Page 193 of Scorching the Alien Empire
A flicker of hope. Some space-knights step forward. My heart soars—I’m not invisible!—only for it to plummet a breath later.
Their bone-through-the-nose comrades stop them. Just a simple gesture—a hand to the chest, a shake of their scary, perv masks—and it’s over. Something unspoken passing between them.
A chill runs down my spine.
I know this feeling.
This cold.
This betrayal.
It’s Stacey all over again. When she turned the whole class against me after I ‘stole’ her boyfriend. As if he wasn’t the onesneaking around. Just like now. I’m the villain. The outsider. No matter what I do.
Why didn’t I bring the Revered Mothers? One glimpse of them, and these stubborn bone-through-the-noses would be drooling at my feet!
Stupid. Stupid, Lexie!
Typical. I should’ve known. Should’veexpectedit. I’m always the bad guy, no matter what I do, or how I act. And worst of all, IknowDracoth’s behind this. He’s orchestrated this whole thing like some big sneaky red radiator.
I see the glances. The hushed whispers. All aimed at him. Fury ignites in my chest, my nails digging into my palms, sharp enough to draw blood.I hate them.All of them. After everything I’ve done—saved them from the Voidbringer. Saved their precious hobo ships—they dare dothisto me?
I could crush them. Turn them into jelly. Strawberry-flavored justice.
Why shouldn’t I?
I am a Goddess, after all.
Chapter 37
Alexandra
Haircuts and Wristbands
Furysearsthroughmyveins—flat-iron-hot. Their silence, this awkward, insulting pause, reeks of abandonment. Of betrayal.
Old Earth Lexie knew those stinky smells well. She endured the stench daily, lived them like a bad sitcom rerun.
Expected them, even.
But she’s dead and buried. I am somethingmorenow. I am the Divine Daughter.
The memory of that glorious moment—the revelation of the Revered Mother—still sizzles on my skin. The worship that bloomed on those space-knight faces? Delicious. Addictive. Euphoric.
I crave it.
Ineedit.
It’s what I deserve.
What I’m owed.
They’re just being naughty. And like all naughty children... They need a reminder.
A wicked smile curls my lips as I raise my arms—ready to unleash divine retribution.
Steel clamps onto my shoulder, stopping me cold.
Something hotter. Heavier. A giant red oven mitt pretending to be a hand—Dracoth’s hand. His bratwurst-like fingers tighten—firm, stern—hot enough to brand, heavy enough for a traitorous little moan to squeak out, my skin tingling under his touch.
