Demon Blood

truly care why Deacon was here. He just wanted to show Deacon’s whore her place.
    Deacon.
    She looked toward the doorway. He wasn’t coming yet.
    The vampire’s cold hand slid beneath her skirt. Rosalia didn’t feign her shriek of outrage. He laughed and ripped away her panties, lifting them to his nose and sniffing.
    “You’re not wet.” He looked up into her eyes, and lowered his voice as if relating a confidence. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll get in.”
    The bastard. Cold anger swept through her veins. She might be playing a human, but even a human woman had recourse. And she could play a strong woman.
    She smashed her knee into his groin.
    Sardis went rigid, his face purpling. He didn’t collapse. Rosalia took advantage of his stillness and rammed her fist into his face. A Guardian could pound through his skull. She pulled her punch, and only his nose crunched.
    Blood spurted over his mouth. He whipped his hand around, slapped her. Pain exploded through her cheek and upper lip. She tasted her own blood, felt its effect on Sardis as the scent hit him.
    The rasp of his zipper seemed to rip through the room.
    Fear rushed over her in a cold wave. She hadn’t wanted to make this decision. A human would be unconscious after that slap. A human couldn’t fight this. Rosalia could, but she’d have to reveal herself as a Guardian. She’d risk her plan, risk everything.
    But she had to. Even if it meant she ruined any chance of defeating the nephilim. She wasn’t willing to let Sardis rape her.
    One punch, through his head. Her fist curled.
    Something thudded against the wall next to her ear. Sardis froze.
    Deacon’s voice ground through the sudden silence. “Stuff your cock in this piehole, you fucking prick. It’s still nice and hot.”
    Rosalia turned to look. Deacon had his hand in Valeotes’s hair, holding the demon’s head against the wall. Valeotes’s slack mouth hung open; his neck was a bleeding stump. Blood spattered Deacon’s face and clothes. His grin would have frightened Rosalia if she hadn’t been so relieved.
    Sardis whimpered. “She’s just a whore.”
    Deacon’s grin vanished. He dropped Valeotes’s head, grabbed Sardis’s below his jaw, and twisted. Steel flashed—her fan. Blood sprayed her face and chest. Sardis’s grip loosened on Rosalia’s neck and her feet hit the floor.
    Deacon tossed Sardis’s head next to Valeotes’s. “They’re in Hell now, so I guess they’re both fucked.”
    Rosalia almost laughed, but the fury in his psychic scent hit her like a blow. He looked around at the other vampires.
    “If I ever hear of any of you forcing a woman—human or vampire—I’ll do the same to you. And if you ever watch it again without interfering, if you ever hear of it happening without holding the prick who did it responsible, then before I kill you, I’ll make you suck the blood out of your own dicks.”
    He turned back to Rosalia, gave her the fan. “Let’s go.” He pulled her along, and didn’t slow until they encountered Maniatis, lurking uncertainly near the door—probably regretting that he’d molested her, wondering if he was next to die.
    “My swords,” Deacon commanded.
    Obediently, Maniatis handed them over. Rosalia looked behind them. Vampires, male and female, stood in the hall watching them leave. They reeked of terror, of disbelief—and relief.
    Deacon pulled her outside, pushed her into the car, and slammed the door. He leaned over, looking at her face. With a gentle hand, he touched her lip. The cut no longer bled, but his rage grew hotter.
    He vaulted over her into his seat. The tires screeched as he ripped out of the drive. Someone at the house had the sense to open the gates. He tore through them, onto the narrow road.
    Rosalia watched him. Only once had she seen him angrier: when Caym had murdered his people. His rage had been mindless then, burning against her shielded psyche. Though not as volcanic now, she didn’t know what to say or how he’d respond. He certainly hadn’t reacted this way ninety years ago, when he’d rescued her from a similar situation.
    “Deacon, I need to thank you—”
    As if her gratitude snapped something within him, he slammed the brakes. Rosalia gasped, bracing herself. The car skidded onto the deserted roadside. He cut the engine and got out, blocking his psychic scent. He stalked past the car, into the pool of yellow headlights.
    She couldn’t feel his anger now, but she saw it. He walked with his