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 again, 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.
Payal jerked away. Not because it felt bad. But because it didn’t. She wanted to crawl into his lap, take off his tee, bare her own body, and rub skin against skin.
It was a red warning sign.
And still, she stayed.
Canto continued to scowl. “Have you had scans to make sure it’s not due to a recurrence of your childhood tumor?”
All at once, she’d had enough of secrets with her 7J. If she