After only a few seconds, he pivoted and stalked back. An erection bulged behind his trousers. Rosalia’s breath caught. He’d fed on the plane, but a vampire’s bloodlust was unpredictable. She could understand why he’d be infuriated if the scent of Valeotes’s and Sardis’s blood had aroused him. As he came closer, she vanished the blood from his shirt and face, then from her own skin.
He still didn’t stop until stood directly in front of her. Bending low, he caged her with his hands. “How far?”
She frowned. How far . . . what? “I don’t understand.”
“No?” He stepped back. “Stand up.”
Slowly, she did. He took her spot on the hood. With his hands on her hips, he pulled her around to stand between his legs. She stared at him, her heart pounding. There was no mistaking this. She didn’t know what point he wanted to make, but she understood this. Excitement thrummed through her veins.
“Kiss me.”
Anticipation and uncertainty spread through her in equal parts. Rosalia hesitated. His face held none of the softness that she expected to accompany such a command. And she hadn’t really imagined it as a command.
She also hadn’t imagined how thrilling it would be.
Unknowing what to do with her hands, she braced her palms against his shoulders and leaned in. His lips were cool. A shiver started deep in her belly. Would he open his mouth now? Was she supposed to initiate that?
Suddenly, whether she was supposed to didn’t matter. She wanted to taste him. Parting her lips, she licked between his, caught the faint flavor of blood and salt.
His shoulders tensed under her hands. His fingers clenched on her hips.
She didn’t know much about kissing, but she didn’t need a flashing sign to interpret his reaction. She licked again. His mouth opened and she slipped deeper. Her tongue brushed his fangs, cool and sharp. The shiver in her belly raced outward, over her skin. She shuddered, and his grip tightened. She loved that. She wanted to squirm closer to him but he held her still except for the exploration of her mouth.
Without warning, he pulled back, and her stomach sank when she saw his face. His expression hadn’t softened. His eyes remained flat and hard; not a hint of the desire burning through her was reflected in them. The kiss hadn’t affected him, after all.
The pounding of her heart became a painful thud. “I’m not good at that,” she admitted.
“No.” His laugh was hard, too. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve got other parts I like better. So lose the top.”
She’d misheard him. “Lose what?”
“Lose the shirt, sister.”
Why? She stared into his face, wondering what he was driving toward—and realizing that she had only one way to find out. If she refused, that would be the end of this. Full stop. He wouldn’t force her to go further. But she wanted to know what had brought him to this point.
And she wanted him looking at her.
She vanished her shirt. Released from the confining material, her breasts swayed gently, her nipples already tightly budded. And when hunger pierced his psychic shields, she’d never appreciated the fullness of her body so much.
“Now feed them to me.”
His gravelly command rumbled along her nerves, sparking more heat. Arching her back, she cupped her hands beneath her breasts. Beautiful, and sometimes useful—but she’d never felt this part of her was sexy before. She’d never felt the power in this, but as he lifted his head to meet her, she reveled in it. His big palm smoothed around her hip and flattened against her back. She held her breath, watching his mouth open. His tongue flicked against her nipple, then drew a slow circle around the sensitive tip. Rosalia leaned closer to him, shaking.
His teeth closed over the taut bud, and she froze. Slowly, he sucked her nipple between his lips. Her head fell back. Oh, God. Oh, Heaven. Every pull of his mouth seemed to set her on fire, a line of heat that settled between her legs. A fierce ache burned there, seemed to pulse outward, so strong. Her hips writhed, and Deacon’s hand slid down to her ass as if to hold her in place.
His fingers caught the edge of her tiny skirt. Rosalia stilled again, panting, feeling him everywhere. The press of his fingers nearing her center. The roll of his tongue on her nipple. And still she wanted more. So much more . . . She feared how much more she wanted.
His fingers curled inward and abruptly stopped. He lifted his face toward her, staring in disbelief.
“You’re wet. You’re so fucking wet.”
Did he think she wouldn’t react? That Guardians couldn’t? “Yes.”
His voice deepened. “Then come up here.”
A push of his hand told her exactly how. She came up on the hood, straddling his thighs. Her heart wouldn’t stop pounding. She had Deacon between her legs. The thickness of his erection formed a hard ridge against her sex.
“Kiss me again.”
She did, and this time she kissed him as she wanted to. Hungry, deep. And didn’t stop, even when she felt the probing between her legs, the separation of her wet folds. Pressure at her entrance was followed by a faint pain. Oh, God. He was . . .
He stopped, barely inside, and pulled his mouth from hers. His voice was ragged.
“God, Rosie. You’re so little.”
What was she supposed to say? She didn’t know. His gaze locked with hers and the penetration continued, ever deeper, Deacon slowly working himself into her. It felt good. And strange. And she couldn’t stop herself from tensing up, not quite so aroused now, but . . . uncertain.
He must have sensed it. “You want me to stop?”
She shook her head. She just wanted to know what to do. To be a part of this again, because somewhere along the way, she’d become lost. Distant. But she knew the mechanics, didn’t she? She’d seen this so many times in her life. She knew how it worked.
But when she moved her hips, she felt him slip out of her. No, she didn’t want to quit now. It had felt lovely and she’d never—
She looked down. It took a moment for her to realize that she’d gotten it all wrong. His trousers were still zipped, the fabric wet. She rode his hand between her thighs. His middle finger glistened.
“Oh,” she whispered, then half laughed. “That wasn’t—I thought—”
“That I was fucking you?” Anger returned to his voice. “You’d go that far?”
“Yes.” Obviously, yes. She’d thought they already had.
And maybe Deacon meant to now. He took her mouth again, his tongue pushing past her lips. She felt his fingers working between her folds again, and pressure inside—so deep. His thumb slid up, began to circle.
And that quickly she was back in it, wanting too much, no longer lost. Deacon scraped his fangs down her neck, then sucked the tip of her breast into his mouth. Rosalia’s head fell back, her eyes closing, her fingers clenching as if she could hold on to something, hold something in. Need and excitement swelled within her, growing too fast, too big. She hadn’t thought it would be this. Rough. Hot. Urgent. She’d thought it would be sweet, and soft. Not . . . not this . . .
Out of control.
“Deacon—”
She cried out as the pressure increased. A second finger joined his first, thrusting slowly. She hadn’t known the burn, the pain could be so good. Too good.
“Stop . . . Oh, God. You’ve got to stop. Before I come.”
And she couldn’t stop herself. She was still moving on his hand when he pulled it away. He watched her, not speaking, his face still hard. Almost sobbing, she quieted her body.
It took a few more moments before she could breathe steadily enough to explain. “I don’t know if I can shield my mind. Sardis’s compound is too close. The vampires there might sense my presence.”
His eyes narrowed. “How can you not know? You’ve come before.”
“Yes. But only alone. Cocooned in the dark.” And that sounded . . . pathetic. She put on a smile and tried to turn it around. “When I’m desperate and lonely.”
Something in his ex
pression changed. She couldn’t read it. And she couldn’t stand not knowing, but wouldn’t ask.
She pulled off. Stumbling to the grassy verge, she sat heavily, her hands covering her face. The pressure inside her built up again, but this time she felt no pleasure. Only panic. She’d come so close to not caring whether she revealed herself. To losing control at his touch—and loving it. This wasn’t the risk she was supposed to be taking.
Behind her, Deacon cursed, and Rosalia steeled herself. She recognized the harshness of his tone. It always appeared in his voice just before he told her to fuck off.
“At least now we know how far you’ll go. You’ll let yourself be raped. You’ll fuck me because you want my help. But you won’t let yourself come. That’s some sick shit, sister, any way you twist it. And you can count me out of your goddamn plan, because I’m not going to be a part of this.”
This was what he’d meant by How far? And he’d asked her to kiss him to find out. Not driven by his bloodlust or his arousal, but driven to prove a point.
And he’d missed it by a mile.
She glanced over her shoulder, found him standing rigidly beside the car. The tightness in her throat and chest almost choked her, but she spoke past it. “I wouldn’t have let him rape me. When you arrived, I was a moment away from punching through his head—and for that, I’m disappointed in myself. I thought I’d sacrifice more. But when it came down to a poke between my legs and saving everyone from the nephilim, I tossed the world away.”
His brows drew together. She felt his astonishment, saw the darkening of his expression as surprise turned to rejection. “That’s fucked-up, Rosie.”
An almost hysterical laugh bubbled up. She swallowed it down and turned away from him again. “Maybe.”
“So what the hell were you doing with me? Were you proving to yourself that you could sacrifice and take that poke between your legs?”
He hadn’t considered that she might want him? What was lower—his opinion of her or of himself?
“I was doing what I wanted to since I met you. What were you doing?”
He didn’t answer. His silence stabbed at her. God, she’d been so stupid. To think that he might feel any desire in return. No matter the reason he’d commanded her to kiss him, she’d believed something had changed along the way. But while she’d been losing control, he’d been . . . testing to see if she’d whore herself for the cause.
She’d said it didn’t matter what anyone thought of her. But she did. And it hurt.
Pale yellow light began to shine against her legs. Her eyes, glowing as she lost control to her emotions. She never did that. She suddenly, desperately needed him to leave, before he witnessed that, too.
So he’d managed to do one thing: She had discovered how far she would go.
“All right, Deacon,” she said, and almost didn’t recognize her own voice. She felt as if dirty rags had been shoved into her chest. “Count yourself out. I’ll figure out another way.”
She heard his sigh, and the regret in it. “Rosie—”
“Go. I’ll call ahead. The plane is yours. I won’t even check to see where you went. You’re free of me.”
“Goddammit. At least let me—”
“Apologize? Fine. I accept it. You don’t owe me anything else, so go on.” She didn’t hear him leave. Maybe he needed words he could understand. Words he’d thrown at her before. “We’re done. So get the fuck out of my face.”
Still no movement behind her. Only the beat of his heart.
“Haul off, Deacon.” To her horror, her voice broke.
But it got him moving when words alone could not. She heard the crunch of gravel beneath his feet as he walked onto the road. The car started, and a moment later, he drove away.
Oh, God. What had she done?
She closed her eyes, which had begun shining like a beacon. Hugging her knees up to her chest, holding on to the darkness, she prayed. Oh, God, oh, God. The refrain remained the only light in her mind, and she begged Him to help her bear the pain, to help her formulate another plan.
She had no idea what she was going to do now.
CHAPTER 10
Rosalia couldn’t sit and cry forever. Prayer steadied her, but she’d already been gifted with strength of heart and mind so that she could help herself. And putting a new plan into motion would take time—but the vampires in London didn’t have much.
With a deep breath, Rosalia gathered herself, and brought in her satellite phone from her cache. She had to contact the plane’s charter service. No doubt Deacon would want to head to Paris and continue on with Theriault.
The alert for a waiting connection sounded as soon as she opened the phone. The number linked to the surveillance van. Panic fluttered in Rosalia’s chest. Gemma had been watching St. Croix. Had something happened?
The phone transmitted video in addition to audio. She engaged both, and a moment later, Vin’s face filled the screen. He wasn’t supposed to be there.
She couldn’t keep the fear out of her voice. “Is Gemma all right?”
“Yes. But she’s been throwing up and decided to stay at the abbey. So I’ve taken over the van until you return. . . .” He frowned and peered more closely at the screen. The indifferent mask she was so accustomed to him wearing cracked. Concern bled through. “Mama, are you all right?”
Oh, curses. Her lipstick and heavy eyeliner had suffered though kisses and tears. She must appear horrid. “Oh, that.” She vanished the makeup, gave a soft smile. “I’m fine.”
He stared doubtfully at the screen for a few more seconds. “All right. I just wanted to ask you to check in on Gemma if you return to the abbey.”
That hadn’t been what he’d intended to ask. “You be with Gemma. I’ll take over surveillance.”
“No can do, Mama. After we visited Father Wojcinski, Gemma got it in her head that there will be no more cohabitation until the wedding.” He shrugged. “Anyway, putting in a late night will be good practice for after the baby comes.”
“Vin—”
“I’ve got a game up on the other monitor. You can keep an eye on me and on the Paris feed in your War Room. And you can take a few hours, take a swim.”
“Thank you, Vincente.” Fearing that the tears were coming again, she moved on. “What of your surveillance?”
“He’s sleeping. Or pretending to.”
It had just passed midnight in Rome. A reasonable time for a human to go to bed . . . or a demon who needed to pretend for the benefit of a human.
“Is he alone?”
“Yes.”
Odd. Then either St. Croix wasn’t a demon, or he was very careful about appearances—just as she suspected Malkvial might be. “All right. I’m en route now. I should arrive in another hour.”
“Give me a buzz to let me know you got in all right.”
Sweet boy. She disconnected and called the charter service. A few minutes later, it was settled: Deacon would soon be on his way to Paris, and she was heading for Rome.
Maybe it was better this way.
So, that was that. No Guardian using him anymore. He’d known all he had to do was be an uncivil bastard and she’d stop hounding him.
He should have done it before driving away became so fucking hard.
As she’d promised, the plane was waiting for him. So it was back to Paris. Back to what he’d been doing: stalking Theriault, and slaying him. And if slaying Theriault messed up Rosalia’s game plan, she’d come up with another. She had to, anyway.
But he couldn’t stop staring at the empty seat next to him. She should be there, all curled up in that ridiculous pose. She was done with him, but so what? That didn’t mean she had to get back home under her own power.
Too late now. She’d called ahead to the plane, but he didn’t have her number. He couldn’t tell her to get over herself. So he’d been a bastard. She could still catch a ride and . . . kiss him so sweetly.
Because she’d wanted to kiss him.
Christ. He st
ill couldn’t believe that, but it didn’t matter anyway: She wouldn’t want to kiss him again. He’d made sure of that, hadn’t he?
Fuck. Fuck.
He had Camille’s number. If anyone could help Rosalia, it’d be Camille. A strong vampire—though not as strong as Deacon, now that he’d taken the nosferatu blood, but Camille’s skills made up for that. She’d taught him everything he knew that didn’t involve punching a man.
Yves, though. He was used to Camille manipulating him from behind, but if she came out in front? There was no telling if Yves could handle that. He might accidentally expose both Camille and Rosalia, and send demons running after them both. If Rosalia ended up in the path of demons, she could probably handle that. But she was worried about the nephilim—and their mother, Anaria.
Anaria, who had torn through the Guardians’ warehouse, and they’d been unable to defend themselves against her.
Rosalia wouldn’t stand a chance against Anaria.
And Yves, the little prick, would fuck it all up. Or Camille would, if she and Rosalia didn’t hit it off. Rosalia would have to start over. Again. Probably with some vampire who couldn’t hold a sword. Someone who would ruin the perfect setups she gave him.
Hell, even resenting how she’d overrun him, Deacon recognized how perfectly she’d arranged the two kills he’d made. The demons had practically cut off their own heads.
He looked out at the runway. It was an easy decision, to do nothing. To go where he’d intended. He just had to . . . do nothing.
Shit.
Situated near the old walls of the city, the abbey had stood unchanging for hundreds of years, orange plaster over stone, an old warm sanctuary amid the newer construction that came and went. Once surrounded by an orchard, now only a small fenced garden overgrown with roses separated her walls from her neighbors’.
She didn’t mind. The abbey’s heart had never resided in its stone walls.
Deceptively large from the outside, the building didn’t hold nearly as many rooms as its dimensions suggested. An enormous courtyard relegated the living spaces to a narrow string of rooms along the walls, and many of the bedchambers were accessible only from its paths. It was where the family had met, fought, trained, and talked. Abundant with life; with gardens planted for consumption and for beauty; cypresses; fig and orange trees, the courtyard formed the abbey’s center in a sense that went far beyond the physical.
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