Page 29 of Ren: Warlord Brides
She bit her bottom lip. “Sorry, James Bond is a fictional character.”
“I am aware of 007.” He had watched the films while Thalia lectured on all the espionage mistakes. More than the random explosions and the lack of subtlety, Ren disliked the way the male mated with a different female in every film. “The likeness is purely superficial. I am not James Bond,” he said, needing Emmarae to understand.
“Well, I just felt that you needed to know you looked nice.”
“Yes?” His tail perked at the praise. “You find this attractive?”
“A well-fitting suit with all these buttons? Yeah.” She touched the cuff of his jacket. “It’s very attractive.”
“Hmm. The garments hinder my range of motion. They are uncomfortable, but your praise makes them tolerable. That is strange.”
His mate glanced back over her shoulder, checking for unseen threats. “I, um, heard you offer to buy out my contract.”
“Yes. She refused, but I am not deterred.”
“Just so you know, I may have doubled the alcohol in the cocktails.”
“My metabolism will not be impaired.”
His mate sighed. “That’s not what I meant. Look, Pashaal likes to play cards and gamble. And she likes to make a big deal of herself. And she’s a little more drunk than normal, so…”
Her voice trailed off, waiting for him to finish the thought.
“Take advantage of her intoxication,” he said, approving of his mate’s guile.
A smile spread across her face, pulling the scar tissue tight and twisting her lips.
He liked her smile.
“I’m serving the meal soon. Bon appétit.” She rocked up on her toes, an expectant look on her face.
“Yes, thank you.”
She stood there, waiting. For what, he did not know. With a disappointed sigh, she left.
The meal was an extravagance, rich food, fine wine, and self-important people filling the void with meaningless prattle. One male, the one who decorated himself in silver chains, talked at length about nothing. Emmarae periodically appeared at the table to announce a dish. Whenever her eyes caught his, she’d blush and look away.
Pashaal loved the drama of it, of the reunited lovers. “Tell me everything. I want to know.”
Ren said the minimum number of words to placate the female. He was not interested in a conversation. He tuned out the noise and focused on the meal his mate prepared. Every bite was perfect. The rest of the experience he could do without.
He had suffered through several banquets on Rolusdreus. The warlord enjoyed spectacles. He’d gather the clan together for some petty reason, a holiday, or an anniversary of a notable achievement. Course after course of decadent food arrived. Wine flowed. Confections and concoctions filled the tables. With each new delicacy, tension melted away. Perhaps this was not a trick. Perhaps the warlord merely wished to celebrate. The guests lowered their defenses.
Every time.
Invariably, the warlord revealed the true reason for the banquet. Some warriors required discipline or the clan needed a reminder not to defy the warlord. Kaos always found a reason for new acts of cruelty.
Whether Ren had an invitation to the banquets depended on the flavor of cruelty.
If the warlord wanted to make a point of his generosity, he made a show of allowing Ren, a defective male, to remain in the clan.
If he wanted to humiliate a warrior, Kaos demanded that the warrior earn their place and defend the weakest member of the clan. Or prove their worth by defeating the weakest member of the clan. Or prove that they were more loyal than the weakest member of the clan. The result was the same: Ren’s humiliation.
“You seem lost in thought, warrior,” Pashaal said. “No doubt anticipating the reunion with your mate.” The older woman gave a knowing smile that soured Ren’s stomach.
“Apologies. I was remembering the last time I was invited to such a grand banquet.”
“Oh? Do tell me all the details.” She held up a wine glass, indicating for a refill.
