Last Guard

by Nalini Singh

  What did it say about Pavel that he liked him not in spite of it, but because of it? Contrary bear, that was what he was.

  The cardinal was fast asleep.

  No signs of distress. Not like the dangerous tension he’d sensed in her before she surrendered to sleep. Dangerous, that was, to him. A cardinal telekinetic could do a lot of damage to a bear. That was why there was only one rule when fighting Tks: hit first and hit hard. Any delay and you might as well plan your funeral.

  But Canto’s Tk hadn’t tried to hurt him even when startled.

  Now she lay motionless, unguarded.

  Maybe it had taken her this long to actually relax. Couldn’t blame her, not when he’d almost tackled her to the floor when she first arrived. In his defense, she’d been nothing but a flicker at the corner of his eye, a threat that had appeared out of nowhere.

  Bozhe moi! Imagine if he’d concussed Canto’s lover!

  Dead meat, he’d have been bear-flavored dead meat.

  Chapter 27

  To say Mercants are a tight-knit unit is a slight understatement. More correct would be to say that if they consider you a threat to one of their own, they will cut out your liver, fry it in front of you, then offer it to you with a side dish of your poison of choice.

  —Quote by an anonymous source for the PsyNet Beacon (2082)

  DESPITE HIS TWIN Yakov calling him as subtle as an elephant, Pavel could be pretty light of foot for a bear, so he padded over to tuck the blanket more firmly around Canto’s cardinal, frowning at the dark shadows under her eyes. He’d seen Arwen get that way—it happened when Psy burned too hot and used up all their psychic energy.

  Canto had looked the same when Pavel arrived.

  Grumbling under his breath about “Psy who don’t take care of themselves,” he turned off the one light he’d left on while Payal was falling asleep. She might as well sleep in nice cozy darkness. But he didn’t lower the blinds over the sliding doors—the moonlight would allow her to orient herself if she woke.

  The next thing he did was check on Canto. Also in a deep natural sleep. Pavel had never seen anyone sleep that way—almost as if the body were in hibernation—but Silver had told him it was normal after a psychic burn so severe it flatlined the user’s powers.

  A scent caught his nose just as he exited the bedroom, and suddenly, he felt like a high school bear with his first crush. He wanted to bounce on his toes. Would it always be like this? Probably. Was he fine with that?

  Hell yeah.

  He grabbed Arwen in his arms the instant the more slender man hit the top stair. He was as impeccably dressed as always, today in a suit of black paired with a dark gray shirt and perfectly knotted black tie. His hair was combed to within an inch of its life, his black leather shoes shined to a polish.

  He looked as if he’d walked off the page of a high-end menswear catalog.

  Pavel, meanwhile, wore old blue jeans, a once-green tee that had seen better days, and beat-up sneakers. Yet Arwen’s delight wrapped around him like a hug even as he looked snootily down his perfect aristocratic nose and said, “You’re creasing my jacket.”

  Laughing, Pavel kissed him on that gorgeous mouth. The thing with empaths was that they could be as snooty as they liked—if they loved you, it showed. Hell, it surrounded you until it was in every cell of your being. Pavel had told Yakov that it was like being enfolded in Arwen-scented sunshine.

  The kiss was a wild, familiar thing until Arwen pushed at his shoulders.

  Pavel let go at once. Arwen wasn’t a dominant, not the way changelings saw things. He wasn’t a submissive, either. He was closer to a healer than anything else. And healers were to be protected. Though Pavel wasn’t stupid enough to say that out loud; Arwen would cut him to shreds with his tone alone.

  He’d taken lessons at Ena Mercant’s knee, after all.

  But the crux of it all was that Pavel was far, far physically stronger. The only way this could work—whatever it was they were doing—was for him to listen to and follow Arwen’s physical cues. “Silver sent you, didn’t she?”

  “Of course she did—not just because of Canto, either. She’s worried about you hanging around an unknown Tk.” Arwen looked him up and down. “You seem whole.” Cool words, but the happy sunshine wove through his hair, sank into his skin, was a near-taste on his tongue.

  Arwen fixed his jacket back into place, then leaned over and nudged Pavel’s glasses up his nose. “Cute.”

  Pavel grinned, even though he’d pound anyone else who dared call him cute. “Your cousin’s asleep. Looks normal to me, but you want to check?” He nudged his head toward the sofa. “She’s out like a light, too. Not a stir despite our noise.” He’d kept a bearish ear out for any sign of disturbance.

  After a curious glance at the cardinal—whose face was obscured by the way the blanket had bunched there—Arwen walked into the bedroom, his stride as fluid as Silver’s. That they weren’t changeling was clear, but Mercants had a deadly grace about them.

  When Arwen exited, he went to stare down at the cardinal. “Shit, it really is Payal Rao,” he said, his breath hitching in his throat and his voice an octave higher than normal. “She’s in Canto’s house, asleep.”

  Blinking rapidly, he reached down to undo his suit jacket, then put his hands on his hips, pushing the jacket back as he did so—to reveal a black leather belt initialed with a discreet designer logo. “Canto and Payal Rao.” He sounded as agog as many people did when they said Valentin Nikolaev and Silver Mercant.

  A shake of his head. “I told Silver to leave it be, but it was all theoretical then.”

  “Come here before you hyperventilate.” Pavel dragged him out onto the deck.

  Arwen came but he was still muttering. “Grandmother must know. Canto wouldn’t go behind her back.”

  “Your grandmother knows everything.” Swinging his arm around the other man’s shoulders, Pavel drew him out to the railing. “And Canto will kick your ass if you interfere.”

  Arwen looked mutinous for a second before wincing. “You’re right.”

  “So, you consider my invite?” Because their relationship? It wasn’t settled like Silver and Valentin’s or Chaos and Nova’s. The two of them had been playing this game of back and forth for months.

  “Aren’t you frustrated?” Yakov had asked him the other day.

  Pavel’s answer had been easy. “No. He’s an E who’s been in hiding all his life. Not from his family, but from the rest of the world. This is the first time he’s been free to be himself. He needs to do that first before he can come to me.”

  “If he decides he doesn’t want that? To come to you?”

  “Why are you so mean? What did I ever do to you?”

  “Kick me in the womb.”

  “Mudak,” Pavel had muttered, but hadn’t pounced on his twin for a fight that let their bears out. “If he doesn’t want me after, I have to let him go. That’s who we are. StoneWater bears court our lovers. We might occasionally try to kidnap them, but we don’t force.”

  Long, elegant fingers with nails buffed and squared stroked his jaw. “What’s the matter, Pasha bear?” Arwen murmured, looking at him with those empathic eyes that saw too much.

  Pasha bear.

  If Yakov ever heard that, he’d die laughing, then come back from the grave to laugh some more. But Pavel melted. “Big bear thoughts,” he said with a grin, because he wouldn’t put that pressure on Arwen.

  His E had to come to him on his own terms.

  “Tell me about this Payal Rao,” he said. “She sounds like your sister.”

  An immediate scowl, the gentle touch gone. “Silver is not like Payal.” Arwen folded his arms. “From what I know, she’s ruthless and calculated and doesn’t care about anything but power.”

  Pavel’s lips twitched. “Moy luchik, do you think Silver is a fluffy kitten?�
�

  Growling low in his throat—and yes, Pavel was proud of having taught him that—Arwen turned and leaned on the balcony railing. “Silver is loyal to family. She’d die to protect us. Payal, as far as I know, has no deep family connections.”

  “Her fault?”

  Arwen took a moment before shrugging. “I don’t know. It’s not my job in the family to keep track of stuff like that.” He sighed. “I have to apologize to Silver for being so smug—I can’t stop worrying, either, now that it’s real. She’s so dangerous, Pasha.”

  Shifting to lean on the railing beside him, but facing the house, Pavel said, “Canto can take care of himself, you know. Man’s a cardinal and as tough as any bear.” He watched the wind riffle its fingers through Arwen’s hair, and his fingers itched to do the same.

  Later, he promised himself.

  “You don’t understand.” Arwen’s fingers tightened on the railing. “Canto’s about to hit thirty-nine, and the only people he’s ever trusted are family—and family adjacent, like you.” Shoulders tense, he stood to his full height. “I just . . . I don’t know if he understands the power of emotion. I don’t know if he understands that it can be used to manipulate.”

  “I gotta disagree, Arwen. Canto’s about as un-Psy a Psy I’ve ever met.” Grumpy, open, generous. “I say you should worry about Payal. Is she good at emotions?”

  Arwen hesitated, then reached over to pull Pavel’s phone out of his back jeans pocket and did a search. They both watched the video that came up—an interview with Payal in relation to a recent merger.

  Afterward, Pavel raised an eyebrow. “Payal Rao has no fucking idea how to deal with a sneaky Mercant.”

  “Canto isn’t sneaky,” Arwen muttered. “He’s a straight arrow.”

  Chuckling, Pavel slid his hand around the back of Arwen’s neck. “Sneaky is in your blood,” he said against his lover’s lips. “You can’t help it.” Then, as his bear stirred against the inside of his skin, its fur rich and luxuriant, he kissed the man who held his wild changeling heart.

  And he wished Payal Rao luck.

  She’d need it with her Mercant.

  Chapter 28

  Trust is a fragile glass bird. Drop it once, and it will shatter into shards innumerable.

  —Inshara Rao, essayist (1892)

  CANTO WOKE TO the awareness that he wasn’t alone. His telepathic senses had scanned out automatically on waking, a security measure he’d built into his brain in childhood. It had been a way to control what was happening to him.

  He hit a changeling mind he couldn’t read, then a Psy one that was open enough to Canto to tell him it was Arwen. Which, given the current proximity of the two minds, meant the other one had to be Pavel.

  The final proximate mind was Psy and locked against intrusion in a way that sang “anchor” to him.

  Payal.

  No response to his attempt at telepathic contact, though when he checked in the Substrate, he found her zone calm and controlled. So was the rest of the Net. The situation had been contained.

  Not bothering to throw water on his face or pull a pair of sweatpants over his boxer briefs, he got in his chair and made his way to her. He couldn’t see Pavel and Arwen, which meant they were probably downstairs. Pavel’s keen hearing would’ve caught his movements—if the two younger men were smart, they’d fade discreetly away.

  He found Payal asleep on his couch. Her breathing was even and she seemed to be in a genuine resting state. His fingers flexed, wanting to touch, but he wouldn’t steal touch. Not from Payal, this woman who was so careful about intimacy of any kind.

  Heading to the elevator, he made it downstairs just in time to catch sight of a laughing Pavel tugging Arwen into the trees in the distance. Canto’s cousin wasn’t exactly fighting, and the fact he was wearing a suit in the early-morning fog told Canto he must’ve kept Pavel company overnight.

  Tell your bear thanks, Canto telepathed.

  He’s not my bear, Arwen replied utterly unconvincingly. But he says you’re welcome. Does Grandmother know about Payal?

  Canto didn’t answer to anyone but Ena, but he couldn’t ignore the open concern in Arwen’s tone. Empath. Always caring so much, always trying to make sure the family was happy. Yes. So you can stop worrying, little old man. A childhood nickname given in affection.

  Payal . . . you’ll be careful? She’s ruthless.

  So is Grandmother.

  That made Arwen go quiet for several long seconds. When he did reply, he sounded peeved. I made the mistake of telling Pasha what you said, and he’s rolling around on the forest floor laughing so hard he can’t talk.

  Canto understood the bear’s amusement. The men in our family don’t go for weak, Arwen. Have you not figured that out? Especially since he was tangled up with a bear lieutenant.

  But she’s like a razor-sharp knife at the throat. A bit extreme.

  Go ask Valentin about Silver Fucking Mercant. Those were the exact words the bear alpha had been known to yell in pride about his mate.

  You’re grumpy when you wake up, Arwen muttered. I’m going to go find some cold water to throw on Pasha.

  Meanwhile, Canto sat there and realized he’d just talked about Mercant men and the lovers they fell for; yeah, he’d gone well past friendship based on his and Payal’s shared past. But as with Arwen and his laughing bear, this would not be a fast courtship.

  Courtship.

  More bear influence.

  Psy didn’t court each other.

  But Valentin had courted Silver and won her. Pavel was courting Arwen with what appeared to be slow but joyous success. Psy could be courted. The question was, Did Canto know how to do it?

  “I’m very good at research,” he muttered to himself, and went back upstairs to get cleaned up.

  After drying off following his shower, he put on a pair of gray sweatpants and a faded olive green tee that hugged his biceps—he’d seen Payal’s eyes go to his arms more than once, and the first rule of Mercant life was to use every advantage. His jaw was stubbled, but Payal didn’t seem to mind that, so he left it, and his hair was short enough to require nothing but a quick comb with his fingers.

  He didn’t bother with socks or shoes.

  Ready, he hit the kitchen and made himself a sandwich. He was just finishing it off when he heard stirring in the lounge. “Payal,” he said out loud as he wheeled himself to her.

  She was sitting with her hair tumbled around her face, her black pants and silky green top mussed. Her eyes were hazy, her lips plump and relaxed. “Canto?”

  “Hello, sleepy.” He fought the urge to go over, cuddle her warm, sleep-dazed body against his.

  A flare of her eyes, her body leaning toward his . . . then she took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut. Her muscles lost their softness, her features no longer open.

  Canto shoved aside his frustration, killed his anger dead. No fucking way would he ever lash out at Payal for doing what she needed to do to survive. “Hungry?”

  “Starving,” she admitted, one hand on her stomach. “And I need to fix my hair.”

  “Guest bathroom’s that way. There’s stuff in there you can use. Brushes and things.”

  * * *

  • • •

  PAYAL was still a little drugged from her deep sleep, so it took her a few minutes to notice that all of the makeup in the basket of “stuff” for guests was designed for her skin tone. Not her preferred brands, as there was no way Canto could’ve known those—but he’d done the research to find the things she needed to feel whole.

  Feel as if her armor weren’t cracked.

  She opened a new brush and used it to comb out her hair, then pulled it back into a tight ponytail. Next, she fixed her face and rearranged her clothing so it didn’t look so much like she’d slept in it.

  When she glanced in the mirror agai
n, she looked like the Payal Rao people saw in the media. Except for one thing. She hadn’t been wearing shoes when she teleported in, and now her feet felt naked.

  Canto was just coming in from the deck. “I put the food out on the deck table.”

  His feet were bare, too, his toenails squared and his skin tanned enough to tell her he sat in the sun without shoes. “Thank you,” she said, her voice husky.

  “Hey, you’ll get frozen feet. Let me grab you a pair of socks.”

  Her chest felt as if it were compressing on itself. “What about you?” she managed to say as he disappeared into the bedroom.

  “I’m used to the colder temps here—and, after all these years, I’ve got a good handle on how to regulate my lower body temperature. You’re at hothouse heat in Delhi right now.” He emerged with a pair of black socks.

  They were too big for her feet and warm, and she was going to steal them so she’d have a piece of Canto with her in Vara. Her stomach clenched. She should go there now, away from this man who made the mad girl inside her agitate to be free. But she took her socked feet out into the pale gray of early morning and onto the wooden boards of the deck.

  Then she sat with Canto and, as the sun rose in a glory of washed gold, ate with no concern of poison.

  It scared her, just how safe she felt with him, causing tremors that cracked her shields and threatened to set her madness free. Her fingers ached to make contact with his skin, her eyes going over and over to the musculature of his arms, the strong tendons of his neck, the damp strands of his hair . . . the mobile firmness of his mouth.

  Pain stabbed behind her left eye even as she struggled with her need. She was an expert at hiding such attacks, but Canto’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the matter?” He reached out a hand.

  Despite the terrible danger of it, she leaned into the touch. The rough pads of his fingertips brushed her cheek. “Migraine.”

  “That’s the second one in the past few days.” Scowl dark, Canto brushed the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone.