Page 17 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

T he doors sealed behind Zarokh with a quiet hiss.

He stood in silence, alone in the low-lit chamber, the walls lined with weapons, maps, and projections, none of which held his attention now.

Her scent lingered.

It clung to his skin, saturating the air around him like smoke after battle. He could still taste her in the back of his throat, though he hadn’t yet laid fang nor tongue upon her.

And his body…

Tch.

He exhaled through his nose, jaw flexing as he adjusted the dark silk at his waist, but it was no use. He was hard . Painfully so. Both cocks, thick and heavy, were swollen with need that burned like molten ore through his veins.

He could have taken her.

The moment her eyes met his, wide with fear, her tiny body curled against the wall in that bed he’d brought her to—it would have been so easy. He could have torn the robe from her body, pinned her beneath him, pressed her into the furs and stone, and taken what was his.

She is helpless.

A creature of softness and blood. Delicate, utterly vulnerable.

And her blood…

His fangs ached at the thought. That scent—subtle, floral, spiced with mortal terror and the sweet salt of her skin—was unlike anything he’d known. It wasn’t just hunger anymore. It was need .

He turned away from the wall, pacing once, fists clenched.

So why had he stopped?

Why, when she’d glared at him, spat words he didn’t understand but felt with every inch of his body—when her hatred rolled off her in waves—why had he hesitated?

He should have taken her. He’d taken entire cities with less effort.

But then… there’d been that moment.

When he’d stood before her for the first time without his armor. When her gaze met his—not the terrified, scrambling stare of prey, but something else. Something deeper. As if, for a second, she’d seen him .

Admiration?

No. It had to be his imagination.

He growled low in his throat, the sound rough and grating in the silence.

He didn’t want her praise .

He wanted her obedience .

He turned to the wall panel and touched a black sigil.

A narrow drawer slid open.

Inside, nestled against black velvet, was a small crystalline device. Smooth. Palm-sized. Emitting a faint hum of power.

A Majarin translator.

He snatched it up with a flick of his wrist, closing the drawer with a thought.

She would understand him now.

There would be no more confusion. No more hiding behind language.

He would explain her place.

And she would learn—through words, or through pain—that she belonged to him .

There was no escape. No plea for mercy.

There was only obedience.

And surrender.