Page 194 of Scorching the Alien Empire
He looms like a monolith beside me, his crimson eyes glowing from the shadows of his brows, searing with that look.
Thatknowinglook.
Despite myself, I swallow the lump that tries to rise in my throat. He’s just...so much. So massive. So dense with rage and muscle, he looks like someone carved a frown into a mountain and taught it to walk.
And when he looks at me like this? Half,I want to strangle you.The other half,I want to fuck the naughty out of you.It ignites an alluring fire in my core. So powerful and domineering the only one capable of being my equal.
Well... before his little glowstick problem started. Sad really. Now? He’s a knockoff. A sad imitation. Ten-dollar Prada. A Chevy dreaming it’s a Bugatti. Grape juice in a champagne bottle.
Yep. I’ve definitely been scammed. And there are no returns on this one-way trip to the top.
He turns from me, stepping closer to the mob of bone-through-the-noses. The slag crunches beneath his clown-sized armored boots as he strides onto the dais like a bipedal tank.
“The War Chieftainess. My Mortakin-Kis, blessed by the Gods.” His voice rolls like thunder, echoing across broken towers and melted steel. “She alone saved hundreds. Not just Clan Magaxus—but all Klendathians. She has earned honor. She has earned respect.”
He beckons me forward, the fire in his gaze beckoning from behind those massive pauldrons.
I feign a smile, faker than Basic Mothers’ lip filler, stepping closer. I totally know what he’s doing. He’s somehow turned the space-knights against me. Feeding me crumbs like I’m a little blonde canary. Offering a taste of the adoration he’s stolen from me.
How generous of him.
As I arrive beside Dracoth, his voice booms once again, stiffening my spine and almost waking poor Todd. “Like centuries past, the Voidbringer turned brother against brother. But through Arawnoth’s will, she shielded us. She protected us.”
My will, actually.
“Because of her bravery and strength, Chieftain Krogoth struck back at the loathsome Voidbringer.”
Wait. Now he’s praising Krogoth?
My sugar-free-sweet smile nearly twists into narrowed-eye rage. Dracoth can’t be that stupid?Right?My gaze sweeps the crowd—tens of thousands, shouting and stomping in the shattered plaza. Later. When we’re alone, I’llfixthis. He might know the oh-so-fine art of bashing heads, but clearly, he’s clueless when it comes to dealing with rivals.
“Because of her, the Scythians broke against our might, our power. The strength they feared and twisted for their own use—it became their death. A force beyond counting, shattered and scattered like ashes on cosmic winds. After centuries of subjugation—through fire and blood—we have won our freedom!”
Dracoth lifts my hand in his, nearly yanking me off my feet as he pumps my fist to the sky.
The crowd explodes. War horns shriek. Armor slams. Fists pound chests. A lovely cacophony of “War Chieftainess!” and “Divine Daughter!” roars to life like a techno-medieval rave.
The rubble beneath me hums with the storm, matching the pounding of my heart. I let the sound fill me as I take it all in, savoring it like hot mocha on a crisp morning. Laughter escapes my lips, unbidden as I survey the cheering crowd. This... this is a little sip of the nectar I’ve been craving.
But I want more. Much more. An entire planet, packed as far as the eye can see, screaming my name, and bowing at my feet. And now that the loser-bots are in the scrapheap, that moment is coming soon.
“Balsar,” Dracoth rumbles, gesturing toward the ugly, cow-faced space hobo. “You and the Shorthairs may stand before me.”
His suggestion rings like an unbreakable command.
I grunt, unimpressed, watching the pudgy piggy captain glance nervously at his fellow space pervs. Balsar looks ridiculous. They all do. Decked out in garish layers of cheap plastic and grimy scrap metal, like they mistook a junkyard for a fashion boutique.
And thehair. Or more specifically, the lack of it. A bunch of baldies—every single one of them. Hair shaved off, even the spiky-headed aliens had their horns filed down. They might as well be holding baby bottles at this point. The whole gang looks like naughty diapered toddlers caught stealing cookies, shuffling awkwardly amongst the towering, armor-clad space-knights.
The few hundred strong motley crew of strange aliens shuffle forward. Some flinch in terror as the abyss of lava surges with sudden fury, belching molten fire into the ash-choked sky.
Ah, wouldn’t it be lovely if Dracoth just tossed them in? I mean, they’d deserve it.
I haven’t forgotten—and sure as hell haven’t forgiven—when these creeps nearly dragged us off to be used like some bargain-bin blow-up dolls. Even now the memory sends an involuntary shudder down my spine.
“We live to serve, great War Chieftain,” Balsar snorts through the clunky breather strapped to his snout. He drops to one knee, head bowed indelicioussubmission. The rest follow suit, shuffling to their knees like obedient little puppies.
Some stare up at Dracoth like he’s their long-lost rockstar dad, jaws slack, eyes shimmering with what might be tears. It’s as if Dracoth is their celebrity crush, standing naked and handing them all a free spaceship or something.
