Last Guard (Psy-Changeling Trinity #5) by Nalini Singh

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.