Ren: Warlord Brides: Warriors of Sangrin #11

by Nancey Cummings

  “Why is the guest room the cat’s room?”

  “This is my cabin. I am her person,” Ren explained in a slow tone.

  She examined the room. Even in the dark, she made out the signs of habitation. A partially opened drawer. Discarded shoes.

  “This is your room,” she said.

  Emry’s head fell back down to the pillow. Thankfully, the dark hid her furious blush. She had been beyond exhausted when she fell into bed. “I went to the wrong room and made you sleep on the floor.”

  “I do not mind. My mate’s place is in my bed. I will not deny you.”

  Oh. That should not have sounded as hot as it did. And why am I smiling like a loon?

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” She threw an arm over her face to hide her grin. Talk about mixed signals. She threw herself at him yesterday, crawled into his bed, and then said she didn’t mean it. “Sorry, I was tired.”

  Not making it better.

  “The cabins look very similar. Do not concern yourself.”

  “My missing luggage should have been a clue.” Seriously. Emry had stripped off her pants, shirt, and bra and climbed into bed. At least she still wore her panties.

  Mostly naked and in the wrong bed. That scenario could have ended badly in so many ways. She was always getting on Gemma’s case for being too trusting. The least she could do was be more self-aware.

  “Thanks for letting me have the bed and sorry for making you sleep on the floor,” she said.

  Ren made a disgusted noise. “It is not a concern.”

  “You know, this reminds me of the medical bay after I arrived on Rolusdreus,” she said in an unexpected fit of nostalgia. She hardly ever thought about the brief hours she spent on an alien planet—only how that trip ended—but the memory came back with clarity.

  “You were ill.”

  “The teleporting made me sick. Well, that and nerves. I spent the morning puking my guts out before they sent me. I was dehydrated.”

  Ren’s posture stiffened. “Earth teleported you when you were ill? That is a treaty violation.”

  “I was puking because I was nervous, not ill.”

  Every birthday, the Earth authorities scooped up Emry and Gemma for testing. Every year, she skipped breakfast because her stomach wouldn’t settle, not until she had negative results and they released her. Only she had a match on her twenty-fifth birthday. The nurse wore such a disappointed face when she informed Emry that her life was being upended. Soldiers arrived to whisk her away, all without saying goodbye to Gemma.

  “I remember arriving and you waiting for me. Then I fainted and woke up in a hospital bed. You were right there, sitting on the floor next to the bed.” Emry’s initial reaction to Ren’s appearance—devil red, tusks, that tail clearly meant for gouging out eyes—shocked her, but that apprehension vanished when he sat next to her bed. This fierce-looking alien appeared vulnerable, nervous even, as he sprang to his feet to fetch water.

  She waited for him to share his recollections of their meeting, but Ren remained silent.

  Okay, so this isn’t a trip down memory lane. Fine.

  The cat woke, decided that she was done with Emry, and used Emry’s stomach like a springboard.

  “Ow,” she said, rolling to the side.

  “Did her claws injure you?” Ren pushed away the blanket to inspect her abdomen.

  “Fine. Just took me by surprise.” She held the blanket over her chest while Ren’s fingers skated over her stomach. Tickled muscles jumped and twitched as she resisted the urge to laugh. “See? Fine.”

  He huffed and sat back down on the floor.

  “That is not a housecat. I don’t care what you say.”

  “Murder Mittens is a caracal hybrid.”

  “Is that some sort of wildcat? Is that legal? How did you get a wildcat off the planet?”

  “A domestic and wildcat hybrid. Yes, legal. I found her in a rescue shelter. No one would adopt her. She was, apparently, too much.” He made a scoffing noise.

  Emry could imagine the stress the animal shelter dealt with regarding Murder Mittens. Probably bullied the staff and ate the smaller animals.

  And she probably shouldn’t say that.

  “She seems happy,” Emry said, settling for a neutral comment.

  “She is very content. She often sleeps in exposed locations, so I know she feels safe in her environment. She also enjoys sitting in boxes.” The absolute pride and joy Ren had in his cat came through in his tone.

  Damn him for being adorable.

  “She sounds like a good cat.” Murderous, but that was the default cat setting.

  “I did not think I would enjoy having a companion animal,” Ren said, “but Havik convinced me otherwise.”

  “Havik is your friend?” Emry recalled the name, but exhaustion blunted a lot of the finer details of the last day.

  “Yes. You will meet him when we arrive at our next destination.” Ren paused. He ran a hand through his hair, somehow making it messier. “I recall your arrival.”

  “I bet I made an impression.”

  “Before your arrival, my father told me you could not stay.”

  “Say what now?” Emry propped herself up on one elbow. The blanket slid down, exposing her shoulder. “I don’t think I met your father. It was just you, the medics, and that one guy with the scary face.”

  “The warlord.”

  “Yeah. That was the one you told the story about? At dinner?”

  Ren nodded.

  “What was his deal?” Emry remembered that a large male shoved his way into the hospital room, glowered with disapproval, and then stomped off. She could believe that guy played mind games with the people under his command. He seemed like the kind to get off on abusing power.

  “You were Terran. So fragile that you immediately required medical assistance,” Ren said.

  “Not a fan?”

  “The warlord disapproved of Terran mates as a policy. Many warriors were ordered to reject their mates or leave.” Ren leaned forward, reaching for her hand. He paused, giving her an uncertain look. Emry extended her hand and wiggled her fingers. He clasped them gently. “The warlord saw a weak female in the care of the medics. If I had known you were ill before you left Earth, I would have fought for you to remain.”

  His eyes, that warm color, pleaded with her.

  “But you didn’t fight for me,” she said, not asking a question.

  “No, to my shame.”

  She sifted through all the bits and pieces of information he had given her over the last day. The warlord had a grudge against him. Human women were weak. She had been ill, therefore weak.

  Excuses, yes, but understandable. He had been in an impossible situation. Sending her away might have been the best option.

  “It wasn’t my scars?”

  “I have told you, no,” he said, his tone firm.

  “I was just a weak female.” Discounted and discarded for things beyond her control. The rejection still hurt.

  His grip tightened on her hand. “I do not believe that, but understand that only weeks before your arrival, the mate of the warlord’s son, a Terran female, lost their child. Rolusdreus is not a forgiving planet. It is harsh and demanding.”

  All Emry had seen of his home planet was a hospital room and what she could see from the passenger seat during the drive to the spaceport. What she saw was a lot of rocks and domed cities.

  “The domes are because of the radiation?”

  “Yes. My physiology is immune to radiation poisoning, and the average civilian has some tolerance, but the domes allow radiation levels to be controlled in habitats. Everything and everyone goes through a decontamination process.”

  “Sounds like a charming place.”

  “That is sarcasm,” he said with a nod. “I excel at detecting it.”

  “Do you now?” She kept her tone dry.

  “Yes, the inflection is subtle but… ah, I see what you did.”

  “You know, I think this is
the most we’ve ever talked.” She squeezed his hand because her next words would be unfair and she did not want to fight. She needed his help. “We could have avoided a lot of hurt feelings if we had actually talked to each other back in that hospital room.”

  Emry laced her fingers with his. Combing through all her hurt feelings and their miscommunications wouldn’t find Gemma. She needed Ren on her side and the conversation had turned heavier than she wanted to deal with before coffee. If Ren had coffee or a coffee-like beverage onboard. Food would be good too.

  Her stomach rumbled at the thought of breakfast.

  “As much fun as pillow talk is, you need to feed me, Ren,” she said.

  He climbed to his feet and pulled her from the bed, the sheet wrapped around her. “The supplies have been delivered. I hope the selection meets your approval.”

  “Let me get dressed and I’ll make us something.”

  In the correct cabin, the one with her luggage, she dressed and found Ren in the small kitchen. Collapsible boxes filled with groceries littered the floor.

  “How much did you order?” Emry dug through a box of perishables and stocked the cooling unit. Though small, the unit was clean and nearly empty.

  “One of everything.”

  “How do you feel about omelets?” Emry set aside peppers and an onion. There just wasn’t enough room for all the veg. Some could get by in a pantry, but it’d be best to start using them.

  “I do not know but I am eager to try an omelet.”

  “Butter, egg, cheese, peppers, and onions. You can’t go wrong.” Emry found a cutting board and knife. She tested the edge of the blade on the pepper, which sliced through it with ease. She hummed in approval. Of course the alien super soldier kept his stabby tools sharp. Obviously. “Put those away and I’ll start on this.”

  They worked in silence for a few minutes until she spotted a coffee bag. Jackpot. With coffee brewing, her mood lifted. Yesterday had been a gamble, but it would pay off. She felt it in her gut.

  “So what have you been up to for the last four years?” She cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them.

  “I left the clan with Havik. I rebuilt this ship. We earned a place on the Judgment.” His tail swayed behind him, and he shoved packages into cabinets. “I kept myself occupied.”

  “Vague and mysterious. Very James Bond.” She set a pan to heat on the cooktop. “You say the warlord who sent me away was dead. Like old age-natural causes or revenge dead?”

  “His heart was pierced by a kumakre’s tail, which is venomous. His last moments were agony. I only wish I had been there to witness it.” His voice remained cool and calm.

  He meant every word.

  Okay then.

  “Well, good. Sounds like he had it coming.” She added butter and waited for it to melt before adding the egg mixture. “I tried cooking on one of those fancy star cruises, but customer service is not my forte. When I got back, I opened a bakery with my sister, Gemma.”

  “Because a bakery does not have to deal with customers?”

  “I’m the baker. Gemma does the peopling.” In went the veggies and cheese. When the egg set, she carefully folded it over and slid it onto a plate. “Bon appétit.”

  The table had been set. Coffee, creamer, and cups waited, along with a well-used tablet computer.

  Once seated, she waited for Ren to take a bite. He closed his eyes and hummed with appreciation. “I like omelets.”

  Better than instant fish-flavored noodles, but most things would be.

  “Thank you.” She cut into her own and savored the first bite. She had been heavy-handed with the butter, which only added to the yum. Cholesterol was tomorrow’s problem. “Speaking of my sister, Gemma. You know, she’s my twin, and—”

  “Twins are unlucky,” Ren said.

  “Excuse me?” She’d heard old superstitions about twin babies bringing bad luck, but Emry attributed it to the burden of having extra mouths to feed, but no one had ever told her she was unlucky.

  “Apologies. Twins are considered unlucky because of the strain placed on the mother.”

  “Well, Gemma is my twin and we’re not unlucky, but she is—”

  The tablet beeped with a message.

  Unbelievable.

  “We have a window to depart. Let me set the course and I will return. Is there more omelet?” He gave what was probably meant to be a charming smile but was all teeth and tusk.

  “Sure. I can make another.”

  He stood and leaned down, as if to kiss her on the cheek, but hesitated. Instead, he placed the tablet on the table.

  “I will return,” he said, before departing.

  Emry wrapped her hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into her fingers.

  This was nice. This could work.

  She didn’t wake up yesterday and think, “It’s a good day to reconnect with my estranged alien husband,” but she was rolling with the punches. Ren seemed sincere, and when he got back, she’d explain about the situation with Gemma. He wouldn’t brush away her concern. He’d take her seriously. The Mahdfel protected their families and Gemma was his family now.

  The tablet’s screen flickered to life with a notification. Reflexively, she moved to dismiss it, but the image made her pause.

  Pashaal.

  Chapter 9

  Emry

  She flipped through image after image of Pashaal, taken in a variety of locations, all surveillance photos. Pashaal’s estate. Her official Council office. The ship. Emry scrolled through the images and written reports until she found a photo of herself.

  Outside on a warm day, Emry served shot glasses filled with chilled soup. She remembered that event. The heat and humidity of the day made her hair frizzy, and Pashaal insisted that her human cook be the one to serve, despite being dead tired.

  Emry dropped the tablet like it scalded her.

  This was reconnaissance. Ren had a file on her shady boss.

  Everything he told her about making amends and wanting a second chance was all a lie.

  Shock ran over Emry like an upended bucket of freezing water.

  Ren hadn’t been on Pashaal’s ship for her. He was… what?

  Yes. He had pictures of her. But did he realize it was her? He walked right past her. She sought him out.

  No. Emry dismissed that outright. Four years was a long time, but her most distinctive characteristic—her scar—hadn’t changed. There was no mistaking her. This file proved he knew of her presence. He just wasn’t there for her, like he claimed.

  Yet he had spun a very convincing story, most likely on the fly, and she believed him.

  Yes, she sought him out, intending to seduce him into finding Gemma, so fine. Fault on both sides. But he said he wanted her back, that he had grown as a person and regretted how they ended before they even had a chance to start.

  Worse, she believed him. Every word.

  Emry drummed her fingers on the table. He wasn’t going to help her. She would ask, and he’d say it interfered with his mission or whatever the hell reason he was snooping on Pashaal.

  “Well, this is shitty,” she muttered. “What would Gemma do?”

  Something ridiculous. Something akin to hold my beer. Something rash and short-sighted, but Gemma never waited around for other people to do the rescuing. She’d rescue her own damn self.

  Emry sprang to her feet with a half-formed plan. Rash? Absolutely. Maybe Ren had a perfectly reasonable explanation?

  Nope. She wasn’t interested in hanging around and letting the red guy spin more lies.

  She opened cabinets and ran her hands along the shelves, groping in the dark. This was a civilian-class ship and should have emergency kits in every room. Pashaal’s ship had emergency packs under every chair and squirreled away in easy-to-reach locations, in case space highwaymen boarded the ship. Given the shady nature of Pashaal’s dealings, Emry was honestly surprised they hadn’t been raided yet.

  There.

  In a recessed panel under
the cabinet, she pulled on a velcro strap and released an emergency kit. The contents left a lot to be desired, focusing on first aid. Defense items were laughable.

  Emry turned a stunner over in her hands before putting it back. No way a civilian model taster would be strong enough to stun a Mahdfel. The utility knife hummed to life when she pressed a button embedded in the handle. Plasma danced along the edge of a blade. Better, but not ideal. She’d have to get real close to Ren for the utility knife to be a serious threat. Still, she tucked it into the waistband of her pants.

  What she needed was a tool to intimidate a genetically engineered super-soldier, and nothing in the kit screamed “pick me!” Anything she threw at him, including the stunner, would most likely tickle because he was a big red super soldier designed to resist damage and heal like a damn Terminator.

  Emry grabbed the plasma flare. The weight felt solid in her hand.

  This was a bad idea, but she was committed.

  “What is that?”

  Emry looked up from the flare gun. Ren stood a few paces away, watching her warily. “I know you didn’t come here for me,” she said.

  “False. I—”

  “Don’t lie to me!” She raised the flare gun, pointing it at him.

  “I do not lie.”

  “You just can’t stop, can you? I saw the file on Pashaal. I don’t know what you were doing there, but it wasn’t because you had regrets that we ended before we started.” Her voice twisted as she parroted his words back to him. Anger, her steady, constant companion, settled around her.

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Tell me what you are thinking.”

  “I’m thinking this is my ship now.” She waved the gun toward the escape pods. “Go in the escape pod,” she said. He did not move. “Now!”

  “The plasma flare will not incapacitate me, and it is not turned on.”

  Dammit. She flicked the safety switch and the plasma flare hummed with energy. “Maybe, maybe not. I imagine it’d hurt like hell.”

  “Pain is momentary.”

  Of all the stubborn—

  “Is now the time for your stoic Zen badass routine? Get in the pod!”