Demon Blood

it had been stabbed toward him. If Fournier had swung, Deacon would be missing half his hand.
    Frowning, she examined his knuckles. They’d bled, but the skin had already healed. The clenching of his jaw as she prodded told her that he’d hit Fournier hard enough to break them.
    “Henri was a good man.”
    Anger thrummed in that statement—and regret, as if he wondered whether he could have done anything to prevent the vampire’s death. If, by coming here to slay his first demons instead of to Madrid or London, he might have stopped Fournier.
    Her response echoed his regret—and his anger. “Yes.”
    “No more. The demons don’t get even one more vampire.”
    She met his eyes. “Then we’ve got a lot of work to do. With swords . Not your fists.”
    His grin reopened a split in his bottom lip. So he’d taken a hit, too—and was proud of it. With a sigh, she smoothed her thumb beneath the cut, wiping away the blood.
    “You should see the other guy.”
    Laughing, she let go of his hand, stepped back. He absently licked the blood from his lip, watching her. The amusement in his gaze shifted, became sharp and predatory.
    Not bloodlust. Just Deacon.
    “Head back to the elevator, Rosie.”
    No. She wanted to stay right here, and see where that hunger led. Only her awareness of the vampires inside the suite got her feet moving. Deacon followed behind her. Never before had she been so conscious of the sway of her hips, the snug fit of her trousers over her backside.
    And she was utterly certain that by the time the sun rose, she’d have taken him into her bed. Into her body. If not for the vampires, she’d have gotten a room in this hotel.
    The elevator held four other people. Rosalia barely saw them on the long ride down. Only felt Deacon beside her, his palm pressed into the small of her back to conceal the blood-stained cloth.
    Outside, an evening breeze carried the salty tang of the sea. When they’d flown in from Rome, Rosalia had chosen a secluded spot to land, but now she headed toward the still-crowded beach and its softly rolling surf that lay just outside the hotel. As her boots sank into the sand, she turned to Deacon.
    “Can you swim?” How strange that she’d watched him for ninety years and didn’t know.
    “I can.” The moonlight glinted against the white of his quick grin. “Is this how we’ll return to Rome?”
    “Only part of the way,” she said, already headed across the beach, where warm water and gentle waves foamed against the shore. “We just have to swim toward the moon.”
    She stripped off as she walked, letting her clothes lay where they fell. Within a few hours, they’d disappear—Guardian-created garments eventually vanished if they weren’t worn. Clad only in her panties and bra, both dark enough to pass for a bikini, she stepped into the water.
    “Rosie.”
    She turned, a small breaker crashing against her calves. Deacon stood on the wet sand, his boots in his hand—but still dressed.
    “Your swords?” she guessed. Removing his jacket would expose his weapons to the humans. “I need permission to vanish them. And the rest of your clothes, too.”
    “You have it.”
    Leaving the warm water for the cool sand, she returned to him. She watched his gaze slide from her eyes to tips of her breasts, hardened beneath silk. She stepped closer, until only a small space separated their bodies.
    “Bring your boots in between us, so that no one can see them disappear.”
    He did, and she vanished them along with his swords. His gaze focused on her lips. “My jacket?”
    “Shouldn’t just vanish,” she told him. Slipping her fingers beneath the collar, she pushed it back over his shoulders, down his arms, letting her palms linger over heavy muscles. She brought the jacket between them and vanished it into her cache, then reached for his shirt.
    Deacon caught her wrists before she touched a single button. He stared at her for a breathless moment, then slowly pushed her hands back down to rest at her thighs.
    She tried not to feel disappointment, and failed. “No swim?”
    “No taking anything else off, or this crowd will get an eyeful.”
    His hands slid around to cup her bottom, lifting her against him. Beneath his trousers, his erection rose like a thick steel pipe. Rosalia’s lips parted, her heart hammering.
    His voice deepened. “Wrap your legs around me, Rosie.”
    She did, her thighs ringing a muscled abdomen as hard as rock. Her arms circled his neck. He