Page 6 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)
The green beams wink out, and my shimmering barrier stands alone, defiant and intact. My scream morphs into manic laughter, echoing through the bridge. “I did it! I stopped it!”
Dracoth’s gaze turns to me, his eyes radiating pride. Through our bond, his admiration washes over me, the greatest feeling in the universe. “You grow strong, War Chieftainess,” he growls, his voice deep.
I flash him a wide, triumphant grin. “Well, I am pretty awesome. That’s pretty and awesome , by the way,” I quip with a nonchalant shrug, trying to ignore the constant rumbling and thudding noises.
Keth’s voice interrupts the moment, cold and precise. “The final docking hatch has been destroyed, War Chieftain.”
“Bring us about, back to the Shorthairs.” Dracoth turns back to the viewport, his eyes taking in the colorful flashes streaming from the maelstrom of chaos outside. “Target their cannons on our withdrawal.”
I blink, stunned. “Withdrawal?” The words feel like a slap from the wet mutant turtle monster. “But we’re kicking their asses! ” I exclaim, grabbing his arm. It’s like trying to shake a skyscraper.
The ship lurches and creaks as Keth rushes to obey Dracoth’s orders, the blinding white surface of the moon sliding out of sight.
Yet the smaller vessels continue to swarm, strafing our shields with bullets, rockets, and piercing green beams. I sigh in frustration, the constant vibration and racket grating on my nerves like nail extensions on glass.
“I lure them to their deaths,” Dracoth promises, somewhat soothing my irritation.
“Shields at forty-two percent. Forty-six Whores’ Orphans ships in pursuit, War Chieftain,” Keth reports—as if the latter weren’t bloody obvious! The annoying pricks keep circling us like flies swarming the stinkiest pile of poop imaginable.
“Impressive, young Dracoth. Very impressive,” Ignixis rasps, his tone laced with amusement. “You prevented their fleet from assembling, trapping them inside the moon. Most cunning. There may be hope for us yet.” His cackling fills the bridge.
“Don’t celebrate yet,” I mutter, amazed that he can so easily overlook the fact that we’re still being shot at!
I shake my head, raising my hand to summon another round of barriers.
My shimmering sacred shields spring into existence, intercepting the chaotic fire from the darting swarm of ships.
I smirk as their pathetic attacks fizzle harmlessly against my defenses.
Only the sporadic, more powerful blasts from the moon’s white cannons require my full focus.
After a while, I settle into a steady rhythm—it’s kind of fun, like playing an oversized game of Whack-a-Mole.
“Over half the moon’s pulsar cannons have been destroyed,” Keth announces, his calm tone cutting through the noise. I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead as he continues. “We are now outside their effective range.”
“Good,” Dracoth growls. His eyes gleam with anticipation as he sweeps a hand through the air. “Order Balsar to form the Shorthairs into a crescent moon formation.”
“Ah, a killing field,” Ignixis hisses, his emerald-green eyes glinting deep within the shadows of his hood.
“But who will be the prey, young Dracoth? Do you trust them, knowing their weak flesh courses through your veins now? Can the vipertail truly be tamed? Or will they strike the wounded venefex in the back? An interesting conundrum, make no mistake!” He cackles again, mad and shrill, like a lunatic skipping butt-naked out of an asylum.
Fuck, he might have a point.
“Silence, you old gas-cloud,” Dracoth mutters, his lack of concern easing my growing doubt a tiny bit. “They will not betray me. They are Dracoth’s Shorthairs now.”
Both Ignixis and Jazreal scoff, their derision sharp enough to cut. Even I have to stifle my own snort of disbelief, only holding it back because of my abundance of elegant, ladylike poise.
“You gamble on the loyalty of this rabble?” Jazreal challenges, his voice sharp as the spear he points toward the viewport.
The screen now shows the semicircle of glittering ships stalking us in the black void of space.
“The war brothers of the very junkers we assault?” He shakes his head, sending his long, silver-streaked hair tousling.
Jazzy, Hotty of the Berserk Crazies , makes a damn good point. My eyes dart to the screen, worried I’ll be summoning barriers until I die of old age.
Dracoth whirls around like a crimson tempest, his fury twisting his face into a terrifying sneer.
“Even now, you question me, your War Chieftain!” His voice booms, raw and guttural, as he lunges forward to tower over Jazreal like a monstrous beast poised to strike.
“I do not gamble—I know! I monitored their ship transmissions. That’s the foresight it takes to lead.
Could you do better, Jazreal? Could you achieve victory without a single loss? ”
His eyes flash an otherworldly mix of red and silver, wisps of power curling at their edges like smoke from a smoldering fire.
Jazreal stiffens, his grip tightening on his spear. For a moment, he looks as if he might argue—but his gaze flicks toward the viewport, where the battlefield unfolds. He exhales sharply, the rigid line of his shoulders loosening ever so slightly.
Jazreal finally bows his head. “No,” he admits, quieter this time. “I should not have doubted you, great War Chieftain.” The title is spoken with no mockery—only genuine respect.
Oh my.
A flush of heat rushes through me, pooling low in my core and sending tingles through my limbs.
I have to stop myself from letting my hand wander across my chest. Dracoth is absolutely the hottest—making even Jazreal, with all his brooding warrior appeal, look like a schoolboy who just failed his math quiz.
I sneak a glance at Sandra, curious to see her reaction. A secret part of me relishes the thought that Dracoth belongs to me—that I, alone, tamed the sexiest man in the universe. But to my disappointment, she seems oblivious, her blue eyes fixed on the viewport with an expression of awe.
Whatever. At least I know.
Without another word, Dracoth strides back to the viewport, his cloak sweeping dramatically through the air. Even the tension in the room seems to follow his movements, crackling like a live wire.
“Keth, order Balsar to fire on the oncoming ships,” he commands without a trace of his earlier fury. “Nexarn, send a transmission to the Whores’ Orphans demanding their immediate surrender—if they value their pathetic lives.”
The semicircle of Balsar’s ships inches closer, their weapon muzzles beginning to glow ominously, lighting up the void like deadly beacons.
I suck in a breath, the sight is equal parts mesmerizing and terrifying. Dozens of them charge their cannons in unison, and for a fleeting moment, I prepare to summon barriers, ready to shield us from the incoming barrage.
But then I exhale in relief as the blasts streak past us, hurtling into the void behind our ship. Their shots miss, aimed at the aliens trailing us.
“Sixteen Whores’ Orphans ships destroyed. The others are scrambling to retreat, War Chieftain.” Keth announces the good news with all the cheer of a mortuary.
“Yay, you did it!” I exclaim, partially wrapping Dracoth in a fierce hug, joy and relief flooding through me. “Of course, I never doubted you for a second!” I add, hiding the little lie behind my beaming smile.
Dracoth pulls me close, his lovely warmth radiating through me, making me moan softly. “Mere rabble,” he growls, as if he’s simply brewed a cup of coffee, not won a great victory.
How boring and small.
I suppress a sigh—though it’s good he has such high standards. His ambitions won’t be satisfied until we reach the top.
“An Arch-Captain, Duriel, responds,” Nexarn interrupts, drawing my attention, eager to hear of the loser’s surrender. “Reads: ‘Go void yourselves.’”
“Really?” I sneer, spinning to face the blond-haired mini-Dracoth. “Well, you tell him to go fuck himself!” I shout, unable and unwilling to hide my disgust. “Can you believe this loser, Dracoth?”
Dracoth’s clawed fingers absently stroke through my long hair, his lips curled faintly in what, under a microscope, could be called amusement.
“Bring us about,” he rumbles, sweeping his hand toward Nexarn and Keth. “Destroy their remaining pulsar cannons. Order Balsar to prepare boarding parties.”
Jazreal strides forward, fist clenched to his chest, bowing his head as he speaks.
“Let me handle this, War Chieftain.” He rises, a smirk spreading across half his face. “They are beneath you. I’ll take them apart easily.” He punctuates his words by slamming the butt of his spear into the black metal floor.
“Come,” Dracoth says, taking my hand in his. He turns quickly, leading us out of the bridge. “We have spines to collect.”