Page 215 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Uh-oh.
“I...” I stammer, stepping back under the weight of his frown. It’s crushing. Like finding out my Chanel is off-brand.
Is he angry? Probably. This is bad, I’m already in his naughty books—currently penning a second edition. I should have asked. But would he have said yes? We need her. I need her.
“I...” I smile sheepishly—Little Bo-Peep of guilt. “Thought it would help.”
His stare lingers, like the nearby blood-red sun, burning a hole in me that could cut diamonds.
“Your mother’s so pretty. Isn’t she, Dracoth?” Sandra blurts, her voice light as a breeze and twice as life-saving.
Dracoth turns back to his mother, dragging half the ceiling with him. He nods after a beat.
“Yes.”
I exhale. Saved by the ginger in the oversized potato sack.
Mama Dracoth is beautiful. Worthy of Goddess Aenarael’s shifting forms. That’s why I had Sandra design these flowing pristine white robes with the pointed shoulders in Aenarael’s image. The Klendathians see the Revered Mothers like Gods.
I’d be an idiot not to use that.
“Come, Mother.” Dracoth takes her hand in his, steady and tender. She rises with him, still humming softly, her vacant green eyes locked on a world only she can see.
“Let me, War Chief.” Drexios steps forward, green mohawk mopping the ceiling with terrible style. “I’ll escort her.” He nods with uncharacteristic sincerity.
“You?” I snort. “Five minutes with you and she’ll be begging to return to the murder-bot haunted house of horrors.”
But Drexios doesn’t take the bait. He and Dracoth just stare at each other—locked in some unspoken bone-through-the-nose contest. As if Drexios is being stripped naked, turned inside out, weighed, measured, and stuck in a blender all at the same time.
“Protect her,” Dracoth rumbles finally, more a warning than a command. He gently places Mama Dracoth’s hand in Drexios’s.
“Have no fear,” Drexios coos to her, flashing a smile that could peel paint. “Anyone touches you—I’m gouging eyeballs.” He taps the hilt of his energy blade in a gesture that sends shivers rippling through me.
“Lovely,” I mutter, floating over to Dracoth like a fragile angel of innocence. He peers down, unreadable again. Watching. Waiting.
The moment of truth.
“Beep... beep?” I squeak, each word tiny and hopeful, like a baby mouse begging for a slice of delicious red cheese. But this cheese just scowls down at me.
“Please.” I flash my most innocent smile, arms raised like a toddler asking for nap-nap cuddles.
Then the world flips. A blur of motion and brute strength.
I squeal—giddy, sizzling joy spilling through me—as Dracoth scoops me up into the crook of his arm. Back where I belong. My safe place of power—meaty arms. I melt into him, soft against hard armor, a blondie marshmallow dissolving in lava-hot cocoa.
“Mmm,” I purr, stroking the brutal edge of his jaw. “Thanks, my Red Dragon.” A husky laugh escapes. “We should get going. I can hardly wait.” A wicked smirk hooks my lips.
He says nothing. Just turns toward the fake door, stomping like an apocalypse in boots. But he can’t hide from me. Not through the bond. I feel the warmth simmering under his grumpy silence—like embers refusing to die.
“Wait!” Sandra cries behind us. “Can’t we wait for me to change?” She flails, sleeves of her oversized robe fluttering like a woolly bat on fire.
“Ah,” I wave her off with mild impatience. “You look...” I give her a once-over. “...unique. Yes. Uniquely fabulous.” I barely suppress a laugh.
“Huh.” Drexios flips up his eyepatch, squinting at Sandra. “What are you, voiding blind?” His face cranes toward me like something horror-movie adjacent. “She looks like a sack of tools.”
“Wonderful,” Sandra mutters, sulking toward the door. “Going to an intergalactic summit dressed like a homeless builder’s toolbelt.”
Dracoth squeezes through the distorted doorway like the last drop of red toothpaste. I wince as metal grinds on metal, and the strange sight of the holographic door distorting like rippling water in our wake.
