Ren: Warlord Brides: Warriors of Sangrin #11

by Nancey Cummings

  Now here he was, strolling down the corridor of Pashaal’s ship like he belonged. All the pieces snapped into place and it was Ren—her Ren—with his sharp nose and white streak. No question about it.

  He glanced at her as he passed, but his expression remained blank. If he recognized her, nothing showed.

  That stung more than she expected.

  She almost called out his name but ducked into the galley kitchen at the last moment. Her hand slammed against the control panel to close the door.

  What the fuck was her Ren doing on Pashaal’s ship—and since when was he her Ren?

  They barely knew each other. They were acquaintances at best. Strangers who were technically married but hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in years and that was the way they liked it.

  A recent delivery cluttered the floor and counters. Emry picked her way through the packages and tossed her chef’s coat on the workbench. Sweat pooled in the small of her back. The kitchen was boiling for no good reason. Something had to be wrong with the ship.

  Yeah, like red aliens from your past invading.

  Gemma would march over there and demand to know what was going on in that red head of his. They had an agreement, and that agreement meant they would never see each other again. They’d stay on their respective sides of the galaxy.

  This could be… good?

  Yes, this could be good. She could use this. Appealing to Pashaal had gone nowhere, which left her only option to contact Caldar. He’d do it, she was certain, for a favor, and she felt even more certain that Caldar wasn’t the type of alien you wanted to owe favors.

  Shelving the supplies helped drain away the worst of her fury and let her calm down enough to think. Dry goods could be tossed around, but the fresh berries she planned to turn into pie were delicate. Bruising turned the berries sour, and they’d only be good enough for jam.

  A plan formed.

  She could ask Ren for his help. Revolutionary, right?

  The directness of the plan felt faulty. Ren would probably say no or tell her she was worrying over nothing. He didn’t owe her anything. Four years ago, they made the best of a bad situation. Sure, he hurt her ego. No one likes to be told they’re too ugly to screw.

  Her fingers ghosted over the scar marring the left side of her face. The raised bumps were familiar and almost comforting.

  Unfortunately, Emry had enough experience dating before Ren that his reaction to her appearance wasn’t too surprising. The scars were literally only skin deep, but that was all people saw. Rejection hurt. Stares were uncomfortable. She got used to bearing the weight of it and told herself that if people only saw her damage and not her worth, then she didn’t want to know them.

  Long story short, that was why Emry had no friends and was hiding from her estranged alien husband in the walk-in cooling unit.

  Could she guilt him into helping her?

  Ugh, no. She instantly rejected the notion. Playing up hurt feelings and wounded pride was not her style. What was her style?

  Seduction?

  Solid no there.

  She rolled her shoulders, feeling where the scar tissue from Ren’s bite pulled against her skin.

  He hadn’t kissed her. Not once. He just bit and did the bare minimum for them to be legally married as a favor to her so she wouldn’t be matched up again. Emotion fluttered in her throat.

  Ah, there were those tricky feelings of hurt and rejection poking up their heads again.

  Bargain? Could she trade unicorn macarons for the safe return of her sister?

  Appeal to Ren’s sense of justice.

  That was a Mahdfel thing, right? Protecting their mates and families. Honor and all that. That’s what popular media led her to believe. Emry would never admit it to Gemma, but she loved those alien dramas. They were over the top and the subtitles didn’t always translate, but they were a warm, snuggly blanket and she wasn’t ashamed of curling up in front of the screen for comfort. She was an A-Drama fan and no, it had nothing to do with wish fulfillment. The actors were swoony, and the storylines were packed full of action and kissing.

  Okay, she was getting off-topic. Focus, Emmarae.

  Appeal to his sense of justice. Sure. Good plan. Just leave the cooling unit and go find your estranged alien husband and convince him to help you find your missing sister. Maybe tear up when you mention how the police ignore your calls. Sure. Easy.

  Somehow, she remained unconvinced by her little pep talk.

  Emry banged her head against the cooling unit’s door. This was silly. She was an adult and had never been too scared or intimidated to give someone a piece of her mind. Ren had been reasonable. Why did her heart feel like a bird battering itself against a cage?

  Nerves. It’d be weird if she weren’t nervous, like some dead-inside psychopath.

  Outside the cooling unit, the temperature had cooled to a level below sweltering. The heat pump, or whatever it was called had been repaired.

  Using her reflection in the glossy paneling, she let her hair out of the ponytail and shook it into a mess of casual waves. She dabbed her face with a cloth because she wasn’t sweaty from the heat—she glowed, dammit. Finally, she tugged down her tank top because a little cleavage never hurt negotiations.

  Appeal to his sense of honor. Justice. And check out my rack?

  Demeaning? Yes, but Gemma was in trouble. Needs must.

  Emry marched down the corridor. The luxury yacht was large, but not so large that she couldn’t follow the sound of tools clanging off equipment. You’d think spaceships would have incredibly delicate parts and require special care and finish, not bashing with a wrench, but she was a cook, not a mechanic. What did she know?

  She found him in the belly of the ship in the engine room, crouched on the floor and examining a conduit in the wall.

  Ren looked up the moment she entered. Brick red. Tusks. Grease smudged one cheek. The white streak at his temple seemed larger. A segmented tail curled and flexed behind him, the light gleaming on the sharp end of the barb.

  He stood, ludicrously holding a wrench in one hand. Time and space must have folded because suddenly he was right there, smelling faintly of an intriguing mix of oil, sweat, and warmth on a cold day. She tilted her head back to look him in the eye.

  “Huh, I don’t remember you being this tall,” she said.

  It had to be the lighting because he really wasn’t handsome. Striking with his sharp nose and his features too rough and too raw to be classically handsome. Strong, though.

  The wrench clattered to the floor.

  “Emmarae—”

  She grabbed Ren by the shirt collar and pulled him down into a kiss.

  Chapter 5

  Emry

  So much for appealing to his sense of honor and justice. Apparently, the seduction plan was a go.

  Her mind took a minute to catch up with her body, which was busy kissing Ren like he was the last slice of pie, and she was ravenous. His nose bumped hers as they jockeyed for position. Tusks scraped against her lips. She felt the prick of fang against her tongue. She didn’t care.

  More.

  She moaned into him, warmth and yearning spreading through her like a hot wind on a summer day.

  Strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her against his frame. He felt solid, lean, and lithe. Something wrapped around her legs, pinning her in place.

  She broke away long enough to glance down. His tail. Up close, she could see the minute striations in the carapace-like shell. The barb looked wicked, designed for puncturing soft skin. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she knew that barb was meant for her.

  Her fingers drifted down to test the edge, to see if it was as razor-sharp as it appeared.

  Ren grabbed her hand, breaking the spell. “Do not touch.”

  “I—” She stepped back, as if distance would help clear her head. “This isn’t like me. I just… It’s you.”

  “It is you,” he repeated.

  He smiled, his eyes a warm
, golden brown the color of crusty bread right out of the oven. She had never noticed before, which was silly, because his eyes didn’t matter, even if they seemed genuinely delighted to see her and even if the way he smiled at her made her heart hurt.

  And the way he smelled… Had he always smelled this good?

  Emry took another step back. The room was way too warm and way too small. “You don’t emit pheromones or something?”

  “No. I do not emit pheromones.” He smiled that smile again, like they shared an inside joke; damn her for smiling back. “I must confess, I had hoped to speak with you. I called in favors to take this repair assignment. The need to apologize for my past actions has weighed on me, but I did not think about what would happen in the actual moment.”

  “Apologize? Wait. What do you mean ‘call in favors?’ Why is a Mahdfel doing dockyard repairs?”

  He ran a dirty hand through his hair, heedless of dirt and grime. “I needed to speak with you. This was my best option.”

  “But there must be easier ways than waiting around for the heat pump or whatever to break. Oh,” she said, realizing. “You didn’t wait. You sabotaged the ship.”

  “For you,” he said in a tone that made sabotaging a ship to talk to your estranged wife perfectly reasonable.

  “And why would you do that for me?”

  Again, a hand ran through his hair. “Emry, we ended before we started because I chose my clan above my mate. I sent you away, and that was wrong.”

  “It was a shitty thing to do,” she said. The hurt of his rejection still felt raw, and frustration simmered inside that she had so much scar tissue, but not where she needed it.

  “I have regretted my actions every day. You are my mate.”

  “We’re strangers,” Emry snapped.

  He nodded. “I hope you can forgive me, but if you cannot, I have laid my heart bare to you.”

  His words were perfect, if stiff in delivery. They were exactly what she had wanted to hear for so long. He had been wrong. He regretted what happened. He wanted another chance.

  “Wow.” Sweat trickled down her back, and the fabric of her tank top clung to her uncomfortably. She swiped a hand across her brow. “Did you rehearse your speech?”

  “I am sincere.”

  “Look, I’m not trying to bust your balls, but I don’t get why you’re here.”

  “I have regret—”

  “Guilt. Yeah. Join the club. But why now? Why wait four years? And don’t say you couldn’t find me because I was on Earth until nine months ago, working in a damn bakery with my name on the door.”

  “I know. A fine establishment. I enjoyed the whimsical selection.”

  Her head snapped up, surprise jolting through her. “You were there? You were in my shop and didn’t say anything? How long have you been stalking me?”

  He held up a hand as if to calm her. “I did not stalk, and I never entered the premises.”

  She tried to imagine her red alien standing outside the bakery, looking forlorn in the rain, and the thought made her… happy? Yeah, delighted. Not in a cruel way, but that Ren went out of his way to check on her made her feel significant.

  He thought about her in the years they were apart, thought about how he hurt her. His actions weighed on him, he said.

  “Help me understand why you sent me away,” she said.

  “My planet is not safe for a human, and the warlord was unstable. It was an unfit environment.”

  “Unstable? What does that mean?”

  “He is deceased. Do not concern yourself with that insignificant male.” His jaw clenched as he debated what to say next. “He ordered me to reject you, but I bear full responsibility. I should have disobeyed. Left the clan. Any number of options. A warrior is equally at fault for blindly obeying bad orders as the male issuing them.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot,” she said. “So it wasn’t, you know—” She waved a hand at her face.

  “I do not understand.”

  “My face.” Heat flooded her cheeks as she said the words, feeling somehow vain, but so many had gawped and teased her about her scars. This was not just vanity.

  “What is wrong with your face?”

  “Seriously? My scars. I got fucked up in a car accident, and now I look like this.” Again, she waved at her face.

  Ren held out a hand and hesitated before touching her face. “May I?”

  She nodded.

  His fingers brushed the scar, the ghost of a sensation. The jagged scar pulled one side of her mouth into a constant smirk. In the beginning, her skin felt too tight, and she had constantly chewed gum to mask the fact that she couldn’t stop working her jaw. Once an angry red, it faded to near white.

  His thumb ran across the bottom of her lip and up the length of the scar. Moving his hand to the opposite shoulder, he traced the surgery scar from a broken clavicle. Leaning in closer, she caught the whiff of sweat, and her breath hitched.

  “Hmm. The only scar tissue that is offensive is this one.” His thumb brushed the bite mark he left on her four years ago. “It is a falsehood and not given in good faith. You deserved—deserve—better.”

  Her heart. His words made her want to believe and a cynical voice inside her told her that what she believed didn’t matter. She needed him to help her, and she should just pretend it didn’t hurt, that everything could be forgiven.

  “I’m ugly,” she said.

  “No.”

  “A butterface.”

  “I do not know this word, but I know it is incorrect.”

  “You know, she’s hot, but her face.” Her voice dropped into a mocking tone.

  “Your core temperature is elevated,” he agreed.

  She nearly laughed, swallowing it in a huff.

  He cupped the side of her face. “But this face is exceptional. It bears the marks of a female who has survived much and endured.” Again, his thumb brushed the scar, as if teasing out the difference between it and the softer, undamaged skin. “It is a good face.”

  She believed him. Every word. He liked her face, he regretted the way he treated her four years ago, and he hung outside her bakery like a weird stalker being emo in the rain.

  She breathed out, letting go of her stress and worry.

  “Okay, forgiven,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s not a switch I can flip, but yeah. Staying angry doesn’t help anyone, and I so need your help. My sister—”

  The door crashed open.

  “What’s going on?” Pashaal asked.

  Ren

  Ren positioned himself between the older female and his mate. His tail wrapped possessively around her waist, which was less than ideal if Emry jabbed herself on the barb.

  This situation was unfortunate. He had hoped to avoid the Council member.

  “I am the mechanic. I was sent to repair the heat exchange,” he said.

  “And got friendly with my cook.” The female wore silken robes and delicate chains on her horns. She eyed the engine room with suspicion, concerned that simply being in the room would sully her garment.

  He tossed a glance at his mate. Grease smudged the side of her face where he touched her. Seeing evidence of his touch on her skin made him hum with a twisted, primitive pride. This was his female. His mate.

  “Explain yourself, Emmarae. You are not to… associate with the guests.”

  “I am not a guest,” Ren said. He needed to take his mate away from here. That primitive part of his mind that wanted to mark her now demanded to carry her away and keep her safe on his ship, behind several locked doors and weapon systems.

  “Stop crowding me.” Emmarae twisted out of his tail’s grasp and stepped to the side. “He’s my mate.”

  Pride swelled in his chest. She claimed him. After all his mistakes, she would still proclaim that he belonged to her. The primitive being inside him still wanted to lock her away, but this was also acceptable.

  The older female’s eyes went wide. A hand flew to her chest.
“But your mate is deceased.”

  Emmarae shook her head. “I never said that. He sent me back to Earth—”

  “Because my home planet is too toxic for a Terran,” Ren interrupted. “I have since left Rolusdreus. I have a new clan.”

  His gaze held Emmarae’s. She needed to know that he left his old clan in protest and that he earned a place in a hospitable clan for her.

  “You do not look like a Mahdfel,” Pashaal said.

  Ren’s tail swayed behind him. “I have been told this many times. I assure you, I am Mahdfel.”

  The older female’s gaze bounced between Ren and Emmarae and back. Her face was a blank mask, hiding her calculation of how to profit from this turn of events.

  “This is wonderful!” Pashaal clasped her hands together. “You must join us for dinner. We disembark tomorrow, but my guests arrive tonight.”

  Dining with Pashaal’s associates and other Council members posed a risk, but he had already been identified as Mahdfel. If the guests learned he was investigating the Council’s funding for rogue experiments, data would be destroyed, and the mission would fail. But if they believed he was a male reconciling with his mate…

  “Thank you. That is most kind, but I must inform you I came on board under false pretenses. I knew my mate was a member of your crew and—”

  Pashaal waved a ring-encrusted hand, the robe’s sleeve billowing. “Nonsense. I want to hear everything about your story. I miss my Kullar so, and my heart is glad for your safe return.”

  “Then I accept your invitation,” he said.

  “You will need to clean and change into proper attire, of course. Let me walk you to the airlock.” Pashaal held out an arm for him to take as they strolled. Then she caught sight of the dirt on his sleeve and thought better of it. She cleared her throat and smoothed down the front of her robe. “Follow me. Emmarae, how is the meal preparation? I hope you will no longer be unhappy and pollute the meal.”

  “No. Unhappy is not what I’m feeling.”

  “My mate is unhappy?” He stepped back, intending to return to his mate, but she had vanished down the corridor.

  “Family issues.” Another dismissive wave. “Proper attire is expected to dine. I do not expect formal robes, but clean, at least.” Her gaze swept over him, judging his work garments, and finding them lacking.