Page 25 of Ren: Warlord Brides
“You know, she’s hot,but her face.” Her voice dropped into a mocking tone.
“Your core temperature is elevated,” he agreed.
She nearly laughed, swallowing it in a huff.
He cupped the side of her face. “But this face is exceptional. It bears the marks of a female who has survived much and endured.” Again, his thumb brushed the scar, as if teasing out the difference between it and the softer, undamaged skin. “It is a good face.”
She believed him. Every word. He liked her face, he regretted the way he treated her four years ago, and he hung outside her bakery like a weird stalker being emo in the rain.
She breathed out, letting go of her stress and worry.
“Okay, forgiven,” she said.
“Yes?”
“It’s not a switch I can flip, but yeah. Staying angry doesn’t help anyone, and I so need your help. My sister—”
The door crashed open.
“What’s going on?” Pashaal asked.
Ren
Ren positioned himself between the older female and his mate. His tail wrapped possessively around her waist, which was less than ideal if Emry jabbed herself on the barb.
This situation was unfortunate. He had hoped to avoid the Council member.
“I am the mechanic. I was sent to repair the heat exchange,” he said.
“And got friendly with my cook.” The female wore silken robes and delicate chains on her horns. She eyed the engine room with suspicion, concerned that simply being in the room would sully her garment.
He tossed a glance at his mate. Grease smudged the side of her face where he touched her. Seeing evidence of his touch on her skin made him hum with a twisted, primitive pride. This was his female. His mate.
“Explain yourself, Emmarae. You are not to… associate with the guests.”
“I am not a guest,” Ren said. He needed to take his mate away from here. That primitive part of his mind that wanted to mark her now demanded to carry her away and keep her safe on his ship, behind several locked doors and weapon systems.
“Stop crowding me.” Emmarae twisted out of his tail’s grasp and stepped to the side. “He’s my mate.”
Pride swelled in his chest. She claimed him. After all his mistakes, she would still proclaim that he belonged to her. The primitive being inside him still wanted to lock her away, but this was also acceptable.
The older female’s eyes went wide. A hand flew to her chest. “But your mate is deceased.”
Emmarae shook her head. “I never said that. He sent me back to Earth—”
“Because my home planet is too toxic for a Terran,” Ren interrupted. “I have since left Rolusdreus. I have a new clan.”
His gaze held Emmarae’s. She needed to know that he left his old clan in protest and that he earned a place in a hospitable clan for her.
“You do not look like a Mahdfel,” Pashaal said.
Ren’s tail swayed behind him. “I have been told this many times. I assure you, I am Mahdfel.”
The older female’s gaze bounced between Ren and Emmarae and back. Her face was a blank mask, hiding her calculation of how to profit from this turn of events.
“This is wonderful!” Pashaal clasped her hands together. “You must join us for dinner. We disembark tomorrow, but my guests arrive tonight.”
Dining with Pashaal’s associates and other Council members posed a risk, but he had already been identified as Mahdfel. If the guests learned he was investigating the Council’s funding for rogue experiments, data would be destroyed, and the mission would fail. But if they believed he was a male reconciling with his mate…
