Demon Blood

softening his face and thickening his torso. Five other vampires, equally tanned and unbuttoned, sat around the room on low-slung sofas and chairs, all upholstered in gold fabric. Not one vampire took his eyes off Deacon.
    So they recognized Deacon as dangerous. Good.
    The demon didn’t. Unsurprisingly dark-haired, blade-nosed, and strong-jawed, Valeotes sat on the piano bench with his back to the vampire nymphs. Amid the gaudy opulence, his manufactured beauty appeared understated, and his gaze piercing as he subjected both Deacon and Rosalia to a slow scrutiny—though he didn’t delve beneath her shields.
    But then, he wouldn’t imagine he had reason to. Rosalia wasn’t blocked as a Guardian would normally be, just lightly shielded. Hiding in plain sight.
    Deacon barely gave Sardis a glance, and looked past him to Valeotes. “I’m here regarding Malkvial.”
    Rosalia’s stomach flopped over at the name. But she saw that Deacon had played exactly the right card. Deacon had the demon’s attention, and Sardis apparently didn’t know who Malkvial was.
    He turned to Valeotes, his brow furrowed. “Who?”
    The demon ignored him. He rose from his seat with a lethal, sharp elegance. His voice matched his movements, cultured and dripping with menace. “And what do you have to say regarding Malkvial?”
    “I have a proposition for him. One he’ll find mutually beneficial.”
    Though the demon’s lip curled, as if to indicate how little he thought of anything a vampire could offer, he inclined his head in agreement. And, recognizing Sardis’s curiosity, was cruel enough to say, “Let us speak in private, then.”
    Deacon took hold of Rosalia’s hand as Valeotes crossed the room. She turned to leave with the two men, but stopped when Sardis called out, “The human stays.”
    Without bothering to look back, Deacon said, “Not a chance.”
    Sardis’s smile showed his fangs. “We’ve heard about Budapest. So we’ll keep her in here . . . as a bit of insurance in the event you attempt to slay our friend.”
    Deacon turned to Valeotes. “I’m not interested in killing you. Farkas was one of Theriault’s demons, and horning in on a friend’s community. I need you to extend a proposal to Malkvial. You can’t do that if you’re dead.”
    Valeotes flicked a glance down to their linked hands. “She stays.”
    When Deacon looked to her, Rosalia shrugged. “Go on. They’ll see they’re worrying for nothing.”
    She stood quietly as they left, feeling the vampires’ eyes on her. Down the hall, a door closed. The room Deacon had entered must have been soundproofed, because she heard nothing from them after that. Not footsteps, not voices.
    Sardis’s gaze fastened on her face and slid down. Usually, it amused her when men focused on her chest. But if Sardis was hoping she’d feel as if he’d poured a bucket of sewage over her body, he succeeded.
    Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her breasts—the wrong reaction, she immediately recognized, but too late. Sensing vulnerability, Sardis moved in close.
    “What does Deacon intend to propose?”
    His psychic scent radiated aggression. Rosalia realized this would go one of two ways: bad or worse.
    Since bad required Rosalia cowing to him and playing stupid, she chose worse . “When he’s done, perhaps Valeotes will tell you.”
    With a growl, Sardis grabbed for her neck. She forced herself to remain still. A human couldn’t dodge a vampire—wouldn’t even see his hand coming. To Rosalia, waiting, it felt as if he slowly closed his fingers around her throat.
    She made a helpless noise and pulled weakly at his wrist.
    Laughing, he lifted her into the air, pushed her back against the wall. Behind him, the other vampires watched without expression. The females frolicked and splashed outside.
    No help would be coming from them. She had to hope Deacon finished quickly.
    Sardis’s gaze leveled on her chest again. The aggression in his psychic scent turned sexual. Still holding her up against the wall, he palmed her thigh with his free hand.
    “No.” She had to force the word past his grip on her throat.
    He leaned in close, the bare skin of his belly pressing against hers. She tried not to gag. “No point fighting. Once we get our fangs into you, you won’t care who’s doing the sucking or fucking.”
    Damn him. He’d pushed faster than she’d thought he would; he hadn’t even repeated his question about Deacon’s proposal. But Sardis didn’t