Lorran Read online

  Lorran: Warlord Brides

  Warriors of Sangrin #10

  Starr Huntress

  Nancey Cummings

  Copyright © 2021 by Nancey Cummings

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  About Lorran

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by Nancey Cummings

  Available in Audio

  About Lorran

  Checklist for a top-secret mission:

  ● Pack your favorite knife

  ● Befriend your fellow badass

  ● Ensure you have plenty of explosives

  ● What’s this about a stowaway?

  Lorran has wanted nothing more than to find his mate for years. Now fate unexpectedly delivers a luscious human female amid a dangerous mission.

  His warlord says he lacks focus and discipline. He’s never been more focused in his life, but it’s hard to stay on task with an invasion fleet headed his way. Even more troubling, his mate refuses to believe that he wants everything with her.

  He’ll win the female’s heart, save the day and the whole damn galaxy.

  Wyn knows all about good-looking, charming guys. Lorran is no different. Well, other than being a massive purple alien. He promises forever, but the last man who promised her that got bored and left.

  She won’t risk it. The alien may possess her body, but he won’t claim her heart.

  Lorran is a standalone book with a guaranteed HEA and no cheating (gross).

  The Story So Far

  When aliens arrived on Earth, it happened with an invasion—just like the sci-fi movies taught us to expect.

  The vicious Suhlik meant to enslave Earth and rob her of her resources. Only the Mahdfel warriors stood against them.

  Once the slaves of the Suhlik, the Mahdfel won their freedom. But as a lingering reminder of their oppression at the hands of the Suhlik, they cannot have female children.

  Now, in exchange for protecting Earth, the hunky alien warriors demand only one price: every childless, single and otherwise healthy woman on Earth is tested for genetic compatibility for marriage with a Mahdfel warrior. If the match is 98.5 percent or higher, the bride is instantly teleported away to her new mate.

  No exceptions.

  * * *

  Lorran has watched his brothers find happiness with their human mates. As the years go by, he wonders if he will ever find his mate. And when he does, will he be enough?

  Chapter 1

  Wyn

  She’d do it today. She’d volunteer.

  Better to just get it over with and know than sit and worry for weeks. Volunteers had control. If they were matched to an alien mate, they had time to prepare, pack, and say goodbye.

  Plus, there was the money to consider. Wyn had to admit the money would be nice. It would cover her portion of the rent for the next year—hell, the next three years. Her roommate and bestie, Sonia, could bitch and moan about the oppression of the patriarchy and the systematic injustice that offered up half the Earth’s population as human chattel to pay for the protection of alien warlords, but she’d take Wyn’s money. Sonia had principles, but she was also realistic.

  Principles were nice, but they didn’t pay the bills.

  But would Sonia speak to her if she knew Wyn was considering volunteering to be matched to a Mahdfel warrior?

  Her friend’s opinion did not matter. If Wyn did it now, she took control of her fate and would have agency. Sonia could choke on those words if she didn’t like it. Sonia might be her bestie, but Wyn needed to do what was right for her.

  She could do it.

  She would do it.

  “Is that all for you today?”

  The cashier’s voice yanked Wyn from her pep talk and back to the reality of tightly clutching a bouquet to the point of damaging the flowers. She set the bouquet of pink daisies, creamy peonies, and pink tea bud roses on the counter. “That’s all.”

  “Is this for someone or just because? Do you need a card?”

  “Just because. Mondays are hard enough. It’s nice to have fresh flowers,” Wyn said. Her job at an insurance company call center was gray and miserable; flowers helped.

  For the last eight months, when she realized that she’d have to take the test to be matched to an alien, Wyn had been purchasing flowers every Sunday at the florist next door to the volunteer center. She liked flowers well enough, but she had been trying to work up the courage to volunteer for the test and be the master of her own destiny. The flowers were innocent bystanders in her scheme.

  So far, the only thing to come of it was fresh flowers for her desk at work. Not that the call center was her work—it was her day job. Wyn was an artist—mostly painting but also mixed media, thanks for asking—but freelancing as an artist didn’t come with health insurance.

  “The owner wants to know if you can make another dozen of those cute little Mahdfel figurines. Maybe with candy canes for the holiday?”

  Wyn nodded. She got a better price for the polymer clay figurines online, but the florist paid cash and she had the electric bill due soon. “I can bring them by next Sunday. Any particular color?”

  “The purple ones with the horns are always popular,” the cashier said.

  Good. She had a decent stash of purple clay ready to go. She’d toss in a few red and blue guys for variety. The green guys, unfortunately, blended too well with the bouquets. They weren’t as popular.

  Having paid, Wyn hesitated outside on the sidewalk. She could hop into her car and try again next week, but she was running out of “next weeks.” She’d turn thirty in three weeks, and then she’d have to take the test whether she liked it or not.

  She did a lot of research on the likelihood of being matched to an alien warrior, which was a normal reaction to a person in her situation. It wasn’t weird or obsessive, no matter what Sonia said.

  Do it. Don’t be a wuss.

  Statistically, women over thirty were not matched. She’d take the test, get rejected, and then she’d know. Worry over. No more searching the network for articles about statistics and half-assed claims about tricking the test.

  10 Simple Tricks to Fool the Test: What the Mahdfel Don’t Want You to Know!

  None of the clickbait titles ever had any real substance, and Wyn didn’t want to trick the test. She just wanted to know.

  The worst that could happen is that she’d be matched, which would have happened eventually. If she did it now, she’d have the time to get ready for her new life with an alien. Plus, the bonus money for volunteering. And she’d have a smoking hot alien warrior mate, so double plus.

  She didn’t believe the online conspiracies about mandatory testing for the Mahdfel bride program, and she did not agree with Sonia about being under the boot of the patriarchy. Several articles on the network claimed that love matches, and volunteer matches were more common than a genetic match, and
therefore mandatory genetic testing should be phased out. The invasion had been nearly two decades ago, Earth had fulfilled its side of the treaty with the Mahdfel, and so on. The arguments ran from reasonable to banana pants-ridiculous.

  The Mahdfel were a fact of life. Wyn had been a little kid during the invasion, but she hadn’t forgotten the sharp delineation between Before Aliens and After Aliens. Her family made it through, despite having to relocate to a refugee camp. They survived the raid and gas attack. Everyone survived. So what if Wyn had to drag around an oxygen tank until she was eighteen and then used oxygen at night for a few more years? She would have died if a Mahdfel warrior hadn’t slapped a mask over her face and tossed her in the back of a vehicle.

  She might have developed an awkward preteen crush on the heroic aliens. Who could blame her? They were brave, built like they got a double helping of the jacked gene, and handsome. All of them. If a person could look past the alien features of horns and fangs and tails and sometimes scales. Nothing on that list sounded bad to a young Wyn.

  Still didn’t. All that sounded amazing.

  The Mahdfel continued to star in her fantasies. She knew she wasn’t the only person drawn to the aliens. Handsome, heroic, dedicated to their mates.

  Stop. Her ovaries could only explode so much.

  Alien romance books were a guilty pleasure, and she might have purchased a special edition battery-operated toy, but what was in her nightstand drawer was her business.

  Okay, being matched had a lot of benefits. Sexy alien benefits.

  Sure, being away from her parents would suck, and Sonia would be upset. She had lectured Wyn enough about the yoke of the oppressor, blah blah blah. She would appreciate Wyn seizing control over her own damn body. Right?

  Eh, she’d give it 50-50 odds.

  And it was going to happen, anyway.

  Just do it.

  Do it.

  Wyn opened the door.

  The woman behind the reception desk smiled. “You finally made it! Good for you. You’ve been dilly-dallying for ages now.”

  “What?” Mortified, Wyn wanted to rush back out.

  “The flower lady. Every Sunday.” The woman glanced pointedly at the half-crushed bouquet. “Don’t worry. It takes plenty of people a few attempts before they actually volunteer. That is why you’re here? Unless you already have a mate?”

  “No. No mate. It’s my birthday soon,” Wyn blurted. Her cheeks burned. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Lots of people volunteer, and it’s normal to come in and ask questions, then think about it. There’s a lot to consider.” The woman produced glossy pamphlets.

  “No, I mean I’ve never been tested. Ever.”

  “Not once?”

  “Never.” Wyn had been a kid during the invasion. While her family, Mom, Dad, big brother Reese, and herself, made it through mostly unscathed, they had been caught in a gas attack. Wyn knew they only survived because a Mahdfel warrior slapped a gas mask on them and took them to a medic. Even then, she had scarring on her lungs, which required supplemental oxygen for years after. She knew about the devil’s bargain Earth made with the Mahdfel, but it didn’t apply to her. She had an exemption.

  Until she didn’t.

  When she turned eighteen, the authorities decided that people with her condition or other injuries sustained during the invasion could be managed with medication and were no more serious than any other chronic medical condition. But that was the year she developed pneumonia and got a medical exemption from mandatory genetic testing. She still had a serious pulmonary condition, even if the authorities were convinced that it didn’t affect her uterus.

  After that, her parents paid the neighbor’s grandson for a fake engagement. She figured it was down to losing Reese in a car accident—talk about irony, surviving an alien invasion only to die because of a drunk driver—and they were desperate to keep their only baby close. Wyn didn’t argue. That arrangement lasted throughout college until she fell in love with Oscar and got engaged for real. They were together for five years until Oscar left to follow his muse—his muse. What kind of artsy-fartsy bullshit was that? The next year, her appendix had decided it had seen enough of the world and burst, which was another medical exemption. So here she was, on the cusp of thirty and never having been tested.

  “It just worked out that way.” She shrugged.

  The receptionist patiently explained the process, but Wyn just wanted it done. “Please, can we just get it over with? I’ll sign all the things. I don’t care.”

  “Sure, okay.” In a few moments, Wyn signed what felt like a dozen documents, had her ID chip scanned, and a tech brought her to the back to swish a swab around her mouth.

  Now all she had to do was wait.

  The call came later that night. Wyn saw the ID info on the screen and went into her bedroom to answer.

  “Miss Davies?”

  “Yes?” She shut the door and switched on the box fan to cover the conversation. The walls in the apartment were thin. Lots of natural light but crappy cardboard walls.

  “Good news! Your sample was successfully matched to a Mahdfel warrior.”

  “Oh, but that’s statistically improbable.” She knew the stats were too good to be true. All those articles talked about the declining number of genetic matches and how women over thirty were so unlikely to be matched that they should be removed from testing and they were wrong.

  The internet lied.

  The floor sort of fell out from underneath her. Not literally. Well, maybe a little. Wyn sat on the edge of her bed but slid down to the floor. With her voice sounding impossibly small, she asked, “What’s his name?”

  “Lorran Rhew.”

  “Lauren?”

  “Lore-ran,” the person on the other said, stressing each syllable.

  “Oh. That’s a nice name,” she said without thinking. Digging through her bag, she fished out the pamphlets from the volunteer center and a pen. She wrote down the information the caller rattled off and added doodles to the margins.

  The caller scheduled Wyn’s pickup—on her birthday—and said that shipping containers would be delivered to her address tomorrow. Whatever she packed in the containers would be shipped to her new home, but they advised against shipping furniture or other large items. “I’d recommend packing any food items you’re going to miss. Chocolate is a popular choice. Supplies can be inconsistent off-planet.”

  Off-planet. Wyn’s pen paused mid-doodle.

  A shopping list sprang into her head of chocolate, tea, coffee—the good kind in the yellow vacuum-sealed bricks, those shortbread cookies with the jam centers, and not just snacks. Art supplies. Surely the tubes of watercolor paints she liked to work with could be replicated, but she wanted to try other media. Aliens had to have amazing art supplies. She remembered reading an article about luminescent, lighter-than-air pottery. The clay had been sourced from some moon. The photos of the pieces looked amazing.

  It had to feel amazing to dig your fingers into the clay from another world and shape it into something never seen. Her fingers itched at the thought.

  “Thank you. I’ll get on that right away,” Wyn said, ending the call.

  A light knock on the door was all the warning Wyn had before Sonia barged in, holding up a sheet of paper covered in brown squares. “Which one looks like Mummy Brown to you?”

  “What?”

  “I know. Weird, right? You’d think it was a name picked by the marketing department, but Mummy Brown paint was made from actual mummies. Isn’t that ghastly? So,” she tapped the page, “which color best represents the dehumanization and commercializing of human flesh?”

  Wyn searched the paper for dehumanized commerce but found only brown swatches. “What is it supposed to look like?”

  “Not as red as burnt umber.”

  That helped her not at all.

  Sonia’s hair was a vivid red today. Colored wax tinted her curls a new color every few days.

  Both art st
udents in college, they met in drawing class their first semester and immediately hit it off. Wyn liked Sonia’s brash attitude. She held nothing back, good or bad, and provided balance to Wyn’s quiet nature.

  Sonia worked with her in the same insurance company call center. It wasn’t the most inspiring place for two artists, but it paid the bills and gave Wyn plenty of time to let her mind wander to daydream. After Oscar left, they shared an apartment for budget reasons but also because Wyn didn’t want to rattle around an empty apartment on her own. It was a good match. Despite Sonia’s biting sarcasm, innate grumpiness, and absolutism that clashed with Wyn’s organic chaos, she had never let her down.

  Sonia tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “You’re thinking.”

  “Admiring your hair. It really goes well with your sweatshirt.” Faded to the point of being no specific color, the sweatshirt hung off Sonia’s slim shoulders. The color worked with Sonia’s coppery complexion. Wyn had to pick her colors carefully or she looked washed out. She always felt a little envious of the way Sonia could just wear anything, even ratty old sweatshirts, and make it look like a fashion statement.

  Finding clothes that fit Wyn’s boobs and butt was a struggle. Button-up shirts were a no-go. Too many buttons had failed to hold the straining fabric together. Making a fashion statement was too much to ask when all Wyn wanted was a pair of damn pants that fit over her hips and didn’t gap at the waist.

  Sonia glanced at the phone on the bed.

  Wyn casually placed her hand over the phone and the pamphlet.