Page 15 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“This leads to the interior,” Jazreal says, the faint blue light of his claws casting flickering shadows against the grimy walls.
“Good. I tire of this,” Dracoth growls, his hulking form grinding against the narrow metal tunnel as he squirms forward with increased wriggling urgency.
The grate drops with a resounding clang, revealing a dimly lit corridor below. Jazreal dives through the opening like he’s performing gymnastics at the Olympics, landing in a crouch as though the fall were nothing.
I, however, know better, hesitating at the edge, not liking the idea of dropping twelve feet to the dingy metal corridor below.
Before I can protest, Dracoth’s massive hand clamps around my forearm like a steel trap. With no warning, he hauls me toward the edge.
“Wait, wait!” I exclaim, my voice laced with indignation as my legs dangle uselessly over the edge. Dracoth, the giant bore, doesn’t listen. He holds me steady in his iron grip as if I weigh nothing more than a feather, entirely ignoring my protests.
“Really, Dracoth?” I add, disbelief and outrage warring in my tone. His only response is the slow, deliberate lowering of my body into the room below.
As my boots touch the floor, a familiar scent hits me, curling through the air like a dark memory. It’s the acrid tang of fresh blood, unmistakable and intoxicating. My chest tightens, and I can almost feel the rush of that moment aboard our ship—the carnage when Dracoth tore those rapey aliens apart.
Aliens of various kinds litter the grisly corridor. The sight snatches the breath from my lungs. Their lifelesseyes staring blankly into nothingness, frozen mid-scream. But disappointment threatens to prick my elation: these bodies aren’t shredded like the last time my red dragon got his claws on them. No, these creeps were shot. Bullet holes pepper their bodies, leaving tidy, bloody wounds that pale compared to the glorious chaos I crave.
My fingers trace the runic brand on my chest and neck, the gift from Arawnoth. It glows faintly under my touch, a steady warmth that begs to be stoked with violence.
I can hardly wait any longer!
“Is this your first hunt?” Jazreal’s smooth voice cuts through the silence. He shifts his mask upwards, his green eyes studying me as I take in the carnage. There’s a note of concern in his question, and his gaze follows mine as I linger on the dead aliens.
Does hunting for the perfect pair of boots count?
“Sometimes the sight of death can unnerve even the bravest Prospect,” he continues, his tone almost kind. “You should return—” He gestures back toward the opening above, offering to help me up like I’m some fragile damsel.
How cute.
“Oh no, Jazzy,” I murmur, snapping out of my thoughts with a sly smile. “I enjoy the sight of death.” My eyes narrow. “Actually, I love it.”
I look up at him, my eyes blaze in a swirling storm of silver, red, and green as I revel in my newfound freedom—how powerful I’ve become.
His reaction is delicious. A flicker of shock widens his green eyes before he quickly schools his expression into that cocky grin he wears like armor. But before he can speak, Dracoth lands behind me like a crashing meteorite of death. The floor trembles under his weight, and without a word, he sweeps me up like atrendy, adorable doll in his massive arm, cradling me against his chest.
I don’t protest his rude grabbiness. Instead, I nestle into his warmth with a soft purr, because this is where I belong: in his arms, poised to unleash Arawnoth’s wrath on the poor losers who dare stand in our way.
Dracoth takes the lead, stomping down the dimly lit corridor, his every step a declaration of doom. Pipes hiss like cornered snakes, and grime coats the walls, broken only by garish emblems spray-painted at intervals. All depicting an ugly female alien suckling a babe at her breast.
The pulsing red light of the alarm flashes in sync with the siren’s relentless wail, giving the corridor some surreal nightclub vibe. And we’re the main event.
My gaze drifts to the bodies again, this time noticing the odd variety in their appearance. Most are dressed in the same dirty, brightly colored plastic-bag fashion—practical hobo-chic. A few, however, stand out. Their hair is shaved, even on the muzzled, furry ones, and their attire bears a different emblem: a roaring red beast encircled by flames.
“You tell that voiding useless lump of lard, Duriel, to surrender, or I’ll—” Captain Balsar’s familiar voice reverberates through the corridor, sharp and commanding. It’s strange, hearing him sound so aggressive and forceful; in Dracoth’s presence, he usually squeals like a little piggy.
“Great War Chieftain?” Balsar’s tone shifts abruptly, dropping into a reverent whisper that barely cuts through the racket.
As we round the corner, hundreds of alien eyes snap toward us, wide with shock and awe. My heart soars as I take in the scene, a thrill coursing through me. A smirk tugs at my lips, relishing their slack-jawed stares and the way their shaved heads and spikes bow.
The corridor becomes a living tide of submission as they part to let us pass, heads lowered, shoulders hunched.
It’s intoxicating!
“War Chieftain!” The aliens roar in a chaotic chant, their voices reverberating in disordered waves. Their multitude of bizarre weapons clatter in unison as they thrust them skyward in salute.
They look up at my towering Dracoth as we pass with fevered eyes like Arawnoth himself has come among them. Through our bond, I feel my man’s pride blazing—a firestorm of fierce satisfaction. Yet even as he lowers his mask, his glance sweeps among them without a single hint of expression, every step deliberate and commanding.
If only they knew how right they are to bow before us.
