Page 25 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Alexandra
Bonds
“Yeah,probablyplottingtokidnap more beautiful women,” I scoff, my eyes lingering on the closing door.
Convincing him to teach me the sacred words is going to require every ounce of my charm.
It’s fine, though—I always get my way in the end.
A smile curls my lips as I turn absently toward Dracoth and Jazreal, both panting heavily in a sandy murder ring.
“Smells like old socks in here,” I mutter, wrinkling my nose in disgust and glancing at Sandra.
She falls in step beside me, giggling. Her gaze sweeps over black metal walls and the scattered meathead equipment: immense boulders, sandy pits, wooden racks lined withweapons, climbing ropes, and jagged climbing walls. The sheer amount of it nearly trips me as I try to navigate the space.
“I kind of like the smell,” Sandra muses, inhaling loudly like some kind of barn animal. “Smells like hard work.”
I roll my eyes.What is she like?
“This place needs fumigation,” I grimace, noticing the shine of sweat glistening across Dracoth’s massive back—an unusual and unwelcome surprise. “The whole ship does, in fact.”
“Aw, Dracoth!” Sandra gasps, lifting a hand to her mouth in alarm. She rushes toward him like she’s about to miss a flight to Paris. “Ack, look at the state of you!”
Her eyes widen as she takes him in, scanning his battered form from top to bottom. “Are you okay?” she asks, clutching his enormous hand like a concerned nursemaid.
Irritation flares in my chest—how dare she touch my man? And worse, notice his injuries before I did.
“Of course he’s fine,” I cut in, forcing myself between them. Wrapping my arm possessively around his waist, immediately regretting it as his stinky sweat seeps into my clothes.
My towering hubby’s face is brutally swollen, rivulets of dried blood trailing from his nose. His upper body is awash with welts and darkened patches of angry red bruises. He looks like a red apple that’s been used as a tennis ball.
“Right?” I add, the word coming out more uncertain than I intended.
“Yes,” he growls, his body trembling as if he’s bracing against some immense pressure. The veins in his neck bulge as though he’s trying to pass the cosmos’s largest, most stubborn bowel movement.
Then, to my horror, he hacks a huge glob of green, bloody phlegm onto the dirty sand at our feet.
“That isfuckingdisgusting!” I leap back, my face contorting in revulsion. “And why are you moving like that?” I wave a finger athim, hoping it might dispel whateverthatis. “Like you’re stuck at quarter speed?”
“Graviton belt,” he grunts, his voice low and gravelly, edged with exhaustion. “It brings the weight of the universe.”
His fingers trace the strange metal belt strapped around his waist, its faint hum vibrating the air like it’s seconds away from detonating.
I frown, glaring at it. I hate it—hate how it makes Dracoth look weak. The concept is offensive, like discovering my designer clothes are actually knockoff hobo-chic.
“Why not just take the stupid thing off—”
“He can barely move, and you’ve been beating him bloody!” Sandra, the rude prick, interrupts, turning to glare at Jazreal. Her usually pleasant face contorts like a sneering fox.
Jazreal arches an eyebrow, completely unbothered by her outburst. “I teach him,” he says evenly, the working side of his face curling into a smile that’s more predator than pacifier. “Do not concern yourself with the ways of warriors, pretty Sandra.”
Sandra isn’t swayed—in fact, quite the opposite. “Teach him?” she snaps, waving a hand toward Dracoth’s towering but battered form. “How is sending him to the hospital supposed to teach him, you arrogant dickhead?”
Oh my.
Jazreal blinks, momentarily stunned, like someone slapped him with a wet fish. His easy smile—now not so easy—twists with disdain.
“Frightened little puffrios like you will never understand our ways,” he sneers down at her. “You dishonor the War Chieftain with your pathetic concern.”
