Page 13 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

T he Turak responded to his touch like an extension of his own mind.

Sleek. Deadly. Faster than any other vessel in the skies of Anakris, it carved through the upper atmosphere in silence, the inertial dampeners absorbing the descent as crimson clouds streaked past the curved canopy.

Below, the jagged ridgelines of his domain stretched out like the spines of a great beast—harsh, untamed terrain wrapped in the blood-red light of the dying sun.

His stronghold came into view— Kavarenth —the seat of his power. Iron walls and spiked towers jutted from the stone like weapons, a fortress carved into the cliffs above the river Dorthak. The clans called it unbreachable. Unconquerable.

They were correct.

He adjusted the controls, guiding the vessel toward the upper parapet, a private landing point above the main hold, accessible only to him.

Already, the flight wardens were lowering the shield gates, granting clearance the moment they registered his signature.

No delays. No questions. They knew his ship.

Everyone knew the Turak .

He spared a glance beside him.

She sat quietly, her small hands curled into her robe, her posture rigid. Her lips were pressed together, bloodless. But her eyes—dark, luminous, alive—moved constantly, watching everything. Calculating.

Afraid, yes. But not broken.

Not yet.

Zarokh shifted slightly in his seat. The armor strained over his thighs, uncomfortable now. His arousal was unwelcome— dangerous —but inevitable.

He was Nalgar. Feeding had always stirred heat in the blood, but with her… this human…

There was something more.

She was small. Fragile. Her scent was not yet released to him—his helmet filtered it—but he knew, instinctively, that it would be intoxicating. That one breath would unmake him.

He flexed his fingers on the controls.

She was everything the Nemok scientists had promised, and more.

Her hair—dark as shadow silk—clung to her neck and shoulders.

Her skin gleamed faintly in the dim cockpit light, warm and smooth and maddeningly soft.

The curves of her body were slight but unmistakably feminine.

She belonged to a world of softness and light.

A world he had no right to touch.

And yet, she was here.

His.

The Kroll had almost stolen her from him.

He ground his jaw, recalling the chaos from orbit—how Velkar had reported cloaked ships flanking the Dukkar transport, how the Kroll had appeared from nowhere, demanding surrender. Likely chasing the Hvrok, still loose on the surface. Zarokh had wasted no time.

Let Velkar command the fleet.

He had taken the Turak .

Shot down the lead Kroll vessel himself. Boarded the transport. Ripped open the vault where they had secured her. Cut her from the wall.

He had seen her then. Truly seen her. Alive. Trembling. Bound and vulnerable.

And rage had filled him—blinding, brutal rage. At the Dukkar. At the Kroll. At anyone who dared lay hands on what was his.

He stole a glance again.

Her robe clung to her knees as she shifted slightly in the seat. She had obeyed his command without protest. She had flinched but not screamed. Her pride, like her silence, was still intact. A good sign.

But what intrigued him most… was the spark in her eyes.

When she had spoken to him in her strange language, there had been fire. Not reverence. Not supplication.

Challenge.

She had no idea how close she should have come to death for that. No one spoke to him in such a way. Not without consequences. But the rawness of her voice, the unknowing boldness?—

He had found it… pleasing .

Endearing.

Brave little thing.

The Turak began its final descent, skimming low over the crimson ridgelines. Wind howled across the cliffs. The towers of Kavarenth rose high ahead.

Zarokh leaned back in his seat, exhaling slowly as the landing protocol engaged.

His fingers flexed.

He could not wait to get her inside.

Into his private chambers, where nobody dared step but him. Where he had never brought another.

Where the walls would hold her screams.

And no one else would ever touch her again.