Demon Blood

The vampires who see you need to know you’re a vampire, not just masquerading as one.”
    “Because anyone who sees me move that fast will think I’m a shape-shifted Guardian.” And that would destroy Rosalia’s whole reason for going in as a human. It’d paint a target right on the Guardians’ backs, the scenario she’d been trying to avoid. He didn’t like the idea of lowering his shields, though, and letting strangers into his head. “Will blood do the same? If a demon or a vampire gets a whiff of it, there’s no mistaking me for a Guardian.”
    She nodded. “You’re right; that would be better. It’s tangible. Demons might not believe anything vampires say about a psychic scent, but vampires know the smell of their own.”
    Yeah, psychic scents were too tricky, particularly for untrained vampires. How many had run into Rosalia and had no idea what she was? Hell, even Deacon had, though he’d never make the same mistake again. The feel of her mind was familiar now—though he hadn’t gotten very deep into it.
    “Your shields held when you came,” he told her. “Every time.”
    Her skin flushed, but her smile was pleased—not a hint of embarrassment there. “You told me to hold them, so I did,” she said matter-of-factly, then looked him over. “Your vision is healed now?”
    “Yes.”
    She studied him, saw through him. Her heart beat a little faster. “You’re hungry.”
    Even hungrier now that he was thinking about it, and thinking about how she’d held her shields with her body shattering around him— because he’d told her to .
    He shoved that away, pushed up to his feet. “Did that delivery come yet?”
    “Not until this afternoon,” she said. He could feel her watching him stalk between the chair and the bed. “You said you didn’t want to risk the bloodlust with me. Was that why you didn’t feed from me last night? Was that why you risked drinking the nephil blood?”
    Christ, she hadn’t realized that by now? “Yeah.”
    Her face seemed to lighten, and she laughed a little, shaking her head. “I’m truly not so delicate, Deacon. Even with my arm broken, I could have held you back.”
    But could she now? He stopped pacing and faced her square on. “So are you offering? But know it’s not just fucking, Rosie. Do you want me in your head, hearing your every thought?”
    Her smile faded as she regarded him, and he realized it didn’t matter if she said yes. He’d vowed he wouldn’t drink from her. That still stood. Because if he got into her that deep, if she gave him that much more to care about . . .
    Who was he kidding? Blood or no blood, he was fucked.
    She sighed. “Perhaps not yet. Then you’d know all of my reasons far too early.” A dagger and a drinking glass appeared in her hand. She set them on a small table, and held her wrist over the glass. “But I can help you take the edge off.”

    After filling the glass with her blood, Rosalia headed into the War Room, offering Deacon space to drink it, and taking time to gather her thoughts into something manageable. Into something that wouldn’t tempt her to throw the rest of the world away.
    She’d wanted him to drink from her. She’d wanted to know if that sensation could shatter her expectations, too. And she’d wanted to feed him, to nourish him with her body. After one time in his bed, she could understand very well how two people could hole up forever.
    But if she let him drink from her now, if she let him into her thoughts, it wouldn’t be the world she’d throw away. No, she’d lose Deacon, instead. She wasn’t ready for that yet. She wouldn’t ever be ready for that.
    She needed to be, though. Already, she could feel him pushing her away. Guilt, probably, for taking pleasure before his community had been avenged. Or, despite her assertion that she wasn’t delicate, maybe Deacon thought he’d already hurt her—or that he’d lose control to the bloodlust. Or he’d been disappointed. Sex might not have been satisfying for him without the blood. Whatever his reason, he’d begun withdrawing before he’d even left the bed.
    Would it be the same next time? And the next? How long until the pleasure and anticipation of being with him became dread, as she waited for him to push her away yet again?
    With a sigh, she sat at her desk, flicking through St. Croix’s file. Now that she’d met the man, another story had begun to form in her mind. A father who died early. A mother who’d taken over