Alien Warlord's Passion (Warlord Brides Index Book 2)

by Nancey Cummings

  Tani elbowed the massive man. “He means to say, hello. My name is Oran. Welcome to my home.”

  “I know what I meant to say.”

  Rosemary managed a weak smile. “Michael’s not being too loud, is he? We were in the shuttle all day, and he needs to let off some energy, or he’ll get cranky.”

  “I have three Mahdfel sons, I understand. When they were young, I thought I would never have a solid night’s sleep. Always wrestling or fighting,” Tani said.

  “Sparring is a good means to develop reflexes and agility,” Oran said to his wife.

  “Not in the middle of the night.” She leaned into him, only standing mid-chest, and squeezed his arm. “If you’re hungry, dinner is ready.”

  Her stomach rumbled at the idea of food. She wondered what was on the menu but dreaded the answer. Alien protein globs or some strange vegetable that would eat her if she didn’t stab it with a knife. She’d seen enough sci-fi movies to expect the worst. “Sounds good,” she said with fake enthusiasm. “Let me get Michael.”

  “You’re going to love it,” Tani called over her shoulder as she went into the house. “We have smashed potatoes.”

  Michael ran at the edge of the lawn. Just beyond, the grass gave way to worn dirt paths through rows of vines, yellowed from the cold but had not died back completely. He kicked the ball with enthusiasm and chased it. Rosemary kept a careful watch to make sure the ball didn’t go into the vines.

  “Mom! Look how high I can kick.” The ball soared through the air, much higher than before. Gravity must have been slightly weaker than on Earth. Rosemary bounced on her toes to test that theory. She didn’t feel lighter.

  A figure emerged from the vineyard. He stood tall, shoulders wide and arms corded thick with muscle, carrying a duffle bag over one shoulder. He emitted confidence and menace. Panic fluttered briefly in her chest as he lifted his head and sniffed the air, turning in her direction.

  Three parallel gouges, old by all indications, marred his cheek, running down from the bottom of his left eye to his lips. The scarring tugged his lips downward, giving him a permanent scowl. Whatever did that was nothing to be trifled with. Rosemary had no doubt that her man came out the victor in that contest.

  He was gorgeous, just the right blend of rough and handsome that always made her weak in the knees. His lilac complexion and horns barely registered. When she looked at him, she didn’t think alien; she thought mine.

  If Hazel’s husband looked anything like this man, Rosemary understood why her sister ran off.

  She swallowed, trying to find her voice. “Michael, honey, it’s time for dinner.”

  “One more! Look!” He placed the ball on the ground, lined up carefully and ran at it full force, sending the ball sailing through the air, right at the face of the purple male.

  The man snatched the ball from the air before it bounced off his noggin, the scowl on his face deepening. Maybe it was the acute angle of the horns curling back from his brow or the way the setting sun cast him in shadows or the loud growl, but despite being obviously upset, she wasn’t frightened. Just embarrassed.

  “That’s my ball, mister,” Michael said, running up to him, unaware of the danger like a stupid puppy.

  “Michael, apologize for almost hitting the man.” Rosemary ran up to intervene, legs pumping. She and Michael were making a great first impression today.

  “Sorry for almost hitting you.”

  The man crouched down to Michael’s level and inspected the ball. “This weapon is not capable of incapacitating opponents. It is too round and soft.” He squeezed the black and white ball to demonstrate. “Explain.”

  “It’s just a ball,” Michael said.

  “What is its purpose?”

  Her son shrugged, completely unaffected by the massive lilac alien. “I just play with it.”

  “I believe we have something similar here. What skills does this ball build?”

  “I can run really fast.”

  He settled back on his heels and gave an impressed whistle. Michael beamed with pride.

  Rosemary placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder, snagging his attention away from the alien. “Dinner. Go wash up. Now.”

  “Look how fast I can run,” he shouted before tearing off toward the house, kicking up grass and dirt in his wake.

  Rosemary watched until she was certain he reached the back door. “Sorry about that. He was on a shuttle all day and has a lot of pent-up energy.”

  “Your son was unsupervised,” the man said, accusation in his voice. He stood to his full height, towering over her.

  Rosemary’s back went up in response to his tone, but she did not cower or flinch. Michael was supposed to be taking a nap, but she didn’t need to explain anything to this stranger. She tilted her head back and met his glare with one of her own. The sense of danger radiating from the man did not diminish, but now she noticed the appeal to all that alien danger and muscle. “He was playing.”

  “He was unsupervised.”

  “Chasing a ball in the backyard is hardly unsupervised.”

  “It is an unknown environment. There could be predators.” The man crossed his arms over his chest. Briefly, the bulging muscles distracted her. As if sensing a moment of weakness, the man took a step forward. Awareness of him prickled across her skin. She might have licked her lips. It was hard to say. She was jet-lagged, or space-lagged, whatever it was called when you teleported across the galaxy in a day.

  Rosemary tore her eyes away from his thick arms and met his gaze. The man smirked at her obvious distraction. “Are you saying the Rhews’ home is thick with predators? They might be offended by that.”

  He took another step. “Truth. We’d be offended if you said the family lacked predators.”

  Right. She only had to concern herself with one predator at the moment. Super alien soldier, designed for murder and mayhem. Oh, and making babies. Mayhem and making babies. Her gaze drifted back down to his shoulders and arms, muscles barely contained under the tunic he wore. Dark ink spiraled up his forearms, disappearing beneath the fabric. She wondered if he would show her the rest of his tattoos if she asked nicely.

  He cleared his throat, and her gaze snapped back to his face. His smirk returned.

  “Do you have a name?” Putting a name to the crazy hot and crazy scary man would humanize him. Alienize? Make him relatable.

  “I am Mene,” he said.

  “Mean.”

  “Mene.”

  She shook her head, unable to hear the difference. “I’m Rosemary.”

  “I know who you are. You obviously cannot assess the threat level of a situation. This is unacceptable. Where is the young warrior’s father? I would speak with him about this.”

  There it was. Hot and an asshole. Rosemary’s jerk radar proved accurate again.

  “I’m his mother, and he was perfectly safe,” she said calmly, giving one last go at being polite. She was a guest. She didn’t want to cause a scene or put Hazel in an awkward spot with her in-laws.

  “It is irresponsible. A male should protect his offspring—”

  “Listen, sugar plum, I don’t know who you are, and I don’t particularly care. I am tired and hungry. I want to eat and go to sleep, and none of my plans involve getting a lecture from you. And for the record, I am a damn good mom. I don’t need any tips from a meat-headed purple… purple crayon!”

  Her words rang out louder than she expected and his lips pressed together. He breathed heavily through his nose, and Rosemary prayed he kept his temper in check. Everyone knew that the Mahdfel had anger issues. It was bred into them. All that genetic engineering left them unstable.

  Probably. That’s what she heard.

  “What’s a crayon?”

  ***

  “But what is a crayon?” he asked, following her to the house.

  “Drop it, Meanie,” she muttered.

  “My translation chip informs me that it is a material used for the creative arts, but it must be mistaken
.”

  “Cheese and crackers, it’s not mistaken.”

  “But I am a warrior. It is not a suitable comparison.”

  Rosemary didn’t particularly care if it was suitable. Those were the words that flew out of her mouth, and now she couldn’t take them back, no matter how much she wished. “Fine. The next time I yell at you, I’ll use a suitable insult, like stop being a pushy son of a gun. You happy now?”

  “Yes. A weapon is a suitable choice of words.”

  Oh, for crying out loud.

  “Oh good, you’ve met,” Tani said. The entire extended family waited for them in the dining room. Hazel sat next to a man with a merlot complexion with one horn. The short, shorn hair did not disguise the broken stump of the missing horn. He rubbed Hazel’s back in slow, lazy circles. That had to be the husband, Seeran. Michael sat on the other side of Hazel. Oran sat at the head of the table, and Lorran waited on the other side, next to two empty seats. If anyone heard Rosemary and Mene bickering, they gave no indication.

  “I’ve prepared several Terran dishes. Hazel helped me get the flavor just right. I hope you’ll be pleased.” Tani waved a hand to the two empty seats. Unfortunately, they were side by side. Rosemary would be stuck next to Meanie for the entire meal.

  The table sat low to the ground and thick cushions took the place of chairs. Michael sank to the floor with the boneless grace of youth. Rosemary wasn’t sure her knees would comply. Mene extended a hand to assist at the same moment Lorran offered his hand.

  Tossing Mene a smirk, she graciously accepted Lorran’s hand. He placed his other hand on the small of her back and guided her down. His hand lingered a moment too long. Mene growled at the display.

  Rosemary ignored them both as she adjusted herself on the cushion, trying to figure out how to sit without her knees touching the men on either side of her. She didn’t want to touch the snarling meanie, and she didn’t want to encourage Lorran.

  “I’m sure dinner will be great,” she said. Hungry enough to eat shoe leather, she would eat anything put in front of her.

  The men left the room without saying a word. “It’s cultural. Men serve the food to prove they’re good providers,” Hazel said.

  “But Tani cooked.”

  The older woman nodded. “This is your first meal in our home. Tomorrow will be more relaxed.”

  Rosemary had a hard time picturing what a relaxed Mahdfel warrior looked like.

  The men returned, carrying bowls in each hand. A large platter with a roast, vaguely chicken-shaped, was placed in the center of the table. Seeran served Hazel first before setting down his own dish. Oran served his wife. Mene served Michael. Lorran placed a bowl and an odd-shaped spoon in front of Rosemary. The spoon had a long handle and a shallow bowl.

  Oran then took a knife to the roast. He sliced off a portion and placed it on a small plate in front of his wife. He continued until everyone had a serving.

  “I found it difficult to keep the smashed potatoes warm and the iced cream cold,” Tani said, picking up her spoon.

  Two white scoops filled the bowl. One scoop was indeed mashed potatoes. The other was vanilla ice cream with a grated pulp scattered on top. Rosemary poked at the disgusting mess.

  “Thank you, Tani,” Hazel said, accepting her bowl. “I know I asked you for ice cream and mashed potatoes, but we don’t normally serve them together.”

  “Oh!” Tani’s hands fluttered. “I do not think I made enough to—”

  “It’s fine. My request wasn’t clear, which is my fault. I’m going to eat the ice cream before it melts,” Hazel said.

  Lorran sat to Rosemary’s left, Mene to her right. She felt like a child wedged between two giants. The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention with awareness of the two warriors. Mene’s gaze burned her. She gave him a sharp look. “What?” she asked quietly.

  “Is the meal not to your liking?” he asked.

  Her cheeks burned. He didn’t stare because he liked the look of her. He stared because she was being unbelievably rude.

  Rosemary picked up the spoon with a smile, baring her teeth to him. He chuffed at the display. She took a cautious bite of the ice cream. Pungent, bitter heat and sweet vanilla flooded her mouth. She coughed, covering her mouth with a napkin. Oh sweet baby cheese, what was that?

  Across the table, Michael dug in, unaffected. “Mom never lets me have ice cream for dinner,” he said.

  “Horseradish is a strange protein. It did not even bleed! I do like the taste,” Tani said.

  Rosemary tried to eat the mashed potatoes, but the ice cream had melted and formed a moat around the only thing in the bowl she could eat. She lifted up the oddly shaped spoon but couldn’t force her mouth open. What if horseradish was mixed in with the potatoes?

  “What does a horse look like? Is it a fierce beast?” Tani asked.

  “I can sound like a horse,” Michael said and demonstrated. Loudly. He whinnied, neighed, and stomped his imaginary hooves. Tani clapped appreciatively.

  Appetite gone, Rosemary set her spoon down.

  “So you like it?” Tani asked.

  Rosemary opened her mouth, but Hazel answered first. “It’s perfect! Just what I was craving.” Before Rosemary could give her sister a withering look, Hazel continued, “The baby has his dad’s sweet tooth. He wants sugar all the time.”

  Oran leaned over to Seeran and prodded at his lips. “What is wrong with your teeth?”

  “Nothing,” he said gruffly, hanging on to his adult dignity.

  “My restaurant used to serve this,” Hazel said, talking over her husband’s protests while his father demanded to inspect his teeth. “Well, the ice cream and horseradish. Usually, we put the dessert on its own plate.”

  “Really? You were craving this?” Rosemary asked. She found that hard to believe.

  “It’s a delicacy. You never heard of wasabi ice cream?”

  “Isn’t that green?”

  Hazel shrugged. “I’ve been getting weird pregnancy cravings. I asked for a little bit to go on mine. I didn’t mean for everyone to get it.”

  Rosemary remembered her own cravings with Michael. “Remember how I wanted chocolate and pickles? At the same time?”

  “That was so gross,” Hazel said with a small laugh.

  “This is not typical Terran food?” Hazel’s husband—Seeran, she supposed—asked. She shook her head. His shoulders slumped with relief. “Thank the stars! I’m sorry, my mate, but this is repulsive.” He pushed the bowl away.

  The other men at the table agreed and pushed their bowls away. Maybe it was the extreme exhaustion or the looks of relief on their faces, but a laugh tore its way out of her. Rosemary slapped a hand over her mouth, appalled at her rudeness. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t laughing—”

  “It’s not that bad,” Hazel said.

  “I like it, Aunt Hazel,” Michael said as he finished off his bowl. He reached across the table for Rosemary’s.

  “Thank you, sweetie. You’re my favorite little man.”

  The roast chicken-thing, cyw, proved tasty. A bite of it almost made the memory of horseradish-flavored ice cream melt away.

  Lorran stretched, planting his hand on the back of Rosemary’s cushion.

  “Do not,” Mene warned with a growl.

  “Have you had Sangrin wine?” Lorran asked, ignoring his brother. He poured a pale golden liquid into a fluted glass. “This is from our own vineyard.”

  “I noticed the grapes still on the vine. I thought everything would be harvested before the snow came,” Rosemary said. She sniffed the wine, pleased with the sweet and fruity bouquet. Underneath the sweetness was a hint of spice. The smooth taste drove away thoughts of horseradish-flavored ice cream and mashed potato soup.

  “Those fruit will make ice wine. They freeze on the vine,” Tani said.

  “This is really good.”

  “Good? That’s the best you can do? Aren’t you a professional,” Hazel teased.

  “You work in a winery?�
�� For the first time all evening, Seeran perked with interest.

  “I’m a bartender.”

  “Ah.” The bored expression returned. “Serving drinks to strangers.”

  Every purple person at the table gasped. Before Rosemary could ask, Hazel said, “It’s cultural. You wouldn’t believe the scandal I caused serving food.”

  Seeran placed a hand on her shoulder. “Do not joke about such serious matters.”

  For real? A drink was a drink, not a big deal at all. Rosemary took another sip, paying attention to the flavor. “I think I can taste cinnamon and ginger. It’s like Christmas.”

  “Christmas?” Hazel grabbed the glass from her husband’s hand and sniffed. “Oh, I can smell cinnamon. That’s brilliant.”

  Tani leaned forward, eyes bright. “Is it true that Terrans have ten thousand taste buds?”

  “I guess.” High school biology was a long time ago.

  “And not all are on the tongue? Terrans have taste receptors on the roof of their mouths?”

  “Umm…”

  “We need to smell stuff in order to taste. We did an experiment at school,” Michael said. A dollop of ice cream stuck to his chin. “That’s why you can’t taste stuff when you have a cold.”

  “Fascinating.” Tani dabbed a napkin at the ice cream. “Sangrins do not have as many taste receptors. I can’t wait to see what else you can taste.”

  “I thought Mahdfel had superior sense?” Rosemary asked, thinking aloud.

  Tani folded the napkin across her lap. How she managed to sit so elegantly on a cushion on the floor remained a mystery. “Alas, I am only Sangrin.” The older woman’s resigned tone pulled a smile from Rosemary. “I would love to take you to the Tasting Room and sample our bottles. I’ve never had Terran wine. Is it similar? What flavor profiles do you prefer?”

  “Are you mated?” Oran said, talking over his wife.

  “Um, no?” Rosemary took another sip to hide her confusion.

  “Are you a widow?”

  “Never married.” Thankfully. Having Vince as an ex-boyfriend was bad enough. Ex-husband? No thanks.