polite things, of the Anchor Representative Association, and of Payal’s rise to the Ruling Coalition. Canto also told her he’d seen Arwen and Pavel, and Ena updated him on another family member.
It was all terribly pleasant, the daggers hidden away.
Then Canto’s body went rigid, his jaw working. Payal’s attention whiplashed to him.
“Back spasm,” he bit out, taking a short, sharp breath. “Side effect of surgery.” His chest rose and fell, his skin stretched tight.
Ena wanted to wrap him up in cotton wool, protect him from the world, but she’d learned that for an impossibility long ago. Canto had demanded to be left alone to fight such battles.
In front of her, Payal moved her hand to place it over Canto’s fisted one. He flipped his fist, wove his fingers through hers. Their hands locked. Then Payal turned back to Ena, and her expression, it was as closed as it had been when they began … but the pulse in her neck, it jumped.
Ena frowned inwardly.
“Payal, stop it.” A harsh order from Canto.
Jaw set, Payal shook her head. “No.” Clipped, hard, unmoving.
Ena had no idea what was going on, but Canto was glaring at Payal—who was now holding his gaze without flinching.
Ena felt a stirring of approval. She’d always known that Canto had a strong personality. The boy did like to get his own way—and he often succeeded, even with Ena. But it appeared Payal Rao was strong enough to stand against him—and not inclined to pander to him in an effort to get in his good graces. Hmm …
A bead of sweat formed on Payal’s temple, and her pulse, it was even more jagged now.
“I swear—” Canto began, his words a growl.
That was when Payal’s mask slipped … but not in the way Ena had expected. Eyes going inky black, she glared at Canto. “Would you stand by if I was in pain?” she demanded, her cheeks flushed. “Especially when you could do something about it?” She wrenched at her hand.
Canto refused to let go. “This is different.”
Payal leaned toward him. “Why?”
“Because,” Canto all but growled.
Payal took a deep breath and shifted the conversation to the telepathic plane. Ena could sense it in the energy that arced between them, in the emotions that pulsed off Canto … and were tightly, tightly contained in Payal.
She saw also that Canto wasn’t in as much pain as he should be—she’d witnessed a spasm a couple of years ago, had seen how it made his tendons arch white against his skin, sweat pop out on his brow, while his eyes went blank as he turned all his energy into riding the agony.
Ena took another look at Payal.
She was sweating, her pulse still erratic, and her skin bloodless.
Well then.
Ena was not a woman without prejudice, but she was also not a woman who held on to those prejudices when faced with uncomfortable truths. That Payal was assisting Canto in some way was clear, and for that alone, Ena would’ve been in charity with her. But what sealed the deal was when a fuming Payal reached over and brushed a strand of hair off Canto’s forehead.
The two had forgotten Ena was in the room.
Payal Rao, cutthroat CEO, was so focused on Canto that she’d forgotten about the other predator in the room. Not only was she focused on Canto, she couldn’t help caring for him even when so angry that steam was coming out of her ears.
Canto was furious, too—and he could be intimidating when angry. Which was why he made it a point to hold back most of the time. He wasn’t holding back today, and Payal wasn’t shrinking away in the least.
Making a rumbling sound in his throat, he lifted their clasped hands and kissed her knuckles. Only then did Payal startle and turn to Ena. Color a sudden hot flush on her face, she said, “My apologies. That was incredibly rude.”
“No, it was rather interesting.” Ena took a sip of her tea. “Feeling better, Canto dear?”
Her grandson gave her a narrow-eyed look, pain no longer a shadow on his beautiful features. He’d never worked that out, had Canto, just how beautiful he was as a man. Despite his paternity, he reminded Ena very strongly of her own father. He’d been a beautiful man, too. And a kind one.
Canto had inherited that core of kindness, too, albeit with a rougher edge.
“Spasm is over,” he muttered, and grabbed a teacup, then made a face and put it back. “I’m going to make coffee.” Then her bad-tempered