissed him again, laughing, then teasing his fangs and nibbling at his bottom lip, before taking a deep breath. “I’ll always be a little managing, Deacon. I can’t help it. I have a . . . a
need
to help those I love.”

“The love bit makes it a lot easier.” He lifted his head, looked down at her. “Just, not behind my back. All right?”

Perfectly. “Yes.”

“And I should tell you—I’d have come earlier, Rosie. But I thought that you might be at your most desperate and lonely right after the wedding, when everyone left. And that I’d have a better chance.”

She grinned against his lips. “You manipulative bastard.”

He laughed and kissed her, but his gaze was serious when he regarded her again. “No one will ever love you more than I do, or work harder to see you happy. No one will try every moment to be the man worthy of your love.”

“You are.”

“I’ll make certain I always am. I swear it.”

She believed him. Laying her hand against his cheek, she promised, “I’ll love you no matter what you go through; I’ll stand by you no matter what trouble you face. And no matter what
I
face, I’ll know you’ll love me. That will never be in question.”

Deacon nodded, then rested his forehead against hers. His eyes closed, and she felt him breathe her in. “I love you, Rosie.”

“Tell me again.”

He said it with a soft kiss. His arms, holding her close. Then the words, again, before a wicked smile touched his mouth.

“Unless I’ve told you to be there, Rosie, I don’t like seeing you on your knees.” Rising to his feet, he swung her up, cradling her against his chest. His lips touched hers, then deepened into a kiss that left them both breathless, hungry. When he lifted his head, she looked up at him, and he narrowed his eyes. “So what have you got planned for us now? I know you’re working something out in there.”

She laughed. So she had been. An endless lifetime, new beginnings, and so many possibilities stretched out in front of them. “Short-term or long-term?”

“I’ll take care of the short-term.” He started toward her bedchamber. “What about the long haul?”

She turned her face into his neck, breathed in his scent. “I’m making a plan for us to live happily, forever—and even after that.”

“Happily, forever?” Deacon lifted her left hand and pressed a soft kiss to her ring finger. She heard the smile in his rough voice—and the promise. “I have no doubt we can pull it off, princess.”

 

Mina hadn’t predicted that sugar would wreck the marchioness of Hartington’s ball; she’d thought the dancing would. Their hostess’s good humor had weathered them through the discovery that fewer than forty of her guests knew the steps, however, and they’d survived the first awkward quadrilles. But as the room grew warmer, the laughter louder, and the gossiping more vigorous, the refreshment table set the First Annual Victory Ball on a course for disaster.

Which meant Mina was enjoying the event far more than she’d expected to.

Not that it wasn’t as grand as everyone had said it would be. Despite the slowly increasing tension, the great ballroom had not begun to rip at the silk-papered seams; the restoration of Devonshire House had cost Hartington, and it showed. Candle-studded chandeliers displayed everyone to their best advantage. Discreet gas lamps highlighted the enormous paintings gracing the room but had not yet smudged the walls. Musicians played at the opposite end of the ballroom, and the violins did sound sweeter than the mechanical instruments Mina was accustomed to—and
much
sweeter than the hacking coughs from forty of the guests, all of them bounders.

Two hundred years ago, when most of Europe was fleeing from the Horde’s war machines, some of the English had gone with them. But an ocean passage over the Atlantic hadn’t come cheaply, and although the families who’d abandoned England for the New World hadn’t all been aristocrats, they’d all been moneyed. After the Iron Duke had freed England from Horde control, many of them had returned to London, flaunting their titles and their gold. Now, nine years after Britain’s victory over the Horde, the aristocratic bounders had decided to hold a ball celebrating the country’s newfound freedom, though they had shed no blood to gain it. They’d charitably included all of the peers who had little to their names but their titles.

At first glance, Mina could detect little distinction between the guests. The bounders spoke with flatter accents, and their women’s dresses exposed less skin, but everyone’s togs were at the height of New World fashion. Mina suspected, however, that forty of the guests could not begin to guess how dear those new togs were to the rest of the company.

And they probably could not anticipate how stubborn the rest of the company could be, despite their thirst and hunger.