Page 34

Alexandra

Cleanse

I stand in the sparsely furnished quarters— my quarters —with joyous disbelief.

The large room still has the same awful black walls and purple lights that curse this entire ship’s ambience with a tacky nightclub vibe.

Then there’s the bizarre, oversized wooden furniture that looks birthed from a tree that instead decided to be a chair, a bed, a desk.

It’s light-years away from my usual five-star retreats—literally! The only ‘room service’ I’ll get here is Dracoth yelling at me to speak less. The giant, rude prick.

A squeal of excitement escapes me as I rush over to the massive bed, hopping over its stupidly high frame. I land not on a proper mattress, but on layers upon layers of soft furs. Bliss! I roll and wave my arms through the fabric, melting into the softness; it is like a balm for my soul.

Ah, no more cold metal floors, no more spit dodging, no more forced conversations, no more feeling like an exhibit at a red-light district. God, I can actually use a bathroom in private again! Maybe all those poor people were right after all—it’s the small things in life that count.

I wrinkle my face, thinking more deeply about it. No, that’s hobo logic. Being wealthy is everything. Oh, how I miss my parties and getaways... even my quiet afternoons in Distro Bistro with those perfectly glazed cinnamon swirls.

My stomach rumbles in protest, as if I need a reminder!

All I’ve eaten here are those horrible jelly sticks.

.. like chewing through an old pair of boots.

My anger flares, threatening to consume my brief moment of joy.

I bet that pervy bore is eating space lobsters and drinking giant, red, alien wine, while he feeds us flavored rubber!

Relax, Lexie—one battle at a time. We’re moving in the right direction. I take a deep breath, determined to remain strong.

My attention shifts to the clothes laid out on an oversized desk. I rush over, consumed by curiosity, almost tripping from the tall bed in excitement.

Oh, no! My budding excitement fades away at the sight of these clothes like my credit score after a spending spree.

I hold up the garish things in horror. Bright red leather pants and a blue tunic?

Is this some kind of joke, like when pervy Dracoth turned my Chanel suit into something that would get me arrested in three states and elected mayor in Nevada?

“I’ll look like a gnome with a BDSM kink in this!

” I exclaim, letting out a deep sigh that does nothing to ease my annoyance.

For fuck’s sake, who pairs reds and blues?

Some kind of murdering psycho, that’s who.

I frown, holding up this fashion travesty next to my ruined Chanel, like choosing between a toothache and a migraine.

Screw it. Gimp gnome it is. But I swear to God, if the other women are strutting around in nice clothes, I will... will... well what the hell can I do? It’s not like I can swap outfits with them—bunch of skinny bitches.

Ugh , why am I even here? The question is a silly one, I do sort of know now, thanks to Sandra.

When she came back from her little stroll with Dracoth, she revealed some interesting details, confirming what I already suspected—Dracoth is indeed a big perv.

Apparently, he thinks we’re somehow ‘bonded’ to him, and through some ritual, his powers will unlock, like he’s a Pokémon waiting to evolve.

I actually snorted when she said that. The whole thing sounds as absurd as their fashion sense.

At first, I feared he meant to sacrifice us for his supposed ‘power,’ like the ancient Aztecs or something equally terrifying.

But Sandra calmed me down, saying Dracoth declared that whichever woman he’s bonded to will also gain powers, and together they’ll rule over his people.

The Clown-dathians —a fitting name since we’re all dressed for the circus.

Sandra’s revelation was music to my ears, my hopeful wish now reality, confirming my plan as the smart play—win Dracoth’s affections, become his queen, and live happily ever after.

I mean, sure, there are a few minor roadblocks, a few gaps to bridge, some wrinkles to iron out.

But hey, that’s what rulers have servants for, right?

And I’m going to have an army of them. Oh, yes!

By royal decree, I shall outlaw the mixing of reds and blues—or any combination of colors I deem too gnomish.

Oh, and I will ban whatever those horrible jelly sticks are.

.. or better yet, they’ll be reserved for flogging the unfashionable gnomish wannabes.

And let’s not forget the toilets, those need to be updated, too.

I’m basically a humanitarian, bringing indoor plumbing to the masses.

My reign will at least drag the Clown-dathians into the twenty-first century, at least when it comes to style and sophistication.

Honestly, I have a lot to offer the aliens—I’m a blessing, really.

Ah, such lovely thoughts. The future shines bright.

As bright as these garish clothes! Now dressed, I stand before the giant mirror embedded in the tree-like wardrobe, scrunching my face.

I’ve got whiplash scrutinizing myself from every angle.

But no matter what pose I strike, or how much I tug at the tunic, the fact remains—I look like a multicolored stuffed sausage.

These seams should be sending out distress signals.

If I wasn’t half-starved, I’m pretty sure this stitching would have no hope of resisting my ample . .. curves.

Screw it. I let out a deep sigh, failing to smooth out the leather tunic. What’s the point of complaining? Not like I haven’t spent most of my time here either naked or dressed like a sex worker’s edition of Barbie . Why not add exploding elf to my growing list of what not to wear?

But a troubling thought lingers, wrinkling my brow, one that could ruin everything—Sandra. Out of all the women here, she’s the biggest threat, already cozying up to Dracoth, with that grating good-girl act. And, of course, the giant bore falls for it.

I try to soothe my frustration by dismissing her chances, but it rings hollow. It’s only through her manipulations that she convinced Dracoth to let us out of the cell... I couldn’t do that—hell, when I asked him for basic trust, he just told me to shut up!

It doesn’t bode well for my royal plans—more a fanciful fantasy, just as unlikely as ever winning my father’s love is. But I cling to the fantasy, clutching it like my life depends on it, because it does—without it, only a bottomless pit of despair awaits me, one that’s haunted me my entire life.

“ Boo !”

I scream, leaping into the air just like my pounding heart. The voice is too loud, too close to my ear, sending panic flooding through me. But as my initial shock diminishes, I recognize the intruder’s voice as Carmen, my surprise already morphing into outrage.

“Fuck sake, Carmen!” I whip round, glaring at her smug face. “What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?”

She just waves me off like it’s nothing, which only pisses me off more. Then I notice the bruise on her forehead. “Wait, what happened to your head? Were you headbutting the wall again, or...?”

It wouldn’t be the first time. During Carmen’s more intense rants and pacing, she’d sometimes bang her head against the cell bars in frustration.

“No!” Carmen snaps, grimacing as she gestures toward the door. “One of those putas !” she sneers, the word dripping with venom.

Studying the closed door, I frown, seeing nothing. “You mean one of the mini-Dracoths?”

“ Si ,” Carmen nods vigorously. “There’s always one following me. It’s driving me loca .” Her expression takes on a predatory smile as she continues, “So I hit the pendejo right in his huevos .”

My eyes widen in horror. “Carmen...” I shake my head, disbelief clouding my thoughts. She’s like a ticking time bomb with a death wish.

Before I can fully process her insanity, she glances over her shoulder, then flashes something metallic and white. My breath catches—it’s one of those alien smart devices they wear on their arms.

“Is that...?”

“ Shush, Princesa .” Carmen puts a finger to her lips, glancing toward the door. “The pendejo outside might hear.”

I stand there, dumbfounded. She can’t be serious?

Not only has she stolen one of their devices, but she’s waving it around while the alien is just next door?

Who does that? A crazy person, that’s who.

“I’m going to give this to Kazumi,” Carmen continues in a low voice, eyes glinting with mischief.

“She’ll figure it out, and then we’ll get out of here. You in?”

“In?” I echo, grimacing at Carmen’s gleeful expression.

I don’t think she’s ever looked so pleased before.

“You mean in-sane , right? Because that’s exactly what this crazy shit is.

” I take a step back, distancing myself, as if her crime might infect me.

If Dracoth finds out and thinks I’m involved, I’ll be lucky if all he does is throw me back in the cell.

His grotesque belt of trophies flashes through my mind, sending a shudder down my spine.

“You’ll see,” Carmen chuckles, waving off my protest like it’s nothing. “When the plan comes together, you’ll change your mind.”

No, I bloody won’t. But I hold my tongue, just grateful she’s not arguing for once.

Then she steps back, scrutinizing me from top to bottom, a worrying smile creeping across her lips. “You look like a stuffed pinata about to burst,” she says, erupting into laughter.

Her words hit me like a slap. My body tenses, bracing for more. What a bitch! I glare at Carmen, seeing she’s still wearing the same worn, bargain-bin military camouflage outfit.

“Yeah? Better than dressing like a drug cartel guerilla reject,” I snap back, savoring the brief flicker of offense that wipes the smirk from her face, hurting her the way she hurts me, so she knows I’m no one’s victim.