Page 26 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

C ecilia surfaced from sleep not into silence, not the cool blankness of night, but into light—unnatural, unsettling light. It wasn’t the sun-warmed gold she knew, but a viscous, crimson tide bleeding through the high, black-framed windows. The chamber swam in shades of blood and nightmare.

For a moment, disorientation pinned her. Where am I?

Then the jolt came. Something was wrong. Deeply, instinctively wrong. Her pulse faltered as her eyes adjusted.

He was there. Zarokh. In the bed beside her.

Not sprawled. Not touching. Just there—an obsidian statue carved from shadow and war, his presence a weight that bent the air around him. His crimson eyes, glowing like embers in the gloom, fixed on her. Not merely unnerving. Magnetic.

The moment she met his gaze, he moved. A slow, fluid shift that stole the breath from her lungs. His hand rose, fingers threading into her hair. The touch was impossibly light, almost reverent, as though she were something rare and fragile, unearthed from centuries of dust.

His.

Her breath hitched. Her hair—once a warm brown kissed by sunlight—was darker. Not just muted by the red glow. Black. A fathomless void, like the endless space behind his eyes.

She recoiled, dragging the sheet over her chest. “What the hell?” Her voice rasped, raw and alien in her own throat. A cold shiver ran down her spine. “How long have you been here? Watching me?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink. He tilted his head, studying her with the careful patience of a predator—or a scholar mapping uncharted stars.

Her fingers flew to her throat. Smooth skin. No new wounds. No ache of fresh violation. Had he fed again while she slept? She found only the faint tingling of old scars. No pain. No blood. But the chill in her bones deepened.

“No,” he murmured. The translator hummed in her mind, turning his low, velvet voice into words. “I did not take from you again.” The sound trembled through her like the brush of silk on bare skin.

His lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “I could have. You would not have known.”

Her body betrayed her—heat rushing where anger should have burned. It felt like a morning after, quiet and intimate, when nothing about them was either. He was right. She had been defenseless. Exposed.

“Hello, human,” he breathed. His fingers ghosted over her hair again before retreating. The translator echoed the words, soft and invasive.

Her pulse drummed in her ears as she forced herself to meet his gaze. “Don’t call me that,” she whispered, brittle as glass.

One black brow lifted. “Would you prefer… mine?” The claim hung between them, unspoken yet heavy as iron.

She flinched. His gaze didn’t soften. There was no mockery in him, no smirk, no cruelty—just that unwavering confidence. That quiet possessiveness carved into every perfect line of his face.

She hated that he was beautiful. Hated that she’d seen something close to tenderness in him. Hated that a desperate part of her wasn’t as terrified as she should be. Fury was the only shield she had left, and even that was cracking.

Her grip tightened on the sheet. “Why are you here?”

He studied her for a long beat before rising from the bed with a fluid grace that made her stomach tighten. Even bathed in the bloody light, he moved like a dark god—tall, unearthly, dangerous.

“I wanted to see,” he said quietly, “if you would wake unchanged.”

The word coiled in her mind. Unchanged?

Her heart thudded, too fast. He stood there, watching her from across the stone floor, ruby light painting his skin in bruised shadows. His expression was maddeningly calm.

And then she saw it. His chest. The wound—the knife wound she’d driven between his ribs. It was closing. Skin knitting, blood fading, muscle rethreading as though time itself bent for him. In seconds, it was gone. Like she had never touched him.

“No,” she breathed, backing away. “No, no, no…” The sight was too alien, too impossible.

“Don’t,” she rasped as he stepped closer. She shoved at his chest, palms flat against his heat. “Let go of me.”

To her shock, he did.

She stumbled back, shaking, anger mixing with confusion, despair gnawing at the edges of her strength. “You bastard,” she snapped, the words a whip crack.

She fled—not far, there was nowhere far to go—but to the only place that felt even remotely hers. The bed. That cursed, silken bed, perfumed and treacherous. She crawled onto it like a cornered animal, clutching the sheets around her like armor.

He didn’t roar. Didn’t lash out. He followed with the patience of something ancient. That calm was worse than rage. Rage she could fight. This quiet presence, this relentless gravity, wore her down like water against stone.

“Don’t touch me,” she bit out.

Zarokh stopped beside the bed. He didn’t move, didn’t reach. Just stood there, his red eyes gleaming.

“You haven’t let me out of here,” she snapped, her voice raw.

“Do you expect me to just sit in these walls? With nothing—no one—just waiting for you to appear and take what you want?” Her voice rose with every word.

Weeks of swallowed emotion erupted like fire.

“You’ve taken everything. My home. My planet.

My life. Am I supposed to forget who I am?

Become your pet? Grateful for whatever scraps you toss me?

” She trembled. “You’ll drive me mad. I’ll die here. Alone. Lost. Is that what you want?”

His gaze didn’t waver. The firelight made his eyes burn brighter, deeper. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw something flicker in them—recognition. Guilt, even. But it was gone before she could name it.

He didn’t answer. And maybe that was good. Because if he spoke, she might break.

He came to her then, slow and deliberate, and sat on the edge of the bed. One arm propped behind him, his body loose yet commanding, like he owned everything in the room—her included.

Cecilia’s throat tightened. He was too much . Dark hair spilled around his shoulders, catching the crimson light like a net of black fire. His mouth curved faintly, cruel and beautiful. He looked like a devil wearing silk.

“If it’s freedom you want,” he said, his tone languid, “I will give you more.” His voice stroked her skin, coaxing goosebumps she despised. “I’ll give you things to see. To learn. To use. To hold. You will learn our tongue. After all…” His smile deepened. “You are one of us now.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. One of us. The words chilled her.

“But you won’t let me go, will you?” she asked.

His smile didn’t falter. “No,” he said simply. “You are mine.” The words landed like stones dropped into still water. “And I’ve decided…” He leaned closer, his gaze flicking to her mouth, her throat, her heart. “I like you very much.”

Heat and dread twisted in her chest. Why did his words feel like both a brand and a promise?

“Now…” His hand reached for her, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

His fingers were warm, deliberate. “Come here, my sweet human.” His voice was a purr, soft as a knife’s edge.

“Let me give you pleasure. Let me make you forget that small, dying world of yours.” His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. “You should forget.”

She turned her face sharply away. “No.” The word struck like flint.

She didn’t thrash or scream. Instead, she held her ground, testing him. Will he listen? Some deep instinct whispered the answer—probably not. And yet, he had. So far. He had drunk from her, yes. Touched her. But never forced more.

“No,” she said again, louder. “Leave me alone.”

Zarokh tilted his head, studying her like a flame that refused to be extinguished. “I can’t,” he said softly. “But if you are unwilling…” He reclined beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. “I will not force desire. Instead…” He folded his hands behind his head. “I’ll wait.”

Cecilia glared. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He looked at the ceiling as if her anger were background noise. “Don’t you have work to do? Warlord duties? Enemies to crush?”

“I’m good at delegating,” he said. “And my enemies know better than to cross me. Here, on Anakris, I am as close to all-powerful as you’ll ever see.”

“Arrogant prick,” she muttered. “Sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I’ve earned it,” he said. “I bled for it. Everything you see—this stronghold, these armies—it’s built on sacrifice. On suffering.”

A fissure. A glimpse beneath the steel surface. “So,” she pressed, “you weren’t always this… untouchable?”

“No,” he admitted. His voice lost a fraction of its iron. “I was born to nothing. My parents died in battle when I was young. I was expected to follow them. The others thought me defective.”

“Defective?” she echoed.

“A mutation,” he said. “Stronger. Faster. The healers couldn’t explain it, so they feared it. But I fought. I made them see. Blood bought my place. Discipline held it. In time… I became the strongest.”

“And then?” Her voice was quieter now.

“Then the Lacris realized only I could protect them.” His mouth curved in a bitter half-smile. “So they gave me a throne. But leadership is isolation. I am respected. Feared. Not known.”

Her breath caught. For a fleeting second, she saw the outline of something raw behind his power. Maybe he’d taken her for pleasure. For control. But maybe… maybe he was just lonely.

And maybe that was the crack she could use.

She exhaled, looking at the translator gleaming faintly on the bed. Maybe learning his language would be more than survival. Maybe it could be a weapon. Or a bridge.

“Come here,” she said softly.

He came. Slow, watchful. And she didn’t stop him.

Her heart pounded, not with fear now, but something hotter, stranger. “Do your kind even…?” She hesitated, then asked bluntly, “Does sex bring you pleasure?”

His eyes flared like twin suns. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said, teeth flashing in a grin that made her pulse falter.

“Then why haven’t you taken that from me too?” she asked, flat.

His smile faded into something darker. “We are not mindless beasts,” he said. “Well, perhaps we are. But I felt… it would be too much. I already lose too much control around you.”

“You sound surprised,” she said.

“I am,” he admitted. “I never expected a mere human would?—”

“A mere human?” she cut in, brow arched. “Who apparently makes the mighty warlord lose his senses?”

His laugh startled her—a rough, gravel-deep sound. “Your defiance,” he said, “is almost charming.” His tone darkened. “Come here.”

She didn’t move. But her breath caught.

“Come,” he repeated softly. “We both want to know what happens next.”

And god help her, part of her did.