Demon Blood

from your neck. The version where a nephil butchers you until you’re sitting in a pool of your own blood.”
    She couldn’t argue. She’d hoped that he would never see it, that the violence in her life wouldn’t touch him—but by protecting him from that, she’d left him vulnerable. “I should have prepared you.”
    That is, if anything in the world could prepare a son to see his mother broken and bleeding. She didn’t know if it was possible. Nothing could prepare her if she ever saw Vincente that way.
    He looked ready to contradict her before closing his mouth. He pushed his hand through his hair again. “Pasquale wouldn’t have been so quick to throw himself on a murderer’s knife if he’d known what being a Guardian really was.”
    Sweet, dreamy Pasquale. “Perhaps. But he was a brave boy, Vincente. He might have tried to save that woman’s life even if he’d never heard of the Guardians.”
    Grief tightened his face, closed his eyes. She wanted to reach out to him, but he held himself so far away, she knew he wouldn’t welcome it. That he’d step back from her. For all of his emotional strength, grief knocked his legs from under him—and she didn’t know how to make that easier.
    And she didn’t know if making it easier for him merely made his inability to handle it worse. She could only try to reassure him as best she could.
    “You probably imagine that this happens to me often—but it does not. In all my three hundred years, last night was the worst it has ever been. And even though I wish that you hadn’t seen it, I thank God you were there, and that you knew how to stop him.” She sighed. “But I am also sorry, because it means that I have failed you, and turned around what should be: A child should never have to protect his parent.”
    “Mama . . .” He shook his head. “You’re a Guardian. ‘Should be’ has been flipped around from the day I was brought here. Nothing is as it should be. And it will always be turned around.” He looked at her, and the pain in his eyes was so similar to when he had looked at her ten years ago, just before he’d left. “When I came back I found Gemma, and now the baby—and I thank God every day for that. But Mama, you and me . . . Sometimes I think it would be easier for both of us if I’d stayed away.”
    The knife in her heart twisted. “I do not think it would be easier. And I know it would not be better.”
    As if he had nothing left to say, Vin only shook his head again and turned away. She watched him climb the stairs to Gemma’s room. When the door closed behind him, she looked at the sunlight sparkling in the fountain, and tried to lift her head.

    Deacon could feel her out there. Desperation had been weighing on her—now there was just pain. Like a dirge, howling through her soul.
    He was going to kill that thoughtless fuck she called a son. Force the selfish little bastard to have it out with her, whatever his problem was, not flay her like this, piece by piece.
    But he was trapped in here. His blood pumping rage and frustration, Deacon stalked between the War Room and the bedchamber. He couldn’t go to her. He would have, not caring if the sun blinded and burned him, but that would only add to the weight she bore. God, he wanted to bear it for her. He needed to bear it for her.
    But he couldn’t bear this , waiting and listening as she drowned in hurt. He stopped in the door to the bedchamber.
    “Rosie,” he said.
    She came. He felt her shields thicken, muffling the howling pain, burying it under layers of mental steel. By the time she appeared in the doorway, he only sensed the concern that softened her gorgeous brown eyes.
    “Deacon? Is everything all—”
    She broke off as his hands came up, cradling her jaw. She stared up at him, and he tried to remember what he’d intended to say. But now he touched her, and he could only think that her bones felt so fragile . . . her lips so soft. His thumbs swept across her cheekbones, searching the beautiful shape of her face.
    “I need this,” he realized.
    Her brow pleated, her concern deepening. “Tell me.”
    Show her.
    He claimed her mouth. His tongue thrust past her lips, seeking her response. She stiffened in surprise before her hands clutched at his shoulders. He shut the door and steered her back against it, lifted her, ripping her panties away. Unzipping, he lodged the head of his cock against her moist entrance. He waited for a protest. When it didn’t come, he