Page 21 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

S he couldn’t believe the way he looked at her.

Like she was fire, and he meant to burn—with her.

His intensity was unbearable, a mix of restraint and self-assurance, as if he had all the time in the world to unwrap her, study her, claim her. That quiet arrogance—that certainty she would yield—made her want to scream.

It should have repulsed her.

She should have hated him.

She should have felt only terror.

Instead, her heart pounded like a warning bell.

No. Don’t do this. But her body wasn’t listening.

Her skin prickled as heat replaced the cold. His fingers brushed her: bare, deliberate, trailing like molten silk. He wasn’t rough or clumsy. Only precise. Possessive. And so gentle it made her furious.

Gentleness was the worst of it.

It meant he knew exactly how to break her.

Her throat went dry.

Those red eyes glowed against the pale shimmer of his skin, seeing everything—every shiver, every hitched breath.

She hated that her body responded.

Hated more that he knew.

The robe slipped away, pooling behind her. She sat exposed, shivering. Not from cold. She told herself it was fear. Only fear.

But when his hand settled on her waist, thumb brushing her hipbone, she didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He leaned in.

His breath warmed the hollow of her throat, lips hovering. Threatening.

His hands slid up her back, tracing her spine. Gentle. Still gentle. His touch stirred something she couldn’t control, something primal.

Her muscles tensed. Her breath caught. She braced for impact.

But it never came.

He just touched her. And it was devastatingly sensual.

Sensual?

Seriously?

How could someone like him—a brutal creature who’d stolen her life—be sensual?

Her fingers knotted in the sheets.

This wasn’t right.

He had ripped her from Earth, dragged her into a world of silence and power. And now… now he was being gentle?

Her heart thundered.

He pulled her closer, bare skin brushing his chest. Heat radiated from him—real, alive. Like touching a sun that hadn’t burned her. Yet.

Her mind reeled.

Do his kind even feel this? Desire?

Because this wasn’t indifference.

This wasn’t just blood.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Learning you.”

Two words, low and resonant, vibrating against her skin.

She closed her eyes, afraid of what he might see in them.

He slid his arms behind her and lowered her, slow as gravity, until her shoulders met the bed. Cool silk. Warm hands. She barely registered the shift until she lay beneath him, breath catching at his weight.

He didn’t force her.

He simply placed her there, as if she belonged.

As if she’d never had a choice.

She stared up, heart hammering. Fighting now would be pointless. He was too strong, too fast. She’d already learned what happened when she resisted—the collar, sedation, restraints.

This wasn’t Earth.

There were no laws. No rights.

There was just him.

Zarokh.

On this world, he was all she knew.

Fear coiled tight in her chest, but beneath it was something darker.

The urge to surrender.

Because he was too much. Because her body didn’t know how to process this strange mix of tenderness and dominance.

This wasn’t her life anymore.

Here, there were no rules.

Only him.

He hovered over her, larger than any man she’d ever known—broad, bare-chested, grey skin gleaming like stone under low light.

He took her wrists, pinning them gently. His touch wasn’t cruel.

But it was absolute.

His crimson eyes burned into her.

And she had the terrifying feeling that he saw everything.

Learning her, he’d said.

What a joke.

He wasn’t learning her. He was claiming her.

No.

She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stay still.

He didn’t know her.

He didn’t know the years she’d spent clawing her way through Manhattan law firms, the walls she’d built to be untouchable.

She wasn’t going to break. Not for his strength. Not for his beauty. Not for his alien heat above her.

He could take what he wanted. She couldn’t stop that.

But he would never have her.

Not where it mattered.

She stared back, eyes like stone. Let him try.

She would not lose herself to this creature.

Not to the warlord with crimson eyes and patient hands.

Even if his touch made her skin hum like it belonged to someone else.

He could pin her, strip her, and mark her, but she would remain intact.

Unbroken.

Even as she felt how close she was to shattering.

Her thoughts blurred. Her body was too aware of him: his heat, his weight, his strength.

She’d expected brutality. That would have made sense.

Instead, he moved slowly, deliberately, as if he had all the time in the universe.

His knee slid between her thighs, opening her. Her robe parted, baring her legs to the cool air. To him.

Her heart hammered.

Then he lowered himself… his face between her thighs.

She stiffened.

This shouldn’t feel like this. She’d been stolen, imprisoned.

And yet…

Anticipation curled hot in her belly. Her skin tingled. Her hips betrayed her with a twitch.

His breath ghosted over her inner thigh.

She stared at the ceiling, fury and humiliation colliding with something darker.

How the hell did he know?

He wasn’t human, yet he moved like a man who understood everything.

It felt like he had known her body from the first inhale, reading it without translation.

She’d never felt anything like this.

Like a force of nature that didn’t ask permission.

But there was reverence too, a strange restraint, as if he worshipped even as he conquered.

He hadn’t even touched her there yet.

Her body trembled, and not just from fear.

No. Don’t, she told herself as her body betrayed her, as her mind splintered.

She barely had time to brace before his mouth was on her.

Her whole body jolted, spine bowing, wrists pinned helplessly. His strength pressed into her with devastating precision.

A raw sound escaped her throat.

He didn’t stop.

And gods, he knew. Each flick of his tongue, each slow press, dragged her further from resistance.

It was overwhelming. Shameful. Shattering.

This was not supposed to feel good.

And yet it did.

More than anything ever had.

Tears sprang to her eyes, not from pain, but from helplessness. From being known in a way no one ever had. From being stripped of control by pleasure, not violence.

She writhed, torn between fury and surrender, and his grip tightened slightly, reminding her she wasn’t going anywhere.

Cecilia turned her face into the pillow, muffling the broken sound in her throat.

Because he was destroying her.

And he was doing it with his mouth.

And she hated him for it.

Almost as much as she hated the part of her that wanted more.

Her body shattered. A blinding flood of sensation tore a cry from her throat—a cry she tried to swallow but couldn’t.

It crashed through her, seizing her in full-body spasms. Her back arched, limbs trembling, his grip unyielding. She’d never experienced anything like this.

When the final waves ebbed, she collapsed, sweat-slick and shaking, her mind a swirl of rage and disbelief.

Because he was still there.

Still holding her.

Zarokh’s face hovered above hers, unreadable—until a slow smile curved his mouth. Not cruel or mocking. Just viscerally satisfied.

As if he had won.

His grip loosened but didn’t release. He stared, red eyes glowing like embers, taking in every inch of her.

She met his gaze unflinchingly, pure hatred in her eyes.

Her voice was low and raw.

“I fucking hate you.”

The translator echoed the words perfectly.

Zarokh’s expression didn’t shift at first. Then his pupils narrowed, his body tensing—not in anger, but in something darker. Her fury seemed to deepen his fascination.

Then, without a word, he leaned in.

She stiffened—until she felt it.

His lips at her neck.

Not kissing, but pressing. Testing

She gasped.

“No—”

Too late.

A sharp sting, twin needles piercing her skin. Then heat. A pulsing, dragging pull, as if something ancient had awakened and was feeding.

Her back arched, fingers clawing the bed. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream.

She could only feel.

It was impossible. Horrifying in its intimacy. He drank from her as if she were sacred, as if her blood were an answer to some primal need.

She felt herself weakening.

Fading.

She didn’t know how long it lasted.

When he finally pulled back, he exhaled against her skin like he’d tasted something divine, breath warm, her blood on his lips.

Her pulse thundered.

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

He rose, eyes bright, possessive, terrifyingly sated.

Then, deliberately, he bit his lower lip, drawing a bead of crimson—her blood. He dragged his thumb across it, then leaned in.

Her breath hitched.

With maddening gentleness, he brushed that blood against her lips like a claim.

A fucking vow.

She recoiled, but it was too late. She could taste it—herself—on him. Warm, metallic, and dizzying.

Then, without a word, he vanished into the shadows.

Leaving her cold and shaking. Marked in ways deeper than the bite.

And still hating him.

Even as her traitorous body pulsed with the memory of his mouth… and the taste of her own blood on his.