Page 14 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Alexandra

Bonds

“ Y eah, probably plotting to kidnap more beautiful women,” I scoff, my eyes lingering on the closing door.

Convincing him to teach me the sacred words is going to require every ounce of my charm.

It’s fine, though—I always get my way in the end.

A smile curls my lips as I turn absently toward Dracoth and Jazreal, both panting heavily in a sandy murder ring.

“Smells like old socks in here,” I mutter, wrinkling my nose in disgust and glancing at Sandra.

She falls in step beside me, giggling. Her gaze sweeps over black metal walls and the scattered meathead equipment: immense boulders, sandy pits, wooden racks lined with weapons, climbing ropes, and jagged climbing walls. The sheer amount of it nearly trips me as I try to navigate the space.

“I kind of like the smell,” Sandra muses, inhaling loudly like some kind of barn animal. “Smells like hard work.”

I roll my eyes. What is she like?

“This place needs fumigation,” I grimace, noticing the shine of sweat glistening across Dracoth’s massive back—an unusual and unwelcome surprise. “The whole ship does, in fact.”

“Aw, Dracoth!” Sandra gasps, lifting a hand to her mouth in alarm. She rushes toward him like she’s about to miss a flight to Paris. “Ack, look at the state of you!”

Her eyes widen as she takes him in, scanning his battered form from top to bottom. “Are you okay?” she asks, clutching his enormous hand like a concerned nursemaid.

Irritation flares in my chest—how dare she touch my man? And worse, notice his injuries before I did.

“Of course he’s fine,” I cut in, forcing myself between them. Wrapping my arm possessively around his waist, immediately regretting it as his stinky sweat seeps into my clothes.

My towering hubby’s face is brutally swollen, rivulets of dried blood trailing from his nose. His upper body is awash with welts and darkened patches of angry red bruises. He looks like a red apple that’s been used as a tennis ball.

“Right?” I add, the word coming out more uncertain than I intended.

“Yes,” he growls, his body trembling as if he’s bracing against some immense pressure. The veins in his neck bulge as though he’s trying to pass the cosmos’s largest, most stubborn bowel movement.

Then, to my horror, he hacks a huge glob of green, bloody phlegm onto the dirty sand at our feet.

“That is fucking disgusting!” I leap back, my face contorting in revulsion. “And why are you moving like that?” I wave a finger at him, hoping it might dispel whatever that is. “Like you’re stuck at quarter speed?”

“Graviton belt,” he grunts, his voice low and gravelly, edged with exhaustion. “It brings the weight of the universe.”

His fingers trace the strange metal belt strapped around his waist, its faint hum vibrating the air like it’s seconds away from detonating.

I frown, glaring at it. I hate it—hate how it makes Dracoth look weak. The concept is offensive, like discovering my designer clothes are actually knockoff hobo-chic.

“Why not just take the stupid thing off—”

“He can barely move, and you’ve been beating him bloody!” Sandra, the rude prick, interrupts, turning to glare at Jazreal. Her usually pleasant face contorts like a sneering fox.

Jazreal arches an eyebrow, completely unbothered by her outburst. “I teach him,” he says evenly, the working side of his face curling into a smile that’s more predator than pacifier. “Do not concern yourself with the ways of warriors, pretty Sandra.”

Sandra isn’t swayed—in fact, quite the opposite. “ Teach him? ” she snaps, waving a hand toward Dracoth’s towering but battered form. “How is sending him to the hospital supposed to teach him, you arrogant dickhead?”

Oh my.

Jazreal blinks, momentarily stunned, like someone slapped him with a wet fish. His easy smile—now not so easy—twists with disdain.

“Frightened little puffrios like you will never understand our ways,” he sneers down at her. “You dishonor the War Chieftain with your pathetic concern.”

He waves a dismissive hand at her, his tone laced with contempt. “This is a ship of war. Females like you have no place here.”

Sandra’s lip trembles, her face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and anger. Her eyes flick to Dracoth, clearly hoping for support. But my Mr. Frowny Face is as supportive as a shove down the stairs. He stands there, a constipated statue carved with indifference.

Looks like this one’s on me.

“Now,” I interject, stepping forward gracefully with hands raised in placation. “Let’s all calm down and—”

My words die on my lips. Sandra whirls around and bolts for the door, the sound of her sobbing echoing off the cold, black walls.

“Sandra!” I call after her, but she doesn’t stop. The training room door swooshes shut behind her, cutting off the sight of her shaking shoulders.

Fury surges in me, and I round on Jazreal, teeth clenched. “For fuck’s sake, Jazzy!” I snap.

So much for my plans to set them up. Now they’ve gone up in smoke—just like the ruined side of his stupid face.

“I merely state the—”

“Shut up!” I jab a finger under his chin, glaring up at him with every ounce of my rage. “I won’t let you scare her away from me. You’ve seen what I’m capable of. Don’t—fucking— test me.”

His green eyes flash with defiance, but I hold my ground, meeting his glare head-on. For a moment, the tension hangs thick between us. Then, finally, he bows his head ever so slightly—barely noticeable, but enough.

Good. I’d hate it if he forced me to squash his guts out.

“Babes,” I sigh, taking a deep breath to steady myself, summoning every ounce of composure. “Are we heading toward that Drexios guy now?” I glance up at my battered husband.

Dracoth’s swollen, bloodied face is unreadable, but through our bond, I can feel the faint pulse of his pride and amusement.

“Yes. In a few days, we’ll reach Sothis Prime.”

“Brilliant,” I mutter, my gaze dropping as my mind churns with plans. Once we deal with him, Krogoth and Rocks will be next. The thought makes my heart flutter with excitement—the game, the challenge, our sweet victory, our unstoppable rise to the top.

Wonderful!

“I better go find Sandra,” I sigh, snapping out of my joyous musings. Knowing her, she’s probably sulking at the far end of this enormous ship by now.

“You two have fun playing with your big sticks,” I tease with a chuckle, waving over my shoulder as I turn to leave.

The metal door whizzes shut behind me, and I hug myself, shivering in the stale, musky chill of this enormous ship. Black marble corridors stretch out to my left and right, punctuated by large rectangular viewports.

Outside, a stunning kaleidoscope of swirling colors dances across the void, their shimmering light rippling over the sleek walls like reflections on water. The floor beneath me rumbles faintly, and the low, steady hum of engines is the only sound echoing through the vessel’s hollow halls.

I tap my fingers against my lips, mulling over where Sandra might have run off to: her quarters? The canteen? The shower room? Out an airlock?

Who knows?

With no better idea, I head down the corridor to my right, toward her personal room.

I mean, it makes sense—after all, that’s where I used to go after blazing fights with Mother.

Though, in fairness, she wasn’t an eight-foot-tall alien murder man.

Still, when she was furious, she could be just as terrifying.

A pang of longing stabs at me—an unexpected ache to see Mother again. To see her Botox-riddled eyebrows twitch in that half-hearted attempt at surprise. Just so I could tell her, face-to-face, how much I hate her. How wrong she was. How right I was.

She abandoned me, twice—first at that horrible boarding school, then again later, washing her hands of me entirely. She wanted me to disappear, to fade out of her life like I’d never existed.

Well, guess what, Mother? I didn’t disappear. I thrived. Without you. Without Father. Without anyone.

Except Dracoth.

He brought out my strength. Together, we are unstoppable.

My footsteps echo softly on the marble floor as I glide through the dim, purple-lit corridor.

Door after door, stairwell after stairwell—they blur together, the mysteries behind them hidden in shadow.

The sheer scale of the ship is staggering, and I can’t shake the spooky vibe, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

No laughter. No voices. No footsteps. Just a black tomb, hurtling through the void.

It’s like waking from a dream when I realize with a jolt of surprise I’m standing before Sandra’s room. I smile, noticing the tartan scarf hanging beside her door, setting it apart from the endless rows of identical others.

My smile deepens, hearing muffled sniffles from inside, flooding me with delight that I’ve chosen correctly.

“Hello, gorgeous!” I announce, stepping into the room with a flair worthy of a Vegas stage.

“Le... Lexie?” Sandra’s voice is barely audible. At least I think it’s her—all I can make out is a mound of furs shifting in the dim purple light.

“We seriously need to get those wrist devices they use. It’s so dark here,” I say, weaving around piles of clothes as I stumble toward her oversized wooden bed. “How are you holding up under there?”

“I’m fine. I think,” Sandra sniffles, propping herself up on her elbows. “I can’t stand that Jazreal guy. He’s such a—such a...”

“Rude prick?” I suggest, collapsing onto the soft mound of furs on the bed beside her. The plush fabric draws a relaxing groan from me.

“Arsehole, more like!” she snaps, her voice thick with wet anger.

Her accent, paired with the unusual sudden fury, has me bursting into laughter.

“What?” Sandra asks, her voice quivering with barely restrained giggles. “It’s not funny, Lexie!”

“Come on. It is a little funny,” I reply, nudging her fur-covered leg playfully. “So much for setting you up with Jazz-hole,” I sigh, my brilliant matchmaking plan now as dead as my father’s love.