Page 223 of Scorching the Alien Empire
His unsettling eyes—violet flame behind obsidian irises—fix on Dracoth. “I had given up hope of ever finding our females. Tell me... how many?”
Dracoth hesitates, then pulls his mother gently closer, protective even now. “Some dozens,” he growls.
Mama Dracoth continues humming, her tune slightly faster, like a warning building in the air. Her green eyes stay unfocused, distant.
“So few...” Krogoth whispers, shaking his head slowly. “Still... you are to be honored. This is no small feat.”
He honors us? I practically choke.
This from the guy wearing a galaxy-sized ego on his headdress? He exists in my Lexie-verse—not the other way around.
“Listen—” I begin, my voice low with sharpened edge—
“Ah!” Bitch Brick cuts across me, grimacing like someone just stabbed her with a migraine. “I can feel her pain.”
She clutches her temples, wincing as if to ward off the world’s worst hangover. “It’s overwhelming—her thoughts, her memories. They loop. A constant, echoing scream.”
She slides from Krogoth’s clutches like a slithering snake, moving to stand before Mama Dracoth, feigning a look of concern.
“May I try something?” she asks Dracoth, glancing back at him with a calculated look of innocence.
I tut, raising a hand to object. “Actually, I’d prefer—”
“Proceed.” Dracoth the rude prick cuts me off.
I seethe, nails biting into my palms. The absolute nerve—undermining me in front of everyone, when what we need is to be the power couple to end all power couples.
Bitch Brick glances over her shoulder at Krogoth, smiling with a knowing nod. Then their eyes swirl with a mix of glowing purple and hazel hues. Mist almost as divine as mine, spills from their eyes in eerie plumes.
I recognize it. Their bond is bridged. Like what Dracoth and I used to share—back before he turned off the frowny juice tap.
Bitch Brick turns her focus back to Mama Dracoth.
“Can you tell us your name?” Her voice comes quiet, but it makes me shiver, carrying a strange element that pierces my mind like a hundred reverberating hairpins stabbing.
Mama Dracoth shudders.
Her green eyes—once lost—snap into focus, locking onto Bitch Brick with raw, terrified intensity. Her hands tremble violently.
“I...I...” she whispers.
Her gaze drops. Her lips quake.
“I can’t remember. I don’t want to remember.” She begins to shake, voice cracking like dry pasta. “Please... please, Gods... make it stop. Make it stop!” Trembling claws rake through her scalp, leaving green gouges.
“Ae...ri...th.” A broken name squeezing through a heartbreaking scream of anguish.
“What have you done?!” Dracoth roars, a feral beast unleashed, his voice reverberating like tectonic fury. In a blur, he tears his mother away, shielding her from Bitch Brick as if she’s emitting a toxic miasma.
“I—I only asked her name...” she stammers, retreating into Krogoth’s steadying grasp, her hands flying to her mouth. “I didn’t mean to hurt—”
“Great job,” I cut in, feigning a sigh, though inside I’m giddy. This is like a birthday cake layered with revenge. “Sandra, you got a comb?” I ask, slipping free from Dracoth’s arm.
Sandra blinks, then nods, digging into her oversized potato sack ensemble and handing me a plastic comb.
“Come on, Mrs. Dracoth,” I coo, easing into my softer voice. “Let’s sit. There now.” We both guide her gently into my chair turned volcanic diorama.
“You’re safe now.” I murmur, brushing her hair, so fine it parts like golden rays. “No one will hurt you again.”
