Page 289 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Clothes, shoes, boots—sprawled in a rainbow mess. Some pieces look like twenty rainbows had an orgy without protection. Not to mention the tunics with three sleeves. Or the boots with toes that pointdownward. Who the hell has downward-pointing feet or three arms? And where do they live?
I’ve been trying to make gifts using the Nib fabricators. But their controls are... different than the bone-through-the-nose ones. Still, despite a few catastrophic misfires, I’ve managed to cobble together some half-decent creations—more divine accident than actual skill. They’re already wrapped, queued upfor phase one of the Great Lexie Charm Offensive: Humble Pie Edition.
And really—who can resist good pie?
A groan rips through the air like a jet engine powering up in a wind tunnel—my wind tunnel.
“Babes!” I exclaim, heart pounding like a glitchy EDM drop. “You’re awake!”
He doesn’t smile; in fact, his expression is fully powered Mr. Frowny Face, complete with mild lemon-sucking pinched lips and blood-red eyes slowly sweeping the room like he’s scanning for survivors.
Uh oh. Gonna need a lot of pie.
His massive hand snaps to his chest, eyes narrowing as if expecting to see his sternum still caved in like mashed potatoes.
“It’s not safe here,” he growls, lurching upright.
“Wait!” I shout, wincing as he shoulder-checks the healing toilet tube and annihilates a cluster of murder-orbs like a tank through a birthday party. “Your—”
Thump.
“—head,” I sigh.
Dracoth, all towering mountain-of-man-meat squeezed into a matchbox, once again smashes into the Smurf-tastic low ceiling. He rubs the ache from his crown, his expression impressively calm despite the huge meatball dent he’s made. Honestly, between all the head-dents, this room’s starting to look like a battered golf ball.
Then I noticeit—the red python swaying side to side, a hypnotic pendulum pulling my gaze into a slow spiral.
“The only thing not safe in this room,” I purr, gliding closer like a sexy-Lexie ghost looking to haunt someone’s pants, “isthatweapon you’re packing. I think it’s time we holstered the big boy.”
Dracoth’s eyes flick down, then up again. No smirk. No spark. Not even a flicker of heat through the bond.
“My clothes?” he asks, deadpan—exorcising my entire horny-ghost seduction vibe with the cold force of a hundred icy showers.
Tragic. Humble pie always tastes better with a creamy filling.
“Your old ones looked like moldy Swiss cheese dipped in pesto,” I mutter, trying not to sound hurt as I toss him a fresh tunic and trousers.
Maybe he doesn’t like me anymore?I mean, not after everything I’ve done—the betrayal, the promises I broke. I wouldn’t blame him.
No. No more distractions. Just say it.
“Dracoth...” I start, heart slamming like rabid monkeys on a drum kit. “I... I...”
I fidget with my wedding rings—diamond and Elerium—twirling them so fast I’m pretty sure I’m about to achieve fusion. “Well,” I blurt, abandoning the USSCringe Expressmid-voyage. “Yeah! I mean, you fought really well.” I let out a hollow giggle, while my guts curl into the fetal position, dying a slow and painful death.
You absolute coward Lexie.
“I lost,” he growls, fangs glinting, his voice low and full of disgust that bleeds across our bond like a tide of raw sewage. “What of Consul Juliara? Has she threatened you?” He eyes the door suspiciously, yanking the fresh leathers over his hulking, carved frame.
My gaze falters, unable to console him. Not with the weight of his loss sitting in my lungs like a million Todd’s. My Red Dragon—the invincible red murder mountain—lost. It feels wrong. Like spicy ice cream, bottled chips, or decaf espresso. Like winning the lottery only to find the prize is a slap in the face.
“Don’t worry about that yapping blueberry head,” I sniff, fingers plodding across my wrist display. “I think Bitch Bri—uh, Rocks—might’ve brain-slimed her.”
My holographic display bleep-bloops as I ping Jazzy about Dracoth’s miraculous non-death. I roll my eyes hard enough to orbit a moon. The bone-through-the-noses had been absolutely insistent—practically demandingme—the War Chieftainess, the Divine Daughter—to contact themimmediatelylike I’m their personal hobo secretary.
Though beinga secretarydoesmean I get to wear cute suits...
“Her powers won’t hold.” Dracoth’s fingers clench, crouching toward the exit like a vengeful miner with a gold quota and zero patience.
