Page 290 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“Will yourelax, already?” I huff, intercepting him like a living traffic cone with attitude. My hands clamp around his tree-trunk leg, clinging on like a blonde koala mid-earthquake.
“Mmm. Toasty,” I purr, letting his warmth seep through my robes like he’s a grumpy radiator. “The Smurfs aren’t going to do anything,” I let out a muffled giggle. “You see... I may have detained their entire fleet for a little bit. Just until they promised to help you.”
He stiffens, thigh muscles going from stone to angry steel. “You risk too much,Princesa,” he grumbles. “The Nebians do not tolerate threats.” He tries to peel me off like an over-affectionate sticker, but I cling tighter, stylish and stubborn, a sassy limpet. Asslimp.
“Stop,” I snap, pressing into him like I’m a junkie needing some sweet, sweet, Dracoth powder. “Just let mehavethis. One minute. That’s all.” I breathe him in—brimstone, blood, leather, and somethinguniquelyDracoth. “The Nibs won’t do squat. They need us to fight the murder-bots. That’s the whole reason they engineered this big mess, remember?”
He exhales. Granite now. Less murder-tank, more tired war god. A moment of pure bliss. His heat. His touch. Todd’s chunky croaks. Even Dracoth’s wind-tunnel breathing—a siren’s call to peace island.
Then—trouble. Todd’s singular black eye blinks open, promising mischief. His gaze locks onto Dracoth. His legs become a blur—a black-red bus propelled by an army of matchstick booties.
Ut oh.
He scampers from the table, sending the pancake plate crashing to the floor as he leaps like a lead balloon onto the wall. Somehow,miraculously, he clings to the smooth surface despite looking like a bowling ball dangling off a twig. Then he skitters higher, panting like an asthmatic accordion before collapsing near the ceiling, letting out panicked little croaks.
Tuckered out. Thank Aenarael.
And then—the dread returns. A part of me—the traitor part that wants me to die of cringe—demands I say the words. Just three little words. I mean, I love lots of things. I love Todd. I love Divine Mother and Father. I love partying and stuff. It should be easy...
But it’s freaking not.
I hate this! Wait. I know how to work this...
“Um... Babes?” I mumble, cheek mashed against his abs. “Do you remember me saying anything... you know, toward the end of the fight?” I breathe, whispering. “Something like... ‘I glove glue’?”
My face ignites, heart pounding like I’m tightrope walking on G-strings.Too close. Too much. Like poking plug sockets with forks.
“Glove glue?” he repeats, confused. “I heard only the roar of the crowd. The Rush in my ears. Blood spilling from my wounds.”
All murder mountain. All serious face. Why is he making this so difficult?
“Oh,” I sigh, deflating. “No glove glue then.”
He shifts. Our bond fractures—waves of regret, shame, and hurt crashing through the silence.
“I failed to deliver you vengeance. Failed to cleanse my shame. Failed to win the glory and position that I promised.” He breathes, stepping back. I hold on like expensive perfume.
“Dracoth...” The words tumble out before my brain can stop them. “I don’t care about that.”
“Youlieagain!” he snaps, voice like a whip crack. “Like a starving venefex, you drove me to challenge him.DemandedI take Krogoth’s place. You wererightto do so. Arawnoth’s teachings—the sacred words—they are clear. Strength must be tested. Broken. Reforged. So only the hard and strong remain. But I...” He snarls, pain thick in his voice. “I’m not arcweave. I’m slag. The Shorthair Chieftain. A disgrace.”
He exhales—a turbine spinning down, fury giving way to despair. “Is that why you lie now? To twist the claw? When our bond reveals all?”
His fingers begin peeling mine from his chest. Trying to untangle me. To walk away. To abandon.
“Perhaps you were right to seek other suitors,” he mutters, eyes hard. “Perhaps youknewI’d fail. Your mockery. The way you belittle the divine fire I’ve lost. The favors I’ve lost. I am... a falling star.”
“No...” I whisper, clinging harder, tighter, breath ragged. This has all the markings of a Dracoth-version of a breakup—it’s not you, it’s me,delivered with the frowny seriousness of a wounded demigod. My stomach drops straight to my boots.
“You called me Alexandra, remember?” I sniff. “You were saying goodbye. And I was too stupid to realize it... I never thought you could lose... Never thought you coulddie.”I lookup into his stern face, eyes swimming. “Because you’re my Red Dragon. You always will be.”
I smile, hoping he sees the pain behind it. But he keeps trying to gently push me away. And the harder he pries, the tighter I cling. We’re locked in some perverse emotional standoff—sloth versus bear.
“Stop trying to peel me off like I’m an old banana!” I snap. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”
Desperate. Pathetic. Stage-ten clinger: Activated. And I don’t care.
He averts his gaze. My blood chills. “My heart,” he whispers. “It’s weary. Hollow.”
