Page 36 of Ren: Warlord Brides
Her enemies.
Oh, damn. Apparently, she was bloodthirsty in addition to just being plain old thirsty.
Chapter 8
Emry
“Looks like a bachelor pad,” Emry said.
Ren had carried her the entire journey through the station to his ship, oblivious to the stares and whispers as they passed. She smiled and waved to their audience because this was totally normal and fine.
Nothing to see here.
And if some of those stares had been more envious than concerned, well, the same applied.
He set her down in front of what could be politely described as a vintage ship with lots of charm and fixer-upper potential. Maybe the unrestrained—and questionable—taste level of Pashaal’s ship skewed her expectations, but Ren’s ship did not seem spaceworthy. Or safe.
Rusted to the point of being unable to find an original paint color, the ship was a heap of mismatched parts welded together.
“She is a beauty,” he said, beaming with pride.
“She’s something. Not to be rude, but it looks ready for the junkyard.” Okay, rude, but Emry didn’t know how to soften her words beyond muttering a lame “Sorry.”
“That is fortunate; I did rescue her from a junkyard.” Ren strode up the ramp with an alarming display of confidence, like he trusted the ramp to support his weight and not crumble to dust.
“That’s not the ringing endorsement you think it is,” she said, following with cautious steps. The ramps seemed stable enough, but the treads were worn to the point of being nonexistent. If the ramp ever got wet, it’d be a slide.
Emry eyed the worn seals around the cargo bay door and the exposed wires in the ceiling. Panels had been removed for easy access or had been sold off for scrap. Probably scrap, she decided.
The lighting didn’t quite reach the ceiling. Shadows hid a network of ventilation ducts and support beams.
Something shifted in the darkness.
“Look out!” Emry shouted as a sandy-colored monster pounced from above. She held Ren’s jacket out—why was she still carrying it?—like it could fend off a vicious animal.
Ren caught the beast with a laugh, cradling its body to his. Sandy-hued with black tufts on the tip of triangular ears, the beast looked like a cat, but it couldn’t be. It was huge, easily three times the size of an ordinary house cat.
In its maw, something small and furry wriggled.
“For me?” Ren cooed.
The creature looked over Ren’s shoulder and noticed Emry. The furry murder victim in its jaws squirmed, trying to break free.
The sandy demon hissed, dropping the furry bundle. It fell to the ground with a squeak and then scurried away.
The cat-shaped-but-definitely-not-a-cat monster growled and jumped down to chase.
Ren laughed.
“What the hell was that?” Emry demanded.
“My feline.”
“That was not a cat.” No way. She wasn’t an expert on cats, but whatever that beast had been, it was too big, too pouncy, and too homicidal.
“I assure you, the rescue shelter assured me that Murder Mittens is a feline. A caracal hybrid.”
Emry didn’t know what a caracal hybrid was, but it sounded like bad news. “You named your cat Murder Mittens?”
