Page 25 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

S he was alone. The door had hissed shut hours ago, she thought, though it was hard to say. Time had collapsed into surreal flashes and long silences since he left, since he’d risen from the bed like a satisfied beast and vanished into the shadows.

Cecilia lay still for a long while, listening. The silence felt thick, almost deliberate. No voices, no machinery, just the quiet, pulsing hum of alien power hidden in the walls.

Eventually, she moved.

The bed was absurdly soft, the pillows cradling her like water, the sheets smooth as silk. Everything smelled faintly of him: metal, smoke, and something darkly sweet.

She pushed herself up, muscles sore, mind splintered, and began to explore.

The suite, if that’s what this cage was, was immense.

Vaulted ceilings soared above black stone walls streaked with veins of glowing silver.

She passed through archways and found what could only be described as a private bathhouse.

Steam clung to the air like breath, rising off a deep, inky pool lined with polished obsidian.

Vials of oils and fragrant powders lined low ledges, alongside towels of thick, soft fabric that shimmered faintly in the low light.

Robes lay folded neatly on a stone bench. They were her size. Of course. Someone, he, had chosen them for her.

Her stomach growled, sharp and sudden. That’s when she heard it: the soft click of a door behind her.

Cecilia spun around.

A figure entered, tall and feminine, humanoid but unmistakably alien.

Her skin was the color of tarnished copper, her hair braided back in thick cords.

Her eyes were dark and unreadable. She wore a simple, ceremonial wrap.

She didn’t speak. There was no translator, by design, obviously. No questions. No requests. No commands.

The woman moved with efficient grace, setting down a gleaming black tray on a nearby surface. Then, without a glance at Cecilia, she turned and left.

On the tray, food and water awaited. The meat was seared on the outside but glistening rare within.

Some alien animal, she didn’t recognize it, but the scent hit her hard: rich, metallic, savory.

Her mouth watered. The water was clear, with a faint, silvery sheen, sweet on the nose, almost astringent.

Poison? Maybe. Probably not. He hadn’t gone to all this trouble just to kill her quietly.

She ate. She didn’t mean to devour it, but she did. Her body craved it: protein, salt, fat. Something primal stirred in her chest, and she hated that hunger, hated how satisfied her body felt when she finished.

What is happening to me? She tried not to think about that.

Instead, she bathed.

The water soothed her aching limbs, though it couldn’t wash away the tension that coiled tight in her belly. She lingered, soaking in silence, letting the heat chase away the chill clinging to her skin.

When she emerged, she wrapped herself in one of the robes—deep violet, edged with silver thread. It clung softly to her curves, heavier than it looked. Comfortable. Too comfortable.

She found her way back to the massive window and looked out. Night had fallen over… this planet, this place. She still didn’t know its name.

The world outside glittered faintly. Thousands of small lights—red, white, and some blinking—marked what she guessed was the city or settlement below. She couldn’t make out much, just the faint shapes of towering spires and the jagged silhouette of the mountains beyond.

It was vast. Alien. Beautiful, in a cold, distant way. And she was trapped in its heart. A guest. A pet. A prize.

The adrenaline finally wore off. The weight of everything—her body, her thoughts, her memories of Earth—came crashing down like an avalanche. She crawled back into that cursed bed, into the warmth and softness she hadn’t asked for. She pulled the covers tight and let the tears come.

Silent at first, then wrenching. She wept until her chest hurt, until her eyes stung.

And she thought of him. That creature. That alien.

Cruel and tender. Intense. Hungry. So terribly gentle, in ways that had shaken her more than violence ever could.

The way he’d touched her. The way he’d held her wrists down with frightening ease but hadn't broken her. The way he’d pressed his mouth to her throat like he owned it—and then left her alive.

Why? She didn’t know. She didn’t want to. But she hated that she remembered the feel of his skin. The sound of his voice. The look in his eyes when he watched her like she was his salvation and his prey all at once.

Still, beneath all of that, she was a prisoner. Stripped of her choices. Brought here for his amusement. His desire. Whatever tenderness he showed was built on the foundation of that awful truth.

And she didn’t know if that would ever change.