Page 243 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“Awwww!” I shriek, clutching my nose. The door—traitorous shimmering bastard—goes solid at the last possible second. I might’ve just headbutted a wall of actual space steel.
“What the...?” I kick it, hard. My foot bounces off like I just tried to karate chop a fridge. “Really?Really?Who does that?!”
“We’re busy!” snaps a muffled voice from the other side.
Surfer Bro. It’s him. I can practically smell the sunscreen and salt.
“There’s a killer wave coming,” I purr against the door, barely suppressing a giggle, “and I thought you’d like to know.”
“Killer wave?” he echoes, muffled. Footsteps. Hushed mumbling. The unmistakable vibe of guilty teenagers caught partying in their parents’ hot tub.
“You may enter,” he finally calls, cloaking his voice in smug superiority—like I didn’t just hear him panic-scrambling for pants.
The traitor door shimmers once more, hissing with amoody sigh,like evenitregrets what’s about to happen.
I step through the churning hologram, trying not to barf as the world turns intoliquid madness.
It’s another of those annoying minimalist Nib quarters—low ceilings, floor like polished eggshell, furniture clearly designed by a legally blind Smurf with a vendetta against lumbar support.
But this one’s beenviolated.Absolutelydefiled.
A hoverbed, no longer hovering. Perfume and sweat locked in a doomed love affair. Soft coral-pink lighting. Steam bellows from the ensuite like a fog machine during a satanic yoga class.
And sprawled on the murdered bed, right in the center, arms behind his head?
Surfer Bro.Naked, except for a pathetic strip of leather clinging to what’s left of my will to live.
He smirks. Corals still tangled in his absurd blue topknot.
“War Chieftainess!” he blurts, gray eyes wide as he jolts upright and clutches the blanket to his junk like it’s a holy relic.
“I—I didn’t know—You’re alone?” He glances behind me in a panic. “Void take me... if your Mortakin-Kai hears about this, he’ll Krak-Tok me into atoms!”
I smile sweetly. Feeling a tingle inside at the sheer terror my murder husband instills.
“Relax,” I purr, striding forward like I’m owning the runway at the New York Fashion Show: Doom Edition. “The War Chieftain sent me.” The lie rolls smooth as warm butter. “He said you were like him. Young. Newly appointed. More...opento new and exciting possibilities.”
I trace a finger down my chest, drawing his gaze exactly where I want it. But under my touch, Arawnoth’s runes flare like smoldering coals, and Surfer Bro’s jaw drops like a carp spotting fish flakes.
Damn my divine boobies.
“Um... your... tits are on fire,” he stammers, eyes ping-ponging between my cleavage and my face like a faulty light switch.
“Oh, how embarrassing,” I gasp, covering my chest in faux horror. “This only happens when I’m near...suitable males.” I shoot him a shy, demure glance, then look away. Hook, line, beluga whale.
Surfer Bro’s smirk returns, along with his ego. His shoulders loosen, tossing the blanket aside like he’s in a perfume ad for the terminally delusional. Flashing limbs that are matchsticks compared to my Dracoth’s.
“Is that a fact,” he purrs, just as the shower hisses open.
Steam pours into the room—and with it, the two alien women.
They glide out, slick and glistening, their scaled bodies dripping. Eyes like milk. Skin like seafood left out too long. They clock me instantly—and showzeroshame, like flashing their pointy bits is just Monday.
Vote blockers.
“You didn’t say we’d have...company,Voryx,” the green-tainted pineapple head says, eyeing me with something between curiosity and carnivorous intent.
“Yeah, no fair,” adds the blue-tinted pineapple head with a pout. “Are we not enough for you anymore?” She sneers at me. “Not...fleshlyenough, is that it?”
