Page 103 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

“Please,” I scoff, turning away with dramatic flair. “You’re the creepy uncle who drinks too much and wants kids to sit on his lap.”

Dracoth’s gaze sweeps the room, slow and unreadable—like a Mr. Potato Head sculpted from volcanic rock.

Then a flicker. A twitch of his mouth. Did I imagine it? A trick of the strange blue-orange lighting? Wishful thinking?

But then he stomps forward, ducking under the low ceiling. His obsidian pauldrons scrape long purple trails through the paint like a war god tearing through a nursery.

“Mother,” he says, his voice softer now—less avalanche, more distant thunder. He stops before her, crimson eyes shimmering with the same blend of joy and sorrow I feel pulsing through our bond.

“Your doing?” he asks, craning his massive head toward me.

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.

Beyond lies a sleek corridor, wide and winding, its architecture curving with the ship’s hull. Unlike our cramped quarters, this space is cathedral-tall—for a reason.

Two reasons, actually.

Robo-Nibs.

They loom at either side of the corridor, as tall as Dracoth himself—sleek purple alloys, their movements too smooth, too precise. They look like a kid’s favorite robot toy hit with a growth ray and dipped in danger.

“Greetings. I am Consul Catokar. A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” a melodic voice chirps.

It takes me a second to find the source. Eyes drifting slowly between the two towering machines.

A tiny alien—child-sized, squat, and cloaked in layered black robes with a dramatic circular collar framing his fuzzy brown head like wilted petals—stands between the two metal giants. He lifts a leg like a dog marking territory. Charming.

Dracoth seems oblivious, tension pulses through our bond like coiled springs of destruction. His gaze never leaves the Robo-Nibs.

“The pleasure is ours, Consul.” I smile, leaning forward and extending a hand, palm down. “I’m War Chieftainess Alexandra. This is my husband, Dracoth.” I shrug my shoulder, trying—and failing—to stir Todd. “And this little chunk is the Divine Cherub.”

War Chieftainess sounds a little too stabby. We should rebrand. Something like... Friendship Chieftainess.

“Oh...” Catokar stares at Todd, then at my hand, red eyes blinking in delayed sequence before mirroring my gesture. We both end up looking like we’re comparing nail polish. Of course, it’s no contest. Mines are much nicer than his stubby digits. “I am to escort you to the Bellatorium.”

“Please. Lead on,” I purr, gesturing with flair.

And so, possibly the weirdest entourage in the galaxy begins its march. Through corridors that feel more ancient palace than ship—stone polished like sand-swept glass, engraved columns lining the walls with intricate battle scenes that would make any history buff faint.

Sandra catches up to Catokar at the front, towering over him like a cheerful sunbeam with legs. She lights up, peppering him with questions in rapid-fire succession.

That’s it, Sandra. Soften him up.

Behind us, the two Robo-Nibs fall into step, their heavy footfalls syncing eerily with Dracoth’s. Drexios looks the least at ease—one hand guiding Mama Dracoth with unexpected gentleness, the other twitching near his blade. His single eye never stops scanning, especially behind.

I grimace, seeing two Nibs passing us. They look like awkward teenage cosplayers dressed in regal purple segmented armor, trimmed in gold. Their broad features widen in shock as their orange eyes trail Dracoth’s towering frame.

“Boo!” Drexios yells, cackling as the pair of Nibs ahead scuttle off like startled crabs. “Ah, Shorties. Not much without their tech.” He grins at the Robo-Nibs. “Aren’t that right, lads?”

“Psst, babes. ” I lean into Dracoth’s long ear, whispering low. “Is it smart to bring Drex-iot? I mean, first he’s an idiot and second, he’s a stab-happy lunatic.”

“He is loyal,” Dracoth growls, not even glancing back at whatever psycho shit Drexios is doing. “Are you?” He glares at me. Me . The woman who’s stuck by his side through thick and thin! As if I’m the one trying to start a galactic war.

“What kind of question is that?” I scoff, offended. “Of course I’m loyal.” I sigh, tossing my hair for emphasis. “Just remember what you promised, and everything will go exactly as it’s meant to.”

Us, on the throne. Crowned. Glorious. Bone-through-the-nose royalty.

“Besides, I even got Todd dressed for the occasion.” I shift the napping plumper for Dracoth’s inspection, hoping to change the subject to something more fun. “What do you think of his new outfit?”

Dracoth spares poor, neglected Todd only the faintest glance. “A blade?” he grunts.

“Huh?” I blink, following his gaze. “No, it’s a bowtie, not a—wait, how did you think it’s...?” I look again. Just silver. Adorable. A super-cute bowtie.

“Hey, mating puffrios,” Drexios appears at my elbow seemingly from nowhere, sending my irritation skyrocketing into orbit. “Just got to thinking.”

Oh goodie.

“You’ve never met the other Chieftains, have you?” he smirks knowingly, no doubt assuming we’re as brainless as he is.

“Little,” Dracoth admits, side-eyeing a group of passing slack-jawed Nibs gawking at his frame.

“Well, I of course know the War Chieftain.” I snuggle closer against Dracoth’s chestplate, his heat keeping me nice and toasty through my robes. “Intimately.” I giggle, despite myself. “And Peacock Big-Chief and I...” I glance up at my unreadable meathead. “Have an understanding.”

“I’ve met these voiders dozens of times,” Drexios boasts. “Back when I was Second to your father. Rustled feathers. Tweaked a few nipples. Crossed a couple blades.” He tilts his head, red eye gleaming. “So take it from me—I know how they tick.”

“Oh?” I try not to sound too eager. Maybe this walking war crime can actually be useful.

“Hah!” he barks, jabbing a finger at me. “ Pinkie’s keener than a Glaseroid during mating season.”

Ugh. I hate him so much!

“Please,” I snap, rolling my eyes. “My mistake. I thought you might actually be worth the earache for once.”