Page 132 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Alexandra

Bonds Reforged

T he ass-conforming Nib chair wraps around me like an overly affectionate groupie as I sip another deliciously rich, chocolatey mocha. Damn those blueberry heads and their culinary witchcraft. Makes it so hard to hate them. The scrumptious little pricks.

Naturally, I’m back aboard the infamous Imperator’s Mittens —crown jewel of the Smurf Empire—lost... for now. A good sign they’re taking Dracoth’s recovery seriously. They better be. Or I’ll be making blueberry smoothies to go with my side of pancakes.

I mean, Dracoth looks stable... well, as stable as a walking murder mountain can look.

A smile creases my lips. He lies prone, suspended in some giant, blinking toilet-roll tube.

The only issue is the murder-orbs. Dozens of the little shits, zipping around him like a swarm of angry tennis balls.

They swoosh through the cool, sterile air, projecting green beams onto his wounds.

They seem to be closing... maybe? Knowing the Nibs, they’re probably spritzing him with salt and lemon juice. Ah! Maybe they’re prepping him for a roast? He would be delicious—my big red meatball of man-meat—I’d take a bite, then go back for seconds, thirds... fourths.

Ugh. I wish he’d wake up already.

I think I might burst with warm, fuzzy confetti feelings. It’s kind of barf, but I can’t help it. I just want to hear his loud, gravelly voice again, see that big frowny face scowling at the universe, feel his fire melt me from the inside out.

Maybe—just maybe—hear him say he loves me again...

It’s exciting! And terrifying. How long have I waited? A day? Two? I’ve lost track in a smorgasbord of gourmet meals, botched fashion experiments, impatient visitors, and naps long enough to make Todd jealous.

“Love...” I mutter, giggling at the absurdity.

“Loooove.” I growl, going full Dracoth.

“Lovely, loving love!” I sing, twirling through a ballet of madness, my voice echoing off low ceilings and bite-sized furniture.

“What do you love, Todd?” I ask, poking His Royal Chunkiness with a mix of affection and disgust. He recently descended from the ceiling like a demented flying bat strapped to a brick.

Then he devoured my pancakes before I even got halfway through with speed a garbage disposal might envy.

Now he’s a stuffed black-and-red, rubbery turkey.

Gobble gobble. Serves him right, the little food-addicted criminal.

His syrup-and-crumb-coated mandibles slow. Spindly legs twitch. Food coma: Activated. Diabetes: Imminent. Chunkiness: Reconfirmed.

“Jelly sticks, right?” I answer myself, glancing at my wrist console. The holographic display flickers blue, simmering under the Nibs’ moody orange-azure light they love so much .

CROAK.

Todd rolls onto his side. Limbs twitching. Pancake-drunk and adorable.

“Maybe it’s pancakes?” I suggest, staring mournfully at the lone, heroic survivor he left behind—a sad quarter-circle of golden fluff, surrounded by a syrup massacre. “You okay, mister?” I tickle his rubbery stomach as he wobbles like a pregnant turtle flipped on its back.

Croak.

“Aww, you love me the most?” I beam. “That’s so sweet, my little Chug Bug.” I almost scoop him up, but the memory of his last hug-fart gives me pause. Not something I can dump on Sandra this time... at least, not yet.

My genius plan—at least in theory—hasn’t exactly... popped. My past failures are piled high in the corner—a Lexie monument to forgiveness and reconciliation and/or a shrine to the god of fashion crimes.

Clothes, shoes, boots—sprawled in a rainbow mess. Some pieces look like twenty rainbows had an orgy without protection. Not to mention the tunics with three sleeves. Or the boots with toes that point downward . Who the hell has downward-pointing feet or three arms? And where do they live?

I’ve been trying to make gifts using the Nib fabricators.

But their controls are... different than the bone-through-the-nose ones.

Still, despite a few catastrophic misfires, I’ve managed to cobble together some half-decent creations—more divine accident than actual skill.

They’re already wrapped, queued up for phase one of the Great Lexie Charm Offensive: Humble Pie Edition.

And really—who can resist good pie?

A groan rips through the air like a jet engine powering up in a wind tunnel—my wind tunnel.

“ Babes !” I exclaim, heart pounding like a glitchy EDM drop. “You’re awake!”

He doesn’t smile; in fact, his expression is fully powered Mr. Frowny Face, complete with mild lemon-sucking pinched lips and blood-red eyes slowly sweeping the room like he’s scanning for survivors.

Uh oh. Gonna need a lot of pie.

His massive hand snaps to his chest, eyes narrowing as if expecting to see his sternum still caved in like mashed potatoes.

“It’s not safe here,” he growls, lurching upright.

“Wait!” I shout, wincing as he shoulder-checks the healing toilet tube and annihilates a cluster of murder-orbs like a tank through a birthday party. “Your—”

Thump.

“—head,” I sigh.

Dracoth, all towering mountain-of-man-meat squeezed into a matchbox, once again smashes into the Smurf-tastic low ceiling.

He rubs the ache from his crown, his expression impressively calm despite the huge meatball dent he’s made.

Honestly, between all the head-dents, this room’s starting to look like a battered golf ball.

Then I notice it —the red python swaying side to side, a hypnotic pendulum pulling my gaze into a slow spiral.

“The only thing not safe in this room,” I purr, gliding closer like a sexy-Lexie ghost looking to haunt someone’s pants, “is that weapon you’re packing. I think it’s time we holstered the big boy.”

Dracoth’s eyes flick down, then up again. No smirk. No spark. Not even a flicker of heat through the bond.

“My clothes?” he asks, deadpan—exorcising my entire horny-ghost seduction vibe with the cold force of a hundred icy showers.

Tragic. Humble pie always tastes better with a creamy filling.

“Your old ones looked like moldy Swiss cheese dipped in pesto,” I mutter, trying not to sound hurt as I toss him a fresh tunic and trousers.

Maybe he doesn’t like me anymore? I mean, not after everything I’ve done—the betrayal, the promises I broke. I wouldn’t blame him.

No. No more distractions. Just say it.

“Dracoth...” I start, heart slamming like rabid monkeys on a drum kit. “I... I...”

I fidget with my wedding rings—diamond and Elerium—twirling them so fast I’m pretty sure I’m about to achieve fusion.

“Well,” I blurt, abandoning the USS Cringe Express mid-voyage.

“Yeah! I mean, you fought really well.” I let out a hollow giggle, while my guts curl into the fetal position, dying a slow and painful death.

You absolute coward Lexie.

“I lost,” he growls, fangs glinting, his voice low and full of disgust that bleeds across our bond like a tide of raw sewage. “What of Consul Juliara? Has she threatened you?” He eyes the door suspiciously, yanking the fresh leathers over his hulking, carved frame.

My gaze falters, unable to console him. Not with the weight of his loss sitting in my lungs like a million Todd’s.

My Red Dragon—the invincible red murder mountain— lost .

It feels wrong. Like spicy ice cream, bottled chips, or decaf espresso.

Like winning the lottery only to find the prize is a slap in the face.

“Don’t worry about that yapping blueberry head,” I sniff, fingers plodding across my wrist display. “I think Bitch Bri—uh, Rocks—might’ve brain-slimed her.”

My holographic display bleep-bloops as I ping Jazzy about Dracoth’s miraculous non-death.

I roll my eyes hard enough to orbit a moon.

The bone-through-the-noses had been absolutely insistent—practically demanding me— the War Chieftainess, the Divine Daughter—to contact them immediately like I’m their personal hobo secretary.

Though being a secretary does mean I get to wear cute suits...

“Her powers won’t hold.” Dracoth’s fingers clench, crouching toward the exit like a vengeful miner with a gold quota and zero patience.

“Will you relax , already?” I huff, intercepting him like a living traffic cone with attitude. My hands clamp around his tree-trunk leg, clinging on like a blonde koala mid-earthquake.

“Mmm. Toasty,” I purr, letting his warmth seep through my robes like he’s a grumpy radiator. “The Smurfs aren’t going to do anything,” I let out a muffled giggle. “You see... I may have detained their entire fleet for a little bit. Just until they promised to help you.”

He stiffens, thigh muscles going from stone to angry steel. “You risk too much, Princesa ,” he grumbles. “The Nebians do not tolerate threats.” He tries to peel me off like an over-affectionate sticker, but I cling tighter, stylish and stubborn, a sassy limpet. Asslimp.

“Stop,” I snap, pressing into him like I’m a junkie needing some sweet, sweet, Dracoth powder.

“Just let me have this. One minute. That’s all.

” I breathe him in—brimstone, blood, leather, and something uniquely Dracoth.

“The Nibs won’t do squat. They need us to fight the murder-bots.

That’s the whole reason they engineered this big mess, remember? ”

He exhales. Granite now. Less murder-tank, more tired war god. A moment of pure bliss. His heat. His touch. Todd’s chunky croaks. Even Dracoth’s wind-tunnel breathing—a siren’s call to peace island.

Then—trouble. Todd’s singular black eye blinks open, promising mischief. His gaze locks onto Dracoth. His legs become a blur—a black-red bus propelled by an army of matchstick booties.

Ut oh.