Page 99

Alexandra

Reunion

“ S andra?” I ask, peering up at Dracoth, hardly daring to believe she might be here. My gaze sweeps frantically over the sea of red faces, straining to see beyond the towering, broad-shouldered Magaxus men.

“I can’t see her, Dracoth...” I mutter, my voice laced with growing yearning and annoyance.

“There,” Dracoth growls, lifting me effortlessly into the air with one immense hand around my waist. His other hand extends, pointing toward the approaching figure of a smiling, ginger-haired woman.

“Sandra!” I exclaim, my face beaming with joy as a flood of relief washes over me. “All right, put me down, you big lump,” I demand, waving enthusiastically toward her.

But Dracoth’s grip remains as firm as the blackened, cavernous rock surrounding us. “No,” he rumbles, his voice a deep, immovable force. His sharp gaze flicks toward me. “She must come to you.”

He’s right!

The realization dawns on me—a lovely, empowering sentiment that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I am the Chieftainess, after all. It’s only fitting that others should come to me. My squirming ceases—not that it was doing much against the red mountain that is my Dracoth.

“Lexie!” Sandra exclaims, her joy mirroring my own as she steps onto the slightly raised stone dais. Only then does Dracoth gently lower me to the ground. The moment my feet touch the rough rock, I gallop forward like the happiest horse breaking free at the races.

“Oh my God!” I squeal, wrapping my arms around her petite frame, nearly smothering the poor woman. “I’m so glad you’re here! I was worried I’d never see you again!” The words tumble out of me in a breathless stream.

I can’t help but wrinkle my nose at the faint scent of manure. Wait! I recognize that rancid stench—the especially pungent reek that could only have come from the disgusting giant snail monsters.

“You’ve got a cheek!” Sandra exclaims with mock outrage, her eyes twinkling. “We thought you were bloody eaten by an arrohawk!”

But I hardly hear her. The stinky smell forces me to break our embrace. My focus now on her disheveled state—stained brown leather clothes and unkempt hair that looks like it hasn’t met a comb in days. My face twists in disgust like an old raisin when I spot the luminous mucus streaking her outfit.

Ugh, so gross.

“Eww!” I blurt, recoiling. “Is that giant snail monster poop?” I shudder, brushing at my pristine dark blue leathers like a woman possessed. “Aw, you got some on me!” I huff, struggling to scrub the damp patch with my hand.

Maybe I should use the cloak? No, Dracoth would freak out.

Sandra lets out a nervous laugh, scratching the back of her neck with a sheepish expression. “Yeah, sorry about that. I was helping Celutok with the herd.” She glances over her shoulder, her head swaying as she searches the crowd of noisy, chattering alien giants.

“Celutok?” she calls, her voice somehow sweet as honey even when raised.

“Farmer Letdown,” I mumble, the memories tumbling back: the slimy, horrifying snail monsters, the screeching wails of flying monsters, being kidnapped by Ignixis, and frozen in a giant freezer—so much has happened since then.

My daydream shatters as Celutok steps into view, cutting short his conversation with two Klendathians.

“Little Sandra?” he asks, his eyes narrowing as he spots Sandra and me, recognition blooming, only to wither under the imposing shadow of Dracoth, looming like a crimson-scaled dragon.

Celutok freezes at the edge of the stone dais, as if the raised platform were as perilous as the magma bubbling in the nearby geyser.

“What’s wrong, Celutok?” Sandra asks, beckoning him forward with an encouraging wave. “Come on.”

Celutok flicks a nervous glance at the approaching wall of muscle that is Dracoth, then quickly averts his gaze, not unlike a scolded puppy. I suppress a smirk. The awe and fear my man inspires never fails to thrill me—it’s super-hot.

“My place is here,” Celutok mutters, managing a quick, apologetic smile for Sandra.

“Sandra,” Dracoth rumbles, halting beside me. His hand rests against my back, radiating warmth so intoxicating it nearly pulls a purr from my throat. “It’s good you are well,” he adds, with a surprising expression of what could almost pass as joy under the strongest microscope.

“Dracoth...” Sandra mutters, looking at her twiddling thumbs, a loathsome flicker of unease creasing her face. My lips tighten at the sight.

She better not still want him—he’s my murder husband now.

Then his crimson eyes turn, narrowing as they land on Celutok, taking in his muck-streaked clothes and subdued posture.

“You!” he thunders, his voice crashing like a volcanic eruption. “You failed to protect the females.” His face hardens to a glinting edge, like the diamond shards scattered across the ground. “My females!”

“I... I...” Celutok stammers, raising both hands in surrender. “Great Chieftain...” His overly broad face, usually calm, is now etched with worry. Though large by human standards, he seems to shrink under Dracoth’s towering frame, like a schoolboy caught stealing sweets.

“War Chieftain,” Dracoth corrects emotionlessly, stalking toward the now-trembling Farmer Letdown.

“Don’t hurt him!” Sandra cries, rushing to bar Dracoth’s path.

“He’s done nothing wrong! He’s been looking after me while you’ve been gone!

” Her blue eyes shimmer with pleading emotion, searching for understanding.

Poor Sandra—she won’t find any in Mr. Frowny Face. Interesting that she protects him.

Gods! She doesn’t fancy Farmer Letdown, does she?

“It’s okay, little Sandra,” Celutok says, his tone calm as he gently gestures for her to step aside. “I did fail to protect you both,” he admits, nodding toward me. “Especially you, War Chieftainess. My deepest apologies.”

He kneels before us, his wispy gray head bowed low. The sight sends a thrill coursing through me, power surging in my chest. This respect, this control—it’s everything I’ve craved. My breath quickens.

This is who I’m meant to be.

Dracoth’s hands curl into fists, the fury simmering beneath his skin all too obvious through our bond. I could let him unleash it, revel in his violent retribution. It would be so easy—and perhaps even satisfying. But no. I’ll be gracious. Too gracious for my own good, really.

“It’s quite all right,” I interject, my smile sweet, masking the smug satisfaction bubbling beneath. “It was crazy back then, with all those... things bolting everywhere.” I glance knowingly at Dracoth. “Besides, that’s how we finally came together, isn’t it, Dracoth?”

In typical Dracoth fashion, he remains silent, his unreadable gaze lingering on me as if trying to peel the skin from my bones. But I don’t miss the subtle loosening of his fists, the easing of tension in his immense shoulders.

Victory.

“Rise, Celutok,” Dracoth commands, turning back to the kneeling farmer. “Continue to serve the clan faithfully,” he adds, extending a helping hand.

“Great War Chieftain.” Celutok’s face lights up like a Christmas tree, rising to his feet with hands clasped around Dracoth’s wrist. “You honor me.”

“It would be a terrible crime to punish another for one’s own failings.”

A voice cuts through the dim from the nearby crowd, popping our burgeoning joy like a hot-air balloon.

Our heads whip toward the source of the bold interruption. My annoyance spikes, only to melt under the secret heart-fluttering heat, which I really hope Dracoth can’t detect through our bond.

Scarface—Death Head of the Berserk Crazies.

Oh, I remember him. How could I forget? Handsome, even with that side of his face mangled like old crumpled tissue paper.

He moves toward us with the lethal grace and confidence of a stalking tiger. His green eyes blaze like molten jade, fixated on Dracoth. Our group waits with bated breath at his approach, the tension hanging in the air, rising like the steam from the bubbling geyser nearby.

“You speak of your own failure, Jazreal?” Dracoth’s deep voice rumbles as he shifts his massive frame to meet the long-haired warrior head-on.

I glance between them, absently stroking the sleepy Todd nestled against my shoulder. The most awkward silence stretches—well, except for that time I was caught cheating with Henry. Their expressions unreadable, stern, locked in some unspoken battle like glowing ruby grinding against emerald.

Finally, Jazreal breaks the silence, his smirk pulling only one side of his scarred face.

“I speak of your folly in letting such beautiful females stray too far from your sight.” His gaze flicks briefly to Sandra, then lingers on me.

It’s the kind of look that would be infuriating if it weren’t so flattering.

He’d be super-hot if he wore a mask, like a meathead Phantom of the Opera.

“Then perhaps,” Jazreal continues, clapping Celutok on the back with a force that nearly sends the farmer stumbling, “Celutok here wouldn’t have to beg to escape your misdirected wrath.”

Dracoth’s eyes narrow, his muscles tensing almost imperceptibly—though I notice. I’m the only one capable of enduring the hot-head for so long.

“You dare berate me for a crime uncommitted—”

“Listen, Jazzy,” I interrupt, cutting through the rising tension with a sharp smile. I give Dracoth a ladylike nudge with my leg. “It’s clear who’s in charge around here.”

I spread my arms wide to encompass the cheerful mingling of the Magaxus crowd. “Dracoth’s your leader now. So, stop pretending you’re not impressed and get in line.” I finish with a grin that doesn’t touch my steely glare.

For a moment, Jazreal stares as if weighing every ounce of my sexy self. But I don’t care. My eyes bore into his, knowing, despite his size, I could crush him with my powers as easily as a bug.

Can he feel it now? My divine blessings?

Jazreal breaks into roaring laughter, evaporating the sizzling tension. “You both wear the cloak of Chieftains well,” he admits, wiping tears from his scarred face.