Page 33 of Ren: Warlord Brides
“I think you will follow your contract holder,” he said.
Ren flexed his fingers. “It is odd. I do not wish to injure you, but I will relish breaking your bones.”
Dovak’s eyes widened, the only hint of alarm slipping through his mask of condescension. “We’ll settle this in the arena.”
* * *
The scentof blood lingered in the air.
Sangrin Station offered nearly everything a person could imagine. It offered every comfort and convenience, limitless entertainment. From high-end shops to the very lowest establishments, the station never failed to surprise Ren. Legitimate studios and training facilities abounded, but Dovak brought them to a particularly nefarious gaming club specializing in regulation-free prize fights.
A fighting pit dominated the space, the sand-covered floor stained a rust color. Ren had no doubt that the blood and spit of past fighters decorated every surface in the club. A quick word with the fight organizer and they were on the schedule.
“You don’t have to do this,” Emmarae said. They waited at the side of the fighting pit.
“It is already done.” Ren removed his garments down to his briefs. The clothing offered no protection and only hindered his range of motion.
He stretched, aware of his mate’s eyes following him. Unbidden, his tattoos flared to life on his arms, burning a silvery path. His tail, purely working on an instinctive level and out of his control, danced over his shoulder.
“He’s all hot air.”
“No. He is bone and blood, as fragile as any.” Ren stared at the offending male from across the room. The male flexed and stretched, as if last-minute calisthenics could help.
“I mean, if you give him an out to save face, you can negotiate a price.”
“Are you concerned about my well-being? That is charming, but do not worry yourself.”
She huffed. “You’re going to murder that guy. He’s a jerk, true, but he doesn’t need to be a dead jerk.”
Ren caught the sleeve of her white coat and pulled her to stand before him. She fidgeted in place, smoothing down the front of her coat. A silver chain at her throat glinted in the low light.
“What is this?” He lifted the chain with a finger.
“Pashaal gave it to me. A reward, I guess. She does that.” Emmarae held up the locket for a moment, then tucked it back down under the coat.
“The male has earned every pain I will inflict,” he said, returning to her concern. Emmarae glanced away. He disliked this timidness. Was it the thought of blood that made her reluctant? “I will refrain from dealing a killing blow,” he said in a soothing tone.
A strangled laugh escaped from her. She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, that’s not funny. I’m not laughing.”
“You find his pain amusing.”
“I mean, I’m not his biggest fan, but I’m not loving the idea of you beating the crap out of him.”
“Only a little. To make my point.” He held up his finger and thumb to demonstrate the minuscule amount.
“And what point could that be? Because he keeps insisting you’re not a Mahdfel.”
Ren’s tail twitched, but he had worse insults flung at him from his father. He had no need to prove who he was to this pompous male. “No one comes between me and my mate. That is the point,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
“Oh.” Her face paled, and her cheeks flushed an intriguing pink. The moment stretched out between them. Her tongue darted out to her lower lip. The crowd fell away, his focus on her and her alone. He could not look away from her mouth, entranced.
“Hey, buddy. You’re up.” A rough hand jostled Ren out of his revelry.
The sand felt good beneath his feet. He did not want to consider contaminants. He had spent his youth climbing radioactive sand dunes. What was in the fighting pit but some bacteria and old biological material? Anything offensive could be washed away.
The crowd pressed against the transparent walls of the pit. They were a sea of violet-hued faces, punctuated with the odd splash of beige or brown. His mate stood at the front, her pale hair shining in the gloom. Pashaal stood next to her, features hidden in shadow.
Dovak stripped down to an undershirt and briefs. The male’s physique was ordinary, neither too soft nor too honed with training. He bounced from foot to foot.
