Page 19 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

H e spoke, his voice filling the space like distant thunder, deep and resonant. It curled around her, impossible to ignore, sinking into her bones and vibrating in her core.

“You have questions,” he said. “Ask.”

She shuddered, not just from his voice but from him—sitting there, draped in that sleek black robe that seemed spun from shadows.

Its sharp angles and barely contained power made her skin crawl.

His posture was relaxed, but it was wrong: that calm, almost languid pose like a predator pretending to be at ease, ready to strike.

He leaned slightly, one arm braced behind him on the bed, weight tilted as if he were a lounging cat.

Nothing about him looked safe. The glow of his unblinking red eyes was unreadable, terrifying not only because of what he was, but because she couldn’t stop staring.

Her body betrayed her, reacting instinctively: the flicker of awe or fear, the pull of fascination—she wasn’t quite certain which.

Ask, he said.

And that made her furious. As if he were doing her a favor, as if this was normal, as if she owed him or needed to comply.

“You want me to ask?” she said, voice low, hoarse with disbelief. “Fine.” She sat up taller, wrapping her robe more tightly around her, her heart pounding fiercely.

“Why me?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Why the hell am I here? What did I ever do to deserve being dragged from my life, from my planet?”

Her voice cracked on the last word. She inhaled sharply, fighting the trembling in her limbs, the surge of tears that threatened to spill over.

But he just watched her calmly, waiting. As if he wanted more.

Her stomach clenched. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and in that moment, she wanted to lash out or scream or run.

Instead, she stayed rooted, her breath ragged, nails digging into her palms beneath the fabric of her robe.

She fought to hold back the flood of fear, the crushing weight of the truth pressing down on her:

She was alone.

And that man—this alien —owned her.

Her voice was barely more than a whisper now, quiet and hollow.

“Who are you?”

Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe hopelessness was settling into her bones like a frost that wouldn’t lift. For all her fury and defiance, a part of her—something small, buried deep—began to wonder what difference it made to know.

His answer was slow, deliberate, so normal it chilled her.

“I am Zarokh.”

She repeated it silently. Zarokh. It didn’t sound human. It sounded like steel: sharp, cold, and unforgiving.

“What are you?” she asked, voice hoarse from hours of screaming, tears still raw in her throat. “What is all this?”

He regarded her with quiet patience, then finally spoke.

“Nalgar. We are the people of Anakris. I am Warlord of the Lacris Clan. I rule from the Xarith River to the Merakan Mountains. This stronghold and the settlement below—those lands are mine.”

There was no arrogance in his tone, no threat. Just facts, cold and unmovable.

Like a mountain.

As immovable as him.

Almost as an afterthought, he added, “You are fortunate… to have been chosen.”

Her eyes widened. She almost laughed, but all she could manage was disbelief, fueled by burning rage. Fortunate? He’d stolen her—torn her from her world, violated her body, robbed her of her freedom—and he called her fortunate?

Her fists clenched tighter in the folds of her robe. Her voice trembled with a mix of fury and despair.

“Go fuck yourself,” she spat, voice raw and defiant.

His expression didn’t change. She didn’t see even the slightest hint of anger in him, and somehow, that was worse—much worse.

His brow creased slightly, a tiny furrow between the dark arches. It was like he was trying to grasp something foreign—perhaps her outburst.

“You are angry,” he said finally, tone maddeningly calm. “That is understandable.”

She stared at him, frustration bubbling up like acid.

“But the life you will have here,” he continued, “will be far better than what you experienced on Earth. You were a peasant there. Here, you are mine. I have endless resources. You will want for nothing.”

Her fists gripped the fabric of her robe tighter, her throat tightening with the effort of keeping her composure.

“You can’t give me what I want most,” she whispered. “Home. Freedom. My life back.”

A faint smile flickered on his lips: not warmth, but something colder, almost amused.

He looked at her as if she’d just thrown down a challenge.

That tiny twitch unsettled her more than his silence, more than his power.

It was a hint of something dark and dangerous—more than amusement—something predatory.

He inclined his head, watching her as though she were something exquisite—and flighty, as if she could try and escape at any moment.

“Do you know,” he said softly, “that no one who has ever told me to go fuck myself has survived?”

Her heart stopped.

“Until you,” he added, voice dipping like the promise of thunder. “That is how precious you are.”

Cecilia’s breath caught.

She hated him. She wanted to scream at him again, claw his face, run— something .

But all she could do was sit there. Swallowing her fury. Burning under his gaze and feeling, to her horror, the slow bloom of something else beneath her skin.

No. She couldn’t surrender. Not yet.

But something dangerous was unfurling inside her.

And then it hit her.

Like a slow, creeping shadow sliding up the walls of her thoughts, cold and suffocating, it hit her.

All his promises. The pampering. The comforts. The you will not want for anything …

It wasn’t generosity.

It was justification.

There would be a cost.

Of course there would be.

Her mouth went dry. Her spine stiffened against the mattress.

She looked at him— really looked. At his strange, perfect face. The sculpted body relaxed like a predator at rest. The red eyes that never left her.

And she asked the one question she’d been dreading. The question that wrapped around her heart like a noose.

“What do you want from me?”

It came out barely a whisper. She hated the tremor in her voice, but it was there, laid bare in the space between them like a sacrificial offering.

He didn’t answer right away.

He didn’t have to.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken truths.

He tilted his head, slowly.

“Everything.”

The word dropped between them like a blade.

Her blood ran cold.

“Your service,” he said. “Your attention. Your submission. Your blood.”

A beat.

“Your body.”

Cecilia couldn’t breathe.

She’d known. Of course she’d known. Somewhere deep inside, she’d always known.

But hearing it aloud—spoken in that smooth, deep voice with such simple certainty—made her want to crawl out of her skin.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t lunge or threaten.

He just sat there, calm and composed, as if what he’d said was the most natural thing in the world.

Because to him, it probably was.

She wanted to scream. To sob. To disappear.

Instead, she swallowed it down. All of it. Every shattered, quivering piece.

Because if he wanted everything, he would have to take it. Every inch. Every drop. Every last fucking scrap.

She would not give it freely.

Slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward.

His lips parted, and she saw them for the first time: gleaming and pointed.

Fangs . Real, gleaming fangs, sharp and pristine, longer than any human canine. Not costume teeth. Not movie props.

Real.

Panic gripped her chest.

He was a monster. A goddamn vampire. She shuddered, leaning back instinctively, her spine pressing into the cold stone headboard.

“No,” she said, voice low and shaking.

“I’m not going to bite you,” he replied smoothly, that maddening smile dancing across his lips again. “Not yet.”

He reached toward her: not quickly, not violently, just a slow, exploratory gesture.

“Just let me touch you.”

“No.” Her voice was firmer this time. Sharper.

He tilted his head. Considered her. “It’s easier if you don’t resist. More pleasant for you. But I can do it the other way… up to you.”

The smile widened, becoming devilish. Mischievous . He was enjoying this.

Toying with her.

“What do you prefer, human?” he asked, voice low, dark with amusement. “To fight… or submit?”

She was backed into a corner—literally. The headboard met the wall at an angle behind her. She had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

He was so big . So much . His presence filled the room, filled her lungs, filled every inch of her awareness. She couldn’t escape it.

He moved closer still.

The folds of his robe fell open slightly, revealing the pale gleam of his chest. Broad. Sculpted. Powerful. Not human, but… maddeningly perfect.

A warrior’s body. Built for destruction. Or pleasure.

She hated that she noticed. Hated that her breath caught in her throat.

Don’t be blinded, she told herself. Don’t forget what he is.

A brute. An arrogant, entitled bastard.

And he’d taken her.

She stared at him, eyes burning with fury.

“You don’t care if I fight?” she spat, voice hard, tight. “Fine.”

Something inside her cracked— broke —under the pressure. Her rage, her fear, her utter helplessness , it surged like a dam bursting, washing over her with blinding heat.

She didn’t think.

She didn’t plan.

She struck .

Her palm connected with his cheek in a violent, sharp crack . Her hand stung with the impact, but the sound— the sound —was satisfying.

A heartbeat of silence.

Cecilia froze.

Zarokh hadn’t moved. His head had turned slightly from the force of it, but now, he straightened.

The smile was gone.

A drop of red glistened on his lip.

She blinked.

It was blood. Not some strange alien shade, but red , like hers. And there—just at the corner of his mouth—was a cut. Sharp. Clean. From her hand.

As quickly as it had appeared, it began to heal . Right in front of her, skin stitching back together with eerie precision, the glimmer of blood vanishing like it had never been there.

Cecilia’s pulse thundered in her ears.

What the actual fuck is he?

She looked up, meeting his gaze.

His red eyes had darkened, pupils dilated, gleaming like molten rubies. Hunger. Danger. Something else she couldn’t name. Something ancient. Terrifying.

“Oh?” he said.

Just one word, but it echoed through the translator, soaked in menace and amusement. And... hunger.

A low chuckle escaped his throat. He licked the last trace of blood from his lower lip.

She could hear her own breath, rasping in her ears, too loud. Her body was rigid, heart hammering against her ribs.

Then, casually, almost gently, he spoke again.

“Now… you are the only being in the universe to strike me unprovoked and survive.”

“It wasn’t unprovoked,” she shot back, voice low and cold.

He tilted his head slightly. “Ah.”

The smallest curve touched the corner of his mouth again. Amused. As if she were something unexpected. Curious.

“Did it make you feel better?” he asked.

She hesitated.

Did it?

She didn’t know. The slap had been raw instinct. A burst of rage. A flare of her humanity in the face of something inhuman. It hadn’t solved anything, hadn’t changed her circumstances. But it had shocked her back into herself—grounded her. And more than anything…

He hadn’t retaliated.

That made her feel things she didn’t want to feel. Made her doubt. Made her wonder .

She didn’t answer.

He watched her for a long, simmering moment.

“Do it again… if it makes you feel better.”

Her breath caught.

Because he meant it. The invitation wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t a threat. He was dead serious.

Letting her.

Giving her that power.

Damn him.

He was so very fucking sure of himself.

She stared at him, still trembling—but now, more from fury than fear.

He wanted her to hit him again.

That was obvious. The gleam in his eyes, the sharp focus of his attention… he was trying to provoke her. To make her react. To rattle her. Maybe it amused him. Maybe he fed on it. Maybe it gave him some sick pleasure.

But she wasn’t going to give it to him.

Not again.

Cecilia drew a long, slow breath and forced herself to stop. To still .

She let her shoulders drop. Loosened the fists she hadn’t realized she’d been clenching.

She remembered who she was.

Not a prisoner.

Not a helpless little thing.

She was Cecilia Lim. From New York. A defense attorney who had clawed her way up through the hardest, most cutthroat firms in the city. She didn’t survive by being reactionary. She survived by being smart . Strategic . In control of her emotions. In command of the room.

Even now—this alien room, this nightmare—she could find a way to claw some control back.

So when she finally spoke, her voice was cold and icy, like steel slid into a velvet sheath.

“Clearly, I can’t stop you from taking what you want,” she said.

He tilted his head, listening, eyes unreadable.

“So go ahead,” she continued. “Do whatever it is you want to do.”

Whatever it is you bought me for, she thought bleakly, her stomach twisting.

But her face stayed blank and her spine remained straight. She would not beg. She would not rage. She would not sob or become the weeping captive he might expect. And she wouldn’t strike him again—not because she was afraid, but because it gave him the power. And that, she would not surrender.

Let him have her body, if it came to that.

But not her dignity .

Not her mind .

Not who she was .

The smile on his lips faded. Just a little.

He was silent for a beat.

“Hm. ” A low, considering sound emanated from deep in his chest. He patted the bed beside him with a firm, commanding hand.

“ Come. ”

The word struck the air like a challenge.

And her blood ran cold.