Demon Blood

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