Page 93 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Alexandra

Haircuts and Wristbands

F ury sears through my veins—flat-iron-hot. Their silence, this awkward, insulting pause, reeks of abandonment. Of betrayal.

Old Earth Lexie knew those stinky smells well. She endured the stench daily, lived them like a bad sitcom rerun.

Expected them, even.

But she’s dead and buried. I am something more now. I am the Divine Daughter.

The memory of that glorious moment—the revelation of the Revered Mother—still sizzles on my skin. The worship that bloomed on those space-knight faces? Delicious. Addictive. Euphoric.

I crave it.

I need it.

It’s what I deserve.

What I’m owed.

They’re just being naughty. And like all naughty children... They need a reminder.

A wicked smile curls my lips as I raise my arms—ready to unleash divine retribution.

Steel clamps onto my shoulder, stopping me cold.

Something hotter. Heavier. A giant red oven mitt pretending to be a hand—Dracoth’s hand. His bratwurst-like fingers tighten—firm, stern—hot enough to brand, heavy enough for a traitorous little moan to squeak out, my skin tingling under his touch.

He looms like a monolith beside me, his crimson eyes glowing from the shadows of his brows, searing with that look.

That knowing look.

Despite myself, I swallow the lump that tries to rise in my throat. He’s just... so much . So massive. So dense with rage and muscle, he looks like someone carved a frown into a mountain and taught it to walk.

And when he looks at me like this? Half, I want to strangle you. The other half, I want to fuck the naughty out of you. It ignites an alluring fire in my core. So powerful and domineering the only one capable of being my equal.

Well... before his little glowstick problem started. Sad really. Now? He’s a knockoff. A sad imitation. Ten-dollar Prada. A Chevy dreaming it’s a Bugatti. Grape juice in a champagne bottle.

Yep. I’ve definitely been scammed. And there are no returns on this one-way trip to the top.

He turns from me, stepping closer to the mob of bone-through-the-noses. The slag crunches beneath his clown-sized armored boots as he strides onto the dais like a bipedal tank.

“The War Chieftainess. My Mortakin-Kis, blessed by the Gods.” His voice rolls like thunder, echoing across broken towers and melted steel. “She alone saved hundreds. Not just Clan Magaxus—but all Klendathians. She has earned honor. She has earned respect.”

He beckons me forward, the fire in his gaze beckoning from behind those massive pauldrons.

I feign a smile, faker than Basic Mothers’ lip filler, stepping closer. I totally know what he’s doing. He’s somehow turned the space-knights against me. Feeding me crumbs like I’m a little blonde canary. Offering a taste of the adoration he’s stolen from me.

How generous of him.

As I arrive beside Dracoth, his voice booms once again, stiffening my spine and almost waking poor Todd. “Like centuries past, the Voidbringer turned brother against brother. But through Arawnoth’s will, she shielded us. She protected us.”

My will, actually.

“Because of her bravery and strength, Chieftain Krogoth struck back at the loathsome Voidbringer.”

Wait. Now he’s praising Krogoth?

My sugar-free-sweet smile nearly twists into narrowed-eye rage.

Dracoth can’t be that stupid? Right? My gaze sweeps the crowd—tens of thousands, shouting and stomping in the shattered plaza.

Later. When we’re alone, I’ll fix this. He might know the oh-so-fine art of bashing heads, but clearly, he’s clueless when it comes to dealing with rivals.

“Because of her, the Scythians broke against our might, our power. The strength they feared and twisted for their own use—it became their death. A force beyond counting, shattered and scattered like ashes on cosmic winds. After centuries of subjugation—through fire and blood—we have won our freedom!”

Dracoth lifts my hand in his, nearly yanking me off my feet as he pumps my fist to the sky.

The crowd explodes. War horns shriek. Armor slams. Fists pound chests. A lovely cacophony of “War Chieftainess!” and “Divine Daughter!” roars to life like a techno-medieval rave.

The rubble beneath me hums with the storm, matching the pounding of my heart. I let the sound fill me as I take it all in, savoring it like hot mocha on a crisp morning. Laughter escapes my lips, unbidden as I survey the cheering crowd. This... this is a little sip of the nectar I’ve been craving.

But I want more. Much more. An entire planet, packed as far as the eye can see, screaming my name, and bowing at my feet. And now that the loser-bots are in the scrapheap, that moment is coming soon.

“Balsar,” Dracoth rumbles, gesturing toward the ugly, cow-faced space hobo. “You and the Shorthairs may stand before me.”

His suggestion rings like an unbreakable command.

I grunt, unimpressed, watching the pudgy piggy captain glance nervously at his fellow space pervs. Balsar looks ridiculous. They all do. Decked out in garish layers of cheap plastic and grimy scrap metal, like they mistook a junkyard for a fashion boutique.

And the hair . Or more specifically, the lack of it.

A bunch of baldies—every single one of them.

Hair shaved off, even the spiky-headed aliens had their horns filed down.

They might as well be holding baby bottles at this point.

The whole gang looks like naughty diapered toddlers caught stealing cookies, shuffling awkwardly amongst the towering, armor-clad space-knights.

The few hundred strong motley crew of strange aliens shuffle forward. Some flinch in terror as the abyss of lava surges with sudden fury, belching molten fire into the ash-choked sky.

Ah, wouldn’t it be lovely if Dracoth just tossed them in? I mean, they’d deserve it.

I haven’t forgotten—and sure as hell haven’t forgiven—when these creeps nearly dragged us off to be used like some bargain-bin blow-up dolls. Even now the memory sends an involuntary shudder down my spine.

“We live to serve, great War Chieftain,” Balsar snorts through the clunky breather strapped to his snout. He drops to one knee, head bowed in delicious submission. The rest follow suit, shuffling to their knees like obedient little puppies.

Some stare up at Dracoth like he’s their long-lost rockstar dad, jaws slack, eyes shimmering with what might be tears. It’s as if Dracoth is their celebrity crush, standing naked and handing them all a free spaceship or something.

A sharp pang of jealousy tugs at me, lips pinching as I consider summoning a barrier to flick Balsar into the lava.

They should be bowing before me. They should be weeping over my radiance.

My divinity. But then I remember, they are smelly Mad Max background extras who forgot to change costumes.

Dracoth can keep them. Bone-through-the-noses should stick together, after all.

Honestly, it’s actually kind of cute—big boy Dracoth with his little toy soldiers.

“Rise, my loyal Shorthairs,” Dracoth commands, stepping down from the dais to loom over the still-kneeling creeps.

“You have earned great honor among us Klendathians.” He reaches down and grips Balsar’s oversized lapel with surprising gentleness, lifting him to his feet.

“Because of your actions, many lived. Not only those here—but across all the Clans. You fought against the Scythians, a foe even empires have fled from. But you? You stood firm. You showed no fear. You held. Arawnoth’s fire burns in your veins. Each of you may stand tall this day.”

Then it happens—Dracoth lowers his frowny, boulder-head.

Not much. Barely a fraction of an inch. But from him? That’s like catching a holographic Charizard.

The thousands of space-knights respond instantly, slamming fists to chests with a deafening war cry. “Shorthairs!” The sound hits like a shockwave. My heart nearly jumps out of my ribs.

“Shorthairs!” They chant again, this time with uproarious laughter.

Some of the space-knights clap the Shorthairs on the back with all the meathead grace of a wrecking ball, nearly sending them tumbling into the dirt.

Many of the space-hobos really should have baby bottles—being actual crybabies. Tears of joy burst out as they take in the sight. Others glance among the cheering crowd, beaming smiles, splitting their alien snouts, muzzles, scaly lips, mouth slits—all sorts of horrible features.

A revolting insectoid, oozes yellow-tinted liquid from slits in its flat... head? Leaking into its respirator, snot bubbling out like molten glue.

Ugh. So gross.

I tap my foot against slag, impatience bubbling like the lava pits around us, while Dracoth waits for the sob-fest to subside.

“A gift for your bravery,” he says, handing Balsar a credit-chit. His beady eyes flick between Dracoth and the small plastic rectangle like a light switch on the fritz.

I click my tongue with annoyance and stroke Todd’s rubbery back for emotional support. Dracoth always spoils these creepy space-hobos. Such a waste of resources. These drooling goons can barely tie their boots without tripping over the laces.

“Great... War Chieftain?” Balsar stammers, clutching the chit between stubby hands like it’s the golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s interstellar chocolate factory. “I... I cannot—”

“You will.” Dracoth crushes his wobbly protest like a bug under a rockslide. He whirls around with surprising speed, scaled cloak snapping dramatically as he stomps back up the twisted wreckage-turned dais like some not-so-jolly red giant.

“I release you from my service.” His voice lands with the finality of a judge’s gavel.

For a second, no one reacts. The words hang in the scorching heat like a noose awaiting its victim. A death sentence that takes too long to register on the less-than-brilliant space-hobos.

“But we are your Shorthairs, great War Chieftain!” a spiky-headed alien pleads, though it’s hard to be certain with his unsettlingly blank milk-white eyes. “We bear your insignia; we’ll follow wherever you command.”