Demon Blood

a reason to keep going. She had millions of them.
    “All right,” she managed to whisper. “We’ll proceed as planned.”
    “Yeah, we’ll proceed as fucking planned.” Bitterness roughened his voice. He turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to see her face. “No declaration necessary.”

CHAPTER 21
    For several hours, Rosalia had too much to do to dwell on Deacon’s rejection. Arranging his travel, installing the surveillance in the church, and testing it. But as soon as she had everything in place, her mind couldn’t let it go. Her gardens needed tending, but she couldn’t stand the sun—she felt too exposed, when all she wanted to do was cocoon herself in darkness and figure out what had gone wrong.
    She shut herself in the kitchen, instead, closing it up and turning off the lights—and tried to keep busy.
    Only her hands were. And so she wondered, over and over: What could she have said that he might have believed her? Perhaps he didn’t trust her words, not after learning about Malkvial and Camille. But hadn’t she shown him? Yet he looked at everything she’d done and had seen something else. Had seen manipulation and lies. That was what he believed of her. Not love.
    And as long as he believed it, nothing she said or did would matter. She deserved better than that. She deserved someone who would trust her.
    It was easy to think so, anyway. She had a harder time convincing her heart.
    She heard footsteps approaching, wished it was Deacon to come and tell her that he’d reconsidered his knee-jerk reaction. But the sun was high, and she could hear him in his garage, and the steps were as familiar to Rosalia as her own heartbeat.
    Vin came into the kitchen. He flipped on the light, then frowned. “Mama?”
    Rosalia looked at the dishes lining the counters. It would take ages to eat all of this. “I hope Gemma’s with you.”
    “She’s at the dressmaker’s. I’m taking pictures for the caterers so they have a layout of the kitchen and courtyard.” He held up a camera. “Unless all of this is you trying to get a head start on the cooking?”
    Rosalia frowned, uncertain she’d understood. “You plan to have the reception here?”
    “Where else?”
    “But Gemma—”
    “Is all right during the day, or when she has someone with her.”
    She took that in, then looked around at the mess she’d made. Breathing deep, she tried to steady herself, afraid she’d burst into tears.
    Vin came around the preparation island, peeking under a lid. “Ah, your gnocchi. You can’t make it right, but you never give up.” He snagged a bite. “A bit heavy, hmm?”
    “Yes.”
    He turned, leaning back against the edge of the counter. “Mama, I’ve got a shoulder right here.”
    Now her eyes did fill. That was exactly what she’d said to him as a young boy, so many times. “You shouldn’t have to comfort your mama.”
    He smiled. “If you became human again, I’ve got about ten years on you. So, this is not only a should , but you will listen to me and let me make it better.”
    Laughing, she let him draw her in. But the moment she laid her cheek on his shoulder the tears did come, silent and hot. There was no question of love here. No matter their problems, that was never in doubt.
    Had she thought it would always be so simple?
    She pulled back, wiping her cheeks. “You do not know how much I appreciate you being here. Thank you.”
    “I’ve got to make up for ten years of being a punk, right?”
    “No. You had your reasons.”
    “Yeah, but only half of them were good ones.” He snatched a thin slice of prosciutto from a platter. “After Pasquale, I wasn’t thinking straight.”
    Who would have been? “He was your best friend.”
    He shook his head. “There was that. But I also saw what Sofia went through. No one should have to bury her child—or her grandchild. And I thought: That’s going to be Mama in sixty years.”
    The words were a fist into her heart. She dragged in a deep breath, his face wavering in front of her.
    “You see, Mama? You can barely think about it. So part of me thought, It’s just easier to take off now.”
    Oh, God. “You stupid boy. I should slap you.”
    Laughing, he pushed his hand through his hair. “I know. I get it now. I have Gemma, the baby—and it won’t matter when I lose them. God forbid. It’d rip my heart out. Today, tomorrow, a thousand years. It doesn’t matter when.”
    “No, it doesn’t.”
    He sighed. “And all my life, I’ve