Ren: Warlord Brides: Warriors of Sangrin #11 Read online

  “I’ve been thinking about your… your story. So sad.” Her words slurred. “But I can’t give you Emmarae’s contract.”

  “I offered to purchase the balance,” Ren said.

  “You must understand. We’re civilized on Sangrin. We do not play games with lives for the sport of it,” Pashaal said. The female laughed, empty and shallow, in a ploy to lighten the mood.

  All eyes at the table turned to Ren, waiting for his reaction, waiting for the uncivilized Mahdfel to go on a rampage. His tail twitched in irritation.

  Let them think what they like. He only cared for Emmarae’s opinion.

  “But you do play games?” he asked.

  “Well, one must be entertained. Oh, don’t scowl.”

  “I am not scowling. This is my face.”

  Pashaal took a cream-covered berry from her plate and popped it into her mouth. She closed her eyes with the pleasure of it. “I have a brilliant idea. It is sure to make you smile, warrior.”

  He doubted that. The longer this farce continued, the likelihood that Ren would abscond with Emmarae tossed over his shoulder increased.

  The warlord would be displeased. Ren’s position in the clan would be threatened. Perhaps he would be expelled. This did not concern him. He had been without a clan for nearly two years, and he fared well enough. The Judgment’s clan offered protection for his mate and certain comforts, but they were unnecessary.

  “We’ll play for Emmarae’s contract!” Pashaal clapped her hands like it was a grand idea and not an insult to treat his mate like a toy for her amusement.

  Emmarae entered the room, carrying a new round of beverages.

  “Very well,” he said.

  “Cards? I assume you know how to play Stones and Gems?”

  It was a common enough game, usually reserved for juveniles. “I am familiar,” he said.

  “My, so serious. I am familiar,” the overly decorated male said, his voice mocking. “Pashaal, deal me in.”

  “No. This is between myself and the female,” Ren said.

  The sound of clattering drinkware snagged his attention. The pitcher Emmarae held had knocked over Dovak’s glass.

  “You clumsy female!” Dovak pushed back from the table, his robe soaked. His mate hastily mopped up the mess. He snatched the cloth from her. “Give me that,” he snarled.

  “Do not speak to my mate in that tone,” Ren said.

  Emmarae gave him a faint smile as she refilled beverages around the room.

  “We need a third. It’s impossible to play the game with two people,” Pashaal said, already clearing space on the table.

  “That’s right. You can’t play without me.” The male grinned, thinking himself particularly clever.

  “Tell me your name,” Ren said.

  “Why? Because I’m so intriguing?”

  “Yes, that is why. Certainly not because I need to send condolences to your family due to your impending injuries.”

  The smirk slowly faded from the male’s face as he processed Ren’s words.

  “Dovak,” he said.

  With practiced skill, Pashaal dealt the cards.

  The game was simple enough. Match suits of gems and stones. Gems were more valuable than stones, but stones were more plentiful. A person could play cautiously, collect stones, and ultimately win from the sheer number of stones. Or a person could play for gems, hoping numbers and probability would favor them.

  Ren had a blue gem and a green gem. A matching pair for either would be a nearly unbeatable hand. His mate stood behind his chair, her hands gripping the back. Awareness of her prescence pricked along the back of his neck. His tail flexed and curled.

  He watched Pashaal frown and discard several cards.

  Dovak appeared bored, moving cards around in his hand, before discarding several.

  Cards were tossed. New ones dealt. Ren took a risk and was rewarded with a blue and green gem card. Eventually, Pashaal folded, signaling an end to the game.

  Ren displayed his cards, confident in the strength of his gem pairs.

  “A full gem hoard.” Dovak spread his cards on the table. “Which beats your inconsequential pair of gems.”

  Emmarae made a defeated noise.

  Impossible. He cheated, fair and with an equilateral four-sided polygon, to borrow the Terran idiom.

  “I win a lovely contract for a lovely Terran.” The male leered at Emmarae.

  Ren stood abruptly, knocking the chair to the floor. He grabbed the male by the front of his robe and pulled him across the table. “You will not prevent me from taking my mate.”

  “If you want her contract, you can win it in the ring.”

  Chapter 7

  Ren

  The preposterous male wanted to fight.

  “Do you desire death? There are easier ways,” he replied.

  “What are you doing? You’ll kill him,” Emmarae protested.

  Ren huffed, tempted to end the male just to keep him from touching his mate. His mate. He glanced at Emmarae, her face pale and her hands clenched like she was holding herself back from clawing at Ren.

  Why did she care about this male? What was he to her?

  Dovak raised his chin, decorative chains tinkling like music. “Scared?”

  Ren scoffed.

  Ah. This male was nothing. She had a compassionate heart.

  “Such childish tactics did not work when I was a youth,” Ren said, “and they will not work now. But you should consider if it is agreeable to your health to fight a Mahdfel warrior.”

  Dovak’s gaze swept over Ren. “If you’re a Mahdfel, I’ll cut off my horns.”

  “That would improve your appearance.” Ren removed his uncomfortable jacket and unbuttoned the shirt.

  Dovak stared at the tattoos. “What are you? I mean, yes, you’re ripped, but did you get body mods for this Mahdfel fantasy?”

  “I question your intelligence,” Ren said. He would hurt this male, enjoy it, and perhaps feel remorseful for injuring a fool.

  He looked about the common area. “How concerned are you, Pashaal, about your furnishing?”

  “Very,” the female answered. “Take this to a combat arena on the station.”

  “Very well.” Dovak snapped his fingers at Emmarae. “Come.”

  Ren growled. No one ordered his mate about.

  Emmarae blinked. “Oh, you mean me? You think you can snap your fingers and I’m, what, your trained dog? Gonna run to master?”

  “I think you will follow your contract holder,” he said.

  Ren flexed his fingers. “It is odd. I do not wish to injure you, but I will relish breaking your bones.”

  Dovak’s eyes widened, the only hint of alarm slipping through his mask of condescension. “We’ll settle this in the arena.”

  The scent of blood lingered in the air.

  Sangrin Station offered nearly everything a person could imagine. It offered every comfort and convenience, limitless entertainment. From high-end shops to the very lowest establishments, the station never failed to surprise Ren. Legitimate studios and training facilities abounded, but Dovak brought them to a particularly nefarious gaming club specializing in regulation-free prize fights.

  A fighting pit dominated the space, the sand-covered floor stained a rust color. Ren had no doubt that the blood and spit of past fighters decorated every surface in the club. A quick word with the fight organizer and they were on the schedule.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Emmarae said. They waited at the side of the fighting pit.

  “It is already done.” Ren removed his garments down to his briefs. The clothing offered no protection and only hindered his range of motion.

  He stretched, aware of his mate’s eyes following him. Unbidden, his tattoos flared to life on his arms, burning a silvery path. His tail, purely working on an instinctive level and out of his control, danced over his shoulder.

  “He’s all hot air.”

  “No. He is bone and blood, as fragile as any.” Re
n stared at the offending male from across the room. The male flexed and stretched, as if last-minute calisthenics could help.

  “I mean, if you give him an out to save face, you can negotiate a price.”

  “Are you concerned about my well-being? That is charming, but do not worry yourself.”

  She huffed. “You’re going to murder that guy. He’s a jerk, true, but he doesn’t need to be a dead jerk.”

  Ren caught the sleeve of her white coat and pulled her to stand before him. She fidgeted in place, smoothing down the front of her coat. A silver chain at her throat glinted in the low light.

  “What is this?” He lifted the chain with a finger.

  “Pashaal gave it to me. A reward, I guess. She does that.” Emmarae held up the locket for a moment, then tucked it back down under the coat.

  “The male has earned every pain I will inflict,” he said, returning to her concern. Emmarae glanced away. He disliked this timidness. Was it the thought of blood that made her reluctant? “I will refrain from dealing a killing blow,” he said in a soothing tone.

  A strangled laugh escaped from her. She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, that’s not funny. I’m not laughing.”

  “You find his pain amusing.”

  “I mean, I’m not his biggest fan, but I’m not loving the idea of you beating the crap out of him.”

  “Only a little. To make my point.” He held up his finger and thumb to demonstrate the minuscule amount.

  “And what point could that be? Because he keeps insisting you’re not a Mahdfel.”

  Ren’s tail twitched, but he had worse insults flung at him from his father. He had no need to prove who he was to this pompous male. “No one comes between me and my mate. That is the point,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

  “Oh.” Her face paled, and her cheeks flushed an intriguing pink. The moment stretched out between them. Her tongue darted out to her lower lip. The crowd fell away, his focus on her and her alone. He could not look away from her mouth, entranced.

  “Hey, buddy. You’re up.” A rough hand jostled Ren out of his revelry.

  The sand felt good beneath his feet. He did not want to consider contaminants. He had spent his youth climbing radioactive sand dunes. What was in the fighting pit but some bacteria and old biological material? Anything offensive could be washed away.

  The crowd pressed against the transparent walls of the pit. They were a sea of violet-hued faces, punctuated with the odd splash of beige or brown. His mate stood at the front, her pale hair shining in the gloom. Pashaal stood next to her, features hidden in shadow.

  Dovak stripped down to an undershirt and briefs. The male’s physique was ordinary, neither too soft nor too honed with training. He bounced from foot to foot.

  This would be brief.

  “This is where I’d tell you the rules, but this ain’t that kind of establishment. Hand-to-hand, whatever weapon you got stuffed down your shorts, I don’t care. If one of you dies, next of kin better collect your body, or I dump you out the airlock,” the referee said, then immediately rang the bell.

  The crowd roared.

  Ren promised his mate he would not kill this male. He would try.

  He spread his hands in invitation. He had needed no weapon other than himself.

  Dovak moved first, rushing toward Ren in a move easily avoided. The male had speed, but he had no patience. He transmitted all his moves, allowing Ren to block or avoid altogether.

  As Ren redirected a blow, he realized Dovak was underachieving.

  On purpose.

  He was letting Ren have the victory.

  This male had an unhealthy amount of hubris. It would get him killed.

  Ren went on the attack, moving forward in a flurry of blows. Dovak backed up across the pit, covering his head. The horns were an obvious target, but they seemed to do more damage to his fists than to Dovak. Instead, he grabbed the male by the horn and dragged him forward.

  He tossed the male to the ground.

  Dovak, sprawled on his back, laughed.

  “Concede,” Ren said.

  “To you? No, I think not.”

  “Then stop insulting me and fight properly.”

  The male grinned, his teeth bloodied. “Admit you’re not a Mahdfel. This Mahdfel fetish thing you’ve got going on is impressive, but you’re not fooling anyone. Runt.”

  “Repeat what you said.” Ren clenched a fist but kept his limbs loose.

  “Runt.” Dovak stepped forward, finger jabbing Ren in the chest. “Weakling. Defective.”

  His control slipped and old fury, anger he thought left behind long ago, roared back to being.

  He would show the male weak. He would show him what a defective warrior could do.

  Ren grabbed the male’s finger and twisted. He went down to his knees with a shout.

  “I do not wish to take advantage of the feeble-minded, but you want me to humiliate you,” he said. That was the only possible conclusion.

  Ren planted a hit on the male’s jaw. He toppled back. As he scrambled away, he rubbed his jaw. The damnable male smirked.

  “On your feet,” Ren barked.

  Dovak stood, but his posture had changed. His stance had fluidity. He was no longer the bumbling, overconfident bull charging in, but now a coiled viper ready to strike.

  Testing this new development, Ren delivered rapid-fire blows. Dovak blocked and countered with his own, bypassing Ren’s defensive guard.

  He landed a solid blow to the male’s side.

  Dovak hit back, hard. Hard enough to rattle Ren’s teeth.

  Ren drew the back of his hand across his mouth, tasting blood. He grinned.

  It seemed he was not the only one holding back.

  Finally. A proper fight.

  Emry

  The fight changed. Twisted, somehow. Emry wasn’t an expert on mixed martial arts or whatever—okay, fine, she knew nothing—but the fight went from Ren punching like he was bored to punching like he was aiming for a manslaughter charge.

  Dovak hit the sandy floor hard. As he hauled himself to his feet, a manic grin came over his face.

  An excited thrill ran through the crowd as they grew quiet and then exploded into noise. This is what they came for. Blood.

  Dovak hit as hard as Ren gave. Scarlet sprayed across Ren’s face from a busted nose. It was horrifying, scarlet clashing with his brick-red complexion. The scene felt surreal because alien blood shouldn’t be red. Emry’s mind couldn’t move beyond that. Ren’s blood should be blue or green, anything but a human red.

  This wasn’t right. Nothing about this was right.

  Ren was a Mahdfel, and Dovak was an overdressed, self-important twit. She didn’t even know why Dovak made such a big deal about winning that card game. Spite, maybe, or just a general desire to cause mischief. This fight was not between equals, despite the slugfest happening in the pit.

  Emry clutched Ren’s discarded jacket to her chest and looked away, her stomach churning.

  Pashaal gently touched her hand. “It will be over soon,” she said.

  “Not soon enough.”

  She had no stomach for violence. Sure, she never backed down from verbal confrontation, but words were just that—words. Back in the refugee camps, there had been bullies who took their cut of your daily rations or your new winter coat. Confidence and attitude helped, but having a bark worse than your bite and talking a big game only got you so far, especially when it was three against one.

  Gemma, though, never hesitated to bring a baseball bat along to even the odds. Anyway, that was how Gemma got back Emry’s stolen coat. Fun story.

  Dovak charged at Ren, who skillfully hit the man with his shoulder and flipped him over. Dovak hit the floor hard and lay there stunned, staring up at the lights.

  Ren edged away, giving Dovak the space to climb to his feet.

  His eyes caught hers, and he moved across the pit to her. Blood, sand, sweat decorated his body. It shouldn’t have been hot. It was
gross. Blood was gross. Grown-ass men slugging it out with their fists was gross. But this? Ren stalking toward her, ready to claim his literal prize?

  Hot.

  So hot.

  He stopped in front of her, his chest heaving and tail lashing dangerously behind. The glass partition separated them.

  “You are mine!” he shouted, his voice rising above the noise of the crowd. He leaped up, grabbing hold of the top and hauling himself over.

  Ren landed at her feet.

  “I’m yours,” she agreed, even though she couldn’t explain why. Something about him just short-circuited her brain. Had to be pheromones.

  Or all that muscle on display.

  He was attractive in an obviously not human and sort of monstrous way.

  Unable to resist, she pressed a hand to his chest.

  Solid. Like a brick wall.

  Her brick wall.

  “Send my mate’s belongings to my ship,” Ren told Pashaal.

  Without warning, he scooped her up to carry her in his arms, which should have also been gross. He was literally covered in the blood of his enemies.

  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.