Page 19 of Ren: Warlord Brides
“I understand,” Emry said. Her options kept dwindling, and she feared her only choice would be to contact Caldar.
This was his fault. She should have known better than to trust an alien who magically appeared out of nowhere, offering the solution to all their problems. She told Gemma his deal was too good to be true. Sure, things were grim before he showed up, but if Emry had never taken his job, she’d be on Earth. She’d hound the police department every waking moment until they took her seriously.
“I am sorry, Emmarae. I know how it is to fear for those we love. When my Kullar left for missions, I swore I never breathed.” Another affectionate hand pat. Pashaal had all the moves down for a caring, compassionate boss, but her eyes were cold and flat.
Emry nodded. Appealing to her employer’s empathy wouldn’t get her anywhere. Pashaal only helped Pashaal. “I’ve never been away from Gemma for this long. Nine months is a long time.”
“Goodness, has it been that long? I feel as if you’ve just arrived with your charming Earth dishes. Every meal is a delight.”
“Yes. I’m worried, though. If I’m sad, then my food will be sad.”
“Sad?” Pashaal dropped the faux-comforting tone.
“Which tastes terrible. You know how us creative types are. We put our heart and soul into our work. And if my heart is grieving, then everything will be off.” Emry blinked, willing herself to cry on command, but all she got was some dust in her eye. Good enough. Her eyes watered.
Pashaal blanched, as if in panic. “Do not cry. She is well. You will see.”
“I’m so worried.” Emry sniffled and rubbed at her nose. She was a terrible actress, but her emotions weren’t an act. Worry for Gemma had been gnawing away in the pit of her stomach, giving her heartburn, and keeping her awake at night.
“You do not look well. Have a rest. Everything will look better after a rest.” Pashaal practically shoved Emry and frog-marched her down to her cabin.
Once settled under a quilt, Emry realized that Pashaal never agreed to help. She made vague promises and reassuring noises, but nothing that was an actual promise.
That left one option.
Ren
“How will you approach your target?”
“I have a plan,” Ren said, indirectly answering the question. In recent years, he found he had a disturbing talent for lying and enjoyed honing the skill.
The male on the other side of the screen narrowed his eyes, detecting the mistruth. “A plan regarding the target or a plan in general?”
“You are too perceptive. This is why no one likes you.”
Havik scoffed. “Everyone likes me. I am extremely likable. Do not let your overwhelming jealousy make you lose sight of your mission.”
“You are only concerned that I will damage our ship.”
“Last time, you failed to return the pilot’s chair to the correct position.”
“It is not my fault that your legs are freakishly long. Do not forget, I am not the one who broke my chair.”
“I do not know how that occurred.” Havik ran a hand along his braid, a nervous tell.
Ren puffed with amusement. His friend was not nearly as skilled at deceit as himself. “Yes, it is a mystery,” he said dryly.
Murder Mittens, his Terran feline, jumped into his lap. She sank claws into his trousers for better traction, the sharp prick of pain bursting and vanishing at once. She butted her head against his hand until he stroked her fur.
“Is that Ren? Move.” A Terran female’s face appeared on the screen. Thalia, his friend, and Havik’s mate. Her hair was a riot of unnatural pastels.
“What is that color?”
“It’s called mermaid hair, and it’s delightful.” She tossed her hair over a shoulder. “What’s your plan?”
“To blunder around Sangrin Station until I locate my target. I will not discuss details over an unsecured channel,” he snapped. In truth, Havik had blundered around Sangrin Station. The first time had led him to his missing ex-mate, and the second brought him his current mate, Thalia.
The only conclusion Ren could draw was that fortune must favor fools. He might as well try the same methods.
