Page 22 of Ren: Warlord Brides
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.
