Page 31 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

D ays passed. Or maybe weeks. She didn’t know. Time blurred inside this gilded prison.

Cecilia wandered the chambers he had claimed for her, a sprawling suite of brutal beauty: polished stone floors, heavy drapery in deep purples and midnight blacks, alien fixtures she couldn’t begin to decipher.

There were no doors, only seamless panels that responded to his presence alone. And he was always gone by morning.

But every night, he came to her.

He didn’t always touch her. Sometimes, he only watched. Sometimes, he made her burn with his mouth, his teeth, his hands. And sometimes— god help her —she wanted it. Hated herself for wanting it. Still did.

The air here smelled strange. She’d gotten used to it: cold minerals, something metallic. And something else… her own skin. Her own scent. It was changing. Sharper. Different.

She caught her reflection in the polished metal lining the bath chamber. Not a true mirror, but reflective enough.

She froze.

Her skin wasn’t the same.

There was a faint glow to it—almost imperceptible unless the light hit at the right angle, like moonlight on pearl. Her pulse pounded in her throat, and she lifted a trembling hand to her face.

Her pupils were wrong.

Dilated in the dimness like an animal’s. Black and wide, the irises barely visible. She stepped closer to the polished surface, touching her own cheek. The flesh was cool. Not clammy, just… cooler than it should have been.

“I’m changing,” she whispered.

She stumbled back, her heart racing. “What the hell is happening to me?”

In the silence, only her breath echoed off the stone. Her mind raced, grasping for reasons. The food? The air? The planet?

No. No.

His blood.

That night. When he pressed his fingers to her mouth. When he shared it—his essence, or whatever the hell it was. She hadn’t even understood what he was doing until after. Until she started noticing… this.

A chill passed through her. Not fear. Not quite.

Something else.

Resolve.

She turned from the reflective wall and stalked back into the living quarters. The robes he’d provided were still too soft, too warm, too luxurious. She flung one on, then paced the room.

Out of the high windows, she could see the settlement sprawling far below. Black stone buildings like fangs rising from the earth. Strange transport crafts hovered now and then. Soldiers moved in ranks. And beyond that, jagged mountain ranges that glowed faintly under the light of the red sun.

She was so far from home. Earth was gone. Her life was gone.

And yet… she was alive. Still herself. Mostly.

Maybe.

Her gaze landed on the low dining table. The utensils. Long, carved instruments. A fork with two curved prongs. A set of pointed sticks that resembled chopsticks. A short, slightly curved knife with a thick handle.

She crossed the room and picked it up.

Not very sharp. But it might do damage if aimed right.

She turned it over in her palm. Thought about the way his throat looked when he tilted his head to scent her. The smoothness of his skin. The vulnerability beneath all that strength.

Maybe she couldn’t kill him.

But she could try.

And if she got the angle right—if she had one moment, just one?—

She set the blade back down. For now.

Her hands trembled, not from fear.

From anticipation.

She was changing. But maybe… just maybe… change could be her weapon.

She spun around at the sound. The breath locked in her throat.

Zarokh stood in the doorway.

It was still daytime.

He never came during the day.

And yet… here he was. Filling the room like a stormcloud made flesh. Regal and silent and terrifying.

He wore black—sleek, sharply tailored, etched with silver across the shoulders and chest. A high collar framed his neck, and a circlet of dark metal wrapped around his brow, catching the red sunlight pouring in through the high windows.

He looked like a king. A warlord. A god of violence.

As if he’d just returned from commanding armies or deciding the fate of a continent.

Her fingers curled tighter around the utensil she still clutched behind her back.

He moved no closer. Just stared at her with those infernal crimson eyes, taking her in—her flushed face, her bare feet on the stone, the way her robe had slipped open in a V at the chest.

She felt exposed. Like prey. But not helpless.

She took a step back.

His eyes narrowed. “What are you hiding behind your back?”

His voice was as calm as ever, but something deeper ran beneath it. A thread of curiosity. And perhaps… knowing.

She didn’t answer.

Zarokh stepped forward—slowly, deliberately. Then, with a tone like velvet laced with threat, he said, “Whatever you’re thinking… do it.”

He stood before her now, palms out, arms slightly extended—unguarded. Open.

It threw her off balance. His stance. His words.

And his expression—relaxed. Not mocking. Not furious. But something unreadable. Still. Quiet. Shadowed with thought.

She stared at him, heart hammering against her ribs.

Why now?

Why did he come to her like this?

He exhaled, deep and controlled. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

She blinked. “What?”

“About your strength,” he said. “How you don’t shatter, even when you should. Even when I’ve taken… everything.”

Her stomach twisted. She hated how his voice could do that—wrap around her, dig under her skin.

“I want you constantly,” he continued. “Not just your blood. Not just your body. You. The fight in you. The ice. The fury. I want to give you more. Let you see who I am. What I can offer.”

She stared at him, stunned, fury and confusion warring inside her.

“Go on,” he said again. “Do it.”

Everything in her snapped.

She surged forward with a cry, robes whipping behind her, rage uncoiling from her spine, and drove the knife—small, curved, alien—into his chest.

She felt the resistance—then the give.

The blade met bone. Slid in.

He didn’t flinch.

His body jerked slightly as the steel bit through muscle. Then he looked down… at her hand, still gripping the hilt embedded in him.

Blood welled up—dark, shimmering, not quite red.

His eyes lifted again. Met hers.

No fury.

Just something else. Something quiet. And unreadable.

Her breath hitched.

She waited for the blow. For retaliation. For pain.

But Zarokh… just stood there, gazing at her, his expression unreadable as blood slowly dripped down his chest, pooling along the edge of his silver trim.

“You should have gone for the throat,” he said softly.

And he reached up… and gently covered her hand with his.

Not to stop her.

Not to remove the knife.

Just to hold her.