Page 114 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Alexandra

Surf’s Up

“ O h!” I gasp, nearly face-planting into the shiny purple backsides of the two Robo-Nibs.

I’d forgotten they were still posted outside Big Belly’s room.

I mean, I can’t be expected to remember every minor detail—not when I’m out here bossing it up with grace, charm, divine authority, and a dangerously high cut in my robe. The full package. The Lexiage .

The Robo-Nibs, of course, do not respond.

Because they are, as established, giant purple pricks.

Worse? They don’t even move. I’m forced to wedge between them like two terminators giving birth to the latest Barbie— Divine Daughter Edition.

Super rare collector’s item. Comes with a too-cute Todd accessory and future dominion over the bone-through-the-noses crown.

Ahh, I can almost see it now—the smug evaporating off Bitch Brick’s stupid face when I’m declared the victor. How delicious it’ll be.

Just Surfer Bro left. A shudder tickles my spine.

I remember him, half-draped in strange alien women like venereal disease had taken physical form and started accessorizing.

And coral. Ugh. Coral? In his hair? Who does that?

A horned-up Surfer Bro with commitment issues and no access to elastic, that’s who.

Maybe I should cover Todd’s big eye and wee earholes. His little heart’s too pure for this seaweed circus.

I glance at my Chug Bug, draped across my shoulder like a divine lead scarf. One eye closed. Croaking gently. Chunky. Oblivious.

He’ll be fine.

I tap my wrist console, casting a cool blue glow across the sandy marble corridor.

The map flickers up. I pause to check it, nose buried like a bloodhound on the scent of imminent, juicy, victory steak.

The Nibs scuttle around me in a huff, like cranky toddlers up past their beddy-bye time.

Most are decked in purple-gold plastic like they’re heading to a very aggressive round of laser tag.

Others wear ceremonial robes and head-framing discs that make them look like floating quarters.

Absolutely ridiculous, the lot of them.

I sigh with relief—Surfer Bro’s quarters are close. Still, I keep my face buried in the map, partially for navigation, mostly so my eyes aren’t corrupted with their terrible fashion choices.

Mmm. Wonder what color I’ll repaint the marble once I’m in charge? The statues and murals definitely need updating. Maybe heroic depictions of Todd battling demons with his righteous stink clouds. I mean, it kind of makes sense. With my face—obviously touched up—replacing the twin suns.

A blessing, really.

I practically skip down the corridor until I see them.

Two more Robo-Nibs. I grimace.

Guarding a door. Just like before.

Déjà vu? No.

Intimidation tactic? Probably.

Annoying? Absolutely.

I don’t even need my console’s blinky bonk to tell me I’ve found Surfer Bro’s lair.

Now... how does this work again? Speak “friend” and enter? Offer them a Snickers?

I shuffle forward sheepishly. Baa.

The Robo-Nibs swivel their helmets toward me, gears whirring. I freeze like I just got caught trying to smuggle a forbidden water bottle through airport security.

“Uh... morning... gentlemen. I’m here about a surfboard,” I murmur, flashing a shaky grin. “Just gonna... squeeze through...” I grunt, shimmying between them like I’m wedging through prison bars—not to escape. To enter. Because that’s who I am, apparently.

“That would be... the biggest help, ” I wheeze, lungs flattened like a balloon in a stampede. I pop out the other side like freshly squeezed orange juice. Her Royal Pulpiness.

The Robo-pricks, naturally, do not move. Do not speak. They’re content to nearly squash me into delicious grape wine—vintage twenty twenty-five.

I smooth my robes and glance over my shoulder to make sure Todd hasn’t pooped in protest on their shiny dumb helmets.

The door looms ahead. Surfer Bro’s quarters. The final test. The last challenge. The ultimate cringe. My heart thunders against my ribs as I step forward—

WHACK!

“Awwww!” I shriek, clutching my nose. The door—traitorous shimmering bastard—goes solid at the last possible second. I might’ve just headbutted a wall of actual space steel.

“What the...?” I kick it, hard. My foot bounces off like I just tried to karate chop a fridge. “Really? Really? Who does that?!”

“We’re busy!” snaps a muffled voice from the other side.

Surfer Bro. It’s him. I can practically smell the sunscreen and salt.

“There’s a killer wave coming,” I purr against the door, barely suppressing a giggle, “and I thought you’d like to know.”

“Killer wave?” he echoes, muffled. Footsteps. Hushed mumbling. The unmistakable vibe of guilty teenagers caught partying in their parents’ hot tub.

“You may enter,” he finally calls, cloaking his voice in smug superiority—like I didn’t just hear him panic-scrambling for pants.

The traitor door shimmers once more, hissing with a moody sigh, like even it regrets what’s about to happen.

I step through the churning hologram, trying not to barf as the world turns into liquid madness .

It’s another of those annoying minimalist Nib quarters—low ceilings, floor like polished eggshell, furniture clearly designed by a legally blind Smurf with a vendetta against lumbar support.

But this one’s been violated. Absolutely defiled .

A hoverbed, no longer hovering. Perfume and sweat locked in a doomed love affair. Soft coral-pink lighting. Steam bellows from the ensuite like a fog machine during a satanic yoga class.

And sprawled on the murdered bed, right in the center, arms behind his head?

Surfer Bro. Naked, except for a pathetic strip of leather clinging to what’s left of my will to live.

He smirks. Corals still tangled in his absurd blue topknot.

“War Chieftainess!” he blurts, gray eyes wide as he jolts upright and clutches the blanket to his junk like it’s a holy relic.

“I—I didn’t know—You’re alone?” He glances behind me in a panic. “Void take me... if your Mortakin-Kai hears about this, he’ll Krak-Tok me into atoms!”

I smile sweetly. Feeling a tingle inside at the sheer terror my murder husband instills.

“Relax,” I purr, striding forward like I’m owning the runway at the New York Fashion Show: Doom Edition. “The War Chieftain sent me.” The lie rolls smooth as warm butter. “He said you were like him. Young. Newly appointed. More... open to new and exciting possibilities.”

I trace a finger down my chest, drawing his gaze exactly where I want it. But under my touch, Arawnoth’s runes flare like smoldering coals, and Surfer Bro’s jaw drops like a carp spotting fish flakes.

Damn my divine boobies.

“Um... your... tits are on fire,” he stammers, eyes ping-ponging between my cleavage and my face like a faulty light switch.

“Oh, how embarrassing,” I gasp, covering my chest in faux horror. “This only happens when I’m near... suitable males. ” I shoot him a shy, demure glance, then look away. Hook, line, beluga whale.

Surfer Bro’s smirk returns, along with his ego. His shoulders loosen, tossing the blanket aside like he’s in a perfume ad for the terminally delusional. Flashing limbs that are matchsticks compared to my Dracoth’s.

“Is that a fact,” he purrs, just as the shower hisses open.

Steam pours into the room—and with it, the two alien women.

They glide out, slick and glistening, their scaled bodies dripping. Eyes like milk. Skin like seafood left out too long. They clock me instantly—and show zero shame, like flashing their pointy bits is just Monday.

Vote blockers.

“You didn’t say we’d have... company, Voryx,” the green-tainted pineapple head says, eyeing me with something between curiosity and carnivorous intent.

“Yeah, no fair,” adds the blue-tinted pineapple head with a pout. “Are we not enough for you anymore?” She sneers at me. “Not... fleshly enough, is that it?”

Rude. Bitch.

My nails dig into my palms, restraint slipping by the second. I am one fruity insult away from slapping the pineapple right off their stupid heads.

“This is the War Chieftainess, for void’s sake,” Surfer Bro snaps, gesturing at me like I’m a priceless vase he’s trying not to drop. “And call me Chieftain. It’s hard enough convincing the others when my own Mortakin-Kis forget.”

Wait. Mortakin-Kis? These two?

No way these coconut-headed concubines have divine powers. Unless the Gods are handing them out like participation trophies.

“Apologies, Chieftain, ” they purr in eerie stereo. Then they slither over and drape themselves across him—one on each side—wrapping him like sentient scarves made of bad decisions and venereal diseases.

“We’re Chieftainess too,” the blue-scaled one croons, massaging his shoulder while staring at me with unreadable alien eyes. “Did you come to watch? ” She barks out a husky laugh like a choking blender.

“No, we’ve just eaten,” I snap, stroking the softly snoring chunkiness that is Todd.

“We can see that!” the green-scaled woman retorts, flashing teeth. The pair burst into mean-spirited laughter, like it’s a comedy club and I’m tonight’s roast.

Absolute bitches.

“Charming company,” I hiss through a smile so fake it could freeze-dry a volcano. “Though I admit, I expected more... taste from Mortakin-Kis.”

“You sound like that old blowhard, Borrthak,” Surfer Bro snorts, squeezing his scaly arm candy tighter.

“He’s always ranting about sacred traditions—wanting me removed, like he speaks for Clan Aquaxus.

” He shrugs, jostling their petite breasts like stress balls.

“What’s the harm? It’s just a bit of fun.

Like you and the War Chieftain. A fertility ritual. For strength .”

He laughs.

I blink.

I’m fully on Team Big Belly with this one.

“This is Elera,” he says, nodding to the green one. “And this little venefex is Umi.” He pulls Blue-Pineapple’s head closer. They squeal like it’s sexy, but it sounds more like a hostage video filmed in a spa.

“Get it?” he beams. “ Elera + Umi = Elerium. Most precious thing in the universe to me.”