Ren: Warlord Brides: Warriors of Sangrin #11

by Nancey Cummings

  “She is a beauty,” he said, beaming with pride.

  “She’s something. Not to be rude, but it looks ready for the junkyard.” Okay, rude, but Emry didn’t know how to soften her words beyond muttering a lame “Sorry.”

  “That is fortunate; I did rescue her from a junkyard.” Ren strode up the ramp with an alarming display of confidence, like he trusted the ramp to support his weight and not crumble to dust.

  “That’s not the ringing endorsement you think it is,” she said, following with cautious steps. The ramps seemed stable enough, but the treads were worn to the point of being nonexistent. If the ramp ever got wet, it’d be a slide.

  Emry eyed the worn seals around the cargo bay door and the exposed wires in the ceiling. Panels had been removed for easy access or had been sold off for scrap. Probably scrap, she decided.

  The lighting didn’t quite reach the ceiling. Shadows hid a network of ventilation ducts and support beams.

  Something shifted in the darkness.

  “Look out!” Emry shouted as a sandy-colored monster pounced from above. She held Ren’s jacket out—why was she still carrying it?—like it could fend off a vicious animal.

  Ren caught the beast with a laugh, cradling its body to his. Sandy-hued with black tufts on the tip of triangular ears, the beast looked like a cat, but it couldn’t be. It was huge, easily three times the size of an ordinary house cat.

  In its maw, something small and furry wriggled.

  “For me?” Ren cooed.

  The creature looked over Ren’s shoulder and noticed Emry. The furry murder victim in its jaws squirmed, trying to break free.

  The sandy demon hissed, dropping the furry bundle. It fell to the ground with a squeak and then scurried away.

  The cat-shaped-but-definitely-not-a-cat monster growled and jumped down to chase.

  Ren laughed.

  “What the hell was that?” Emry demanded.

  “My feline.”

  “That was not a cat.” No way. She wasn’t an expert on cats, but whatever that beast had been, it was too big, too pouncy, and too homicidal.

  “I assure you, the rescue shelter assured me that Murder Mittens is a feline. A caracal hybrid.”

  Emry didn’t know what a caracal hybrid was, but it sounded like bad news. “You named your cat Murder Mittens?”

  “Yes. She is adorable,” Ren said with a nod, like Emry agreed.

  “And that was a rat.” Rats. Emry shuddered. She didn’t want to be a snob, but having vermin on board was unacceptable.

  “Unintelligent rodents sneak on board when we dock at the station. Murder Mittens will take care of it.”

  As if on cue, a bloodthirsty yowl echoed down the ship’s corridors.

  Problem solved, apparently.

  Ren gave a tour, chatting about rebuilding the ship and the system upgrades he installed. The ship had a basic layout: cargo and engineering at the bottom, living quarters in the middle, with the command center at the very top. It was a square structure that maximized space. Wear and tear had taken a toll on the interior, but it was in better shape than she expected.

  The common area in the middle of the ship had an open layout with a galley-style kitchen to one side, a large farmhouse-style table, and a semicircular built-in sofa with deep cushions. It was comfortable. Inviting, even. Who cared that the paint had been worn away in places? She needed to get over herself and stop being a snob.

  “This is your cabin,” he said, tugging on a handle to slide open a door.

  The cabin was a single built-in bunk and a matching sideboard along the opposite side. Basic but clean. No rats or bugs scurried away when the lights flickered on. Stale air suggested that Ren didn’t host many overnight guests, which made this weird jealous part of her brain happy knowing that Ren didn’t have sleepovers.

  “Cozy,” she said, tossing her pack on the bed. Her cabin on Pashaal’s ship was twice the size.

  Okay, she was being a snob, and that needed to stop. She had a long day, which always made her cranky, and she hadn’t eaten much. Hangry was a genuine thing. She felt greasy and sweaty from working in the kitchen all evening.

  Emry tossed Ren’s jacket onto a chair, then removed her chef’s coat with a shake. Sand fell to the floor.

  Yup, definitely needed a shower.

  “Is all that blood yours?” she asked. “We should probably get that cleaned up.”

  He touched his face, as if he had been unaware of his split lip or the dried blood from his nose. “My wounds have healed already.”

  “Still covered in blood. It’s not as attractive as you think.”

  Lies.

  Emry had spent the last twenty minutes cradled against that chest, listening to his heart, feeling his arms flex and his shoulders move with each step. Sand. Sweat. Blood. All hot.

  They really needed to get into a shower and scrub each other clean.

  And now she was thinking about soap, suds, and other slippery naked activities.

  He tilted his head to one side, that white streak falling forward to obscure part of his face.

  Why was that hot?

  Emry did not understand what was happening to her. This was pretend. She just needed to convince him to help Gemma. Flirting was part of the plan, but her heart couldn’t get involved.

  It’d hurt too much when he sent her away again.

  Ugh. She had to change the direction of her thoughts.

  “I could eat,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Could you eat? I want to get a better look at the kitchen.”

  “The kitchen?”

  “The food prep area? We walked by it.” Kitchens were her happy place. Eating her emotions wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but it’d been a hell of a day and something in her gut would help her settle.

  Ren took her back to the common area. “The cooling unit and the filtration system are new.” Ren proudly ran a hand down a narrow counter.

  “Thanks. I’ll take a gander. Get cleaned up and we can talk,” she said.

  The cook top was two heating elements, far too close together to use two regular-sized pots at the same time. The counter was narrow but clean. The under-counter cooling unit was slim, but at least nothing stank when she cracked open the door. The overhead cabinet was filled with bowls of packaged instant noodles. So many noodles.

  “Is this what you eat?” she asked as Ren reappeared, hair wet from a shower. He wore a loose-fitting, cream-colored knit shirt and stretchy tan pants. The ensemble should not have been eye-catching, but it worked on him. Then again, he had the type of frame that looked good in anything.

  Or nothing.

  That chest… Even covered in sand and sweat, or maybe because of the sand and sweat, she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him.

  Ren raised an eyebrow when he noticed her practically licking her chops.

  Right. Not real. Just convince him to help Gemma.

  The thought should have been as effective as a cold shower because, hello, sister in peril. Yet her body just wasn’t buying what her brain insisted on selling.

  Ren struck a dramatic pose and leaned against the wall, all cocky confidence and attitude that really should have been obnoxious instead of hot.

  “They provide adequate nutrition,” he said.

  Her heart hurt. First, no one who ate that packaged stuff deserved to look as good as him. Second, adequate nutrition?

  “That’s no way to live, and what’s the sodium on these things?” The print on the package was a little too small for her to read. She continued to poke through the cabinets. More noodles with various animals and vegetables on the wrapper to indicate flavor. “Do you have anything that’s not packaged? Do you have a hydroponic garden? Even for herbs?”

  “I do not spend enough time on board to justify—”

  “Flavor is all the justification you need.” She tossed the package onto the counter and pulled out a box of tea. The cooling unit had a carton of artificial eggs. Good enough. She�
�d make it work.

  As water boiled for the tea, she tore the lid off a bowl and the noodles self-heated. Quickly, she added some egg mixture and stirred it until cooked.

  “Eat,” she said.

  He took a bite. “It’s good.”

  “No, it’s adequate.” She prepared her own bowl. The package had some colorful fish on the label, and the flavor was an insult to her taste buds. At least it filled an empty stomach.

  “The tea is good,” she said, trying to be positive.

  “Yes, Thalia enjoys that flavor. I always try to keep some in stock for her.”

  Her back went up at the mention of another woman.

  “Oh?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice casual and not at all jealous. Of all the talking they did on Pashaal’s ship—and really, it was nothing—they never discussed what they had done in the past four years or the people they spent it with. Did Ren have a girlfriend on the side?

  “Thalia is Havik’s mate. Havik is my friend. We own the ship together.” He paused. “Thalia is also my friend. Our food supplies also displeased her.”

  “Good. I mean, not good that your diet is rubbish but, er, good that she’s not your girlfriend?” Emry closed her eyes, wishing she could take back the awkward words. But she kept on talking and the words kept getting more mortifying. “I haven’t, you know, dated anyone since… well, you. If you had, we didn’t say we wouldn’t, so I guess that’s okay, but I’d rather it stopped now.” She sucked in a deep breath. “If you don’t mind.”

  Ren’s eyes scrunched up at the corners as if in amusement. “I appreciate your clarity.”

  “Oh, now you’re teasing me.”

  He grinned, a horrifying display of lips pulled around tusks and sharp teeth. Objectively, he looked like a devil or worse, but the mirth in his eyes and the cozy kitchen setting made him appear… almost cute.

  Huh.

  Ren was not cute. She’d seen him stripped down to nothing but muscles and sweat. He was not built for cuteness. And she’d seen him in action, deftly incapacitating his opponents. He was hot, maybe not by a conventional metric, but hot all the same. Smoking hot or whatever level of hotness was beyond that. Incendiary? The man was so not cute.

  But right here, right now, slurping down a bowl of generic fish-flavored noodles, he was so fucking cute she couldn’t stand it.

  “I will order fresh supplies before we leave the station,” he said.

  “Please.” She took a sip of the tea, enjoying the strong flavor chased by a bit of sweetness. “I’m sorry if I’m coming across as a food snob. I’m a professional cook. Food’s important to me. Good food.”

  “I enjoy food.”

  “Really? Because your pantry tells me you enjoy suffering,” she quipped. He tilted his head at her sarcastic tone but said nothing. She continued, “You’re married to a chef. Let me spoil you.”

  “That is not necessary.”

  “You did win my work contract. Technically, I’m your employee.”

  “No. That contract is dissolved. You are under no obligation to provide a service,” he said. Something in his tone, a firmness or resolve, made her believe him.

  “So, what happens now?” She needed to bring up Gemma, but her mind blanked when it came to gently broaching the topic.

  “Whatever you prefer. Stay if you like, or I can deliver you to the destination of your choice. For the record, I am hoping you will stay.”

  “Very sweet.” She scrubbed a hand over her face. “I’m tired, and I stink like vinaigrette.”

  “Rest cycles are important. We will talk when you wake.”

  That sounded good. It’d been a long day and while she wanted to charge off after Gemma, she needed a clear head.

  A quick shower and she fell into bed. She barely had time to notice Ren’s boots by the door and subtle signs that this was not a guest room but his bedroom.

  Ren

  Ren scrolled down the list of available foodstuffs for delivery. He had no idea what to order. Clearly, one of every Terran item, even if that was a small selection. Fresh produce and fruit? Not knowing what Emry preferred, he ordered one of everything.

  “There needs to be a box for a random selection that will please a professional cook,” he muttered.

  Murder Mittens draped herself across the back of his chair. Her tail thumped the side of his face, content and not at all concerned with her person’s dilemma.

  At a loss, he checked random boxes. Surely something would satisfy Emmarae’s criterion of flavor.

  “If not, she can place the order herself,” he told the feline.

  Another tail thump.

  “I am glad we agree.”

  While giving Emmarae a tour of the ship, he had braced himself for comments about the age of the ship, or the condition. He knew his ship appeared to be a rusted bucket of bolts, and that was by design. The ship was mechanically sound, equipped to defend itself and completely innocuous. No one cared enough to notice old cargo vessels on their way to the scrap heap.

  Well, he noticed, but mainly to salvage parts. Older ships had their charms, but replacement parts were difficult to source.

  Still, Emmarae had worked for some time on a luxurious ship with state-of-the-art features. She made no comment about the safety treads worn smooth from age or the chipped paint. The only noise of disappointment she made occurred when she inspected the kitchen.

  Unacceptable.

  He spent enough time on the ship that he wanted his mate to be comfortable. Some features could not be changed, like the weathered exterior, but the kitchen could be upgraded.

  He feared Havik had been correct. Ren did not apply his normally meticulous level of planning to reconciliation with his mate. The bare cupboard proved he acted impulsively. Fortunately, he excelled at improvising in less-than-ideal circumstances.

  He called up the ship design. With available space in mind, he sketched out possible configurations. He searched for parts and what upgrades could be installed. He calculated time and disruption for installation. With Havik to help, Ren estimated he could complete the work in under two cycles. More if the fuel lines had corroded and required replacing.

  Emmarae had mentioned hydroponic gardening. Could he install a wall rack if he removed a cabinet? Or moved—

  He paused. The plans appeared satisfactory to him, but he had been satisfied with the existing kitchen. Whenever his mate woke, he’d ask for her input.

  The supplies would not be delivered for a few more hours. He should rest. The day had been challenging.

  The door to his cabin opened silently. Light spilled into the darkened room, picking out the curves of his mate on his bed.

  His mate.

  In his bed.

  A strange sensation coiled in his chest. Possessive, yes, but also humbled. He had shown his mate the empty cabin so she would not feel pressured. Of her own accord, she climbed into his bed.

  Had the stars finally aligned for an unlucky male? His mate had been pleased to see him, even though they parted on unpleasant terms, and did not know how to explain such a phenomenon. Emmarae should not have been happy to see him. She had every right to curse and denounce him. Instead, she kissed him and slept in his bed.

  Ren grabbed an extra pillow and made himself as comfortable as possible on the floor next to the bed. Sleep proved elusive. His mind contained too much. Each moment of the day had to be considered. His mission had been derailed, but he still learned much to report to the warlord.

  Still, his thought returned to his mate and that kiss.

  He had never been kissed by a female who was not his mother, and certainly not on the mouth. His lips tingled as he recalled how she felt pressed against him with her arms thrown around his neck.

  To press mouths together was a human gesture, a publicly acceptable expression of affection. He had observed it in film and had witnessed Thalia kiss Havik several times. He could not recall a single instance of his parents expressing affection, in public or otherwise
. Perhaps it was not the Rolusdreus way. Or perhaps it was something in particular about his parents.

  Ivon Del had not been an easy male to please. He held a position of authority within the clan. Much was demanded of him, and he demanded much from his family. Ren’s smaller stature had been a source of disappointment, so Ren worked harder. His successes had not received praise but the expectation to do better. Always better.

  Ren suspected that even if he won every foot race, bested the fiercest warriors in hand-to-hand combat, Ivon Del would still have a disappointed look on his face. The only thing that Ren ever did that seemed to earn his father’s respect was leaving the clan and forging his own way.

  At some point in his musing, Murder Mittens climbed on his chest. She butted him in the head and accepted chin scritches, as was her due, before leaving for the comfort of the bed. She curled up next to Emmarae.

  He quite enjoyed observing his mate and his feline sleeping peacefully. It settled the disruptive thoughts racing through his head.

  He refused to let an old wound ruin his second chance with his mate. He was no longer the inexperienced male who allowed himself to be persuaded to give up his mate.

  He would prove it to Emmarae, and he would prove it to himself.

  Emry

  Emry woke up with a killer staring her down.

  Dead black eyes regarded her, the pupils a narrow slit.

  She jerked awake, kicking and thrashing under the blanket. Murder Mittens remained on Emry’s chest, blinking sleepily.

  “Oh my god, it’s trying to eat me,” Emry said.

  “The feline is sleeping,” a voice said next to the bed.

  She turned to find Ren sitting on the floor. His rumpled hair stood up at the back.

  “Why does she have to sleep on me? Why is she so heavy?” Actually, Emry knew. Pure muscle. The “cat” was a killing machine.

  She toyed with the idea of pushing the cat off her, but the murder machine yawned, revealing a vicious set of teeth.

  No thanks. Emry wanted to keep all her fingers, so the cat got to sit where she pleased.

  “You are in her territory,” Ren said. “From what I understand of feline behavior, the entire ship is Murder Mittens’ territory, but the bed, specifically, is hers.”