Page 32 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

C ecilia stared at the blood spilling over her hand. Warm. Viscous. Deep red—red like hers.

But this wasn’t right.

He should have roared. Collapsed. Fought back.

Instead… Zarokh simply held her, his massive hand still resting atop hers, the knife buried in his chest.

“Why?” she breathed. Her voice cracked around the single word. “Why would you let me do this?”

Her fingers trembled against the hilt. She didn’t know if she should pull the blade out or leave it there. What was the protocol for stabbing an alien warlord who claimed to own you?

He didn’t answer.

His eyes—bright and inhuman—were fixed on hers, full of something that made her feel even more trapped than before. Not fury. Not pain. Just… knowing.

And then, impossibly, he laughed.

It came as a soft, low sound, vibrating from deep in his chest.

She felt it in her bones.

Her mouth went dry.

He was mad.

That was it.

He was utterly, irrevocably insane.

She jerked her hand away, the blood now smeared across her palm. “You’re bleeding. You should be—fuck—you should be dying.”

But he just chuckled again, the sound cold and infuriatingly amused. “I wanted to see,” he said, “if you would do it. And if you would regret it.”

“You’re mad,” she whispered.

Zarokh’s expression didn’t change. Slowly, he reached down and gripped the knife’s hilt. Without ceremony, without flinching, he yanked it free from his own chest. The sound was sickening. Wet.

Cecilia recoiled, heart hammering. Her stomach lurched.

His blood flowed faster now, soaking the front of his black robes.

“You’re going to have to try harder than that,” he said, voice low and calm. “If you want to kill me. I’m exceptionally hard to kill.”

She stared at him, breathing raggedly, everything inside her twisting.

Relief and horror.

She hadn’t wanted him dead. Had she?

But what did that mean?

His warmth surrounded her again, his body somehow still towering, powerful, radiating an awful kind of comfort that shouldn’t exist.

And still… he was close. Too close.

His scent—metallic, dark, and somehow intoxicating—coiled through her senses.

He leaned in slightly, his mouth near her ear. She could feel the heat of him, smell the blood.

When he spoke, his voice was thick. Hungry.

“Sweet little human,” he murmured, “did you know that I crave you even now? That I will not punish you for retaliating against me?”

She stiffened.

“Why?” she asked again, desperate, shaking.

His answer was immediate.

“Because it was deserved.”

He stepped back half a pace, enough for her to look up at him. His fangs glinted behind parted lips.

“That doesn’t mean I’ll apologize,” he added, voice colder now. “You are mine. And perhaps now you’ll understand something important.”

“What?” she spat.

“That you do not want to escape me,” he said softly, almost kindly. “Not here. Not now. And even if you did—you can’t. ”

The silence stretched between them, thick as smoke.

And for the first time, Cecilia didn’t know if her fear… or her fascination… would win.

She felt it.

Even through the haze of disbelief and fury, she felt it—that dark heat radiating from him, the thrum of restrained power, the hardness pressing beneath his blood-soaked robes.

His arousal.

And worse… she felt her body respond.

A sharp pulse between her thighs. A low, coiling hunger that made her knees weak and her jaw clench in denial.

No. No, not again.

But her body had its own will now.

She grabbed his wrist—harder than she’d meant to—and yanked him toward the bed.

“Then fuck me,” she snapped. “If that’s what you want. Take it. Again.”

He laughed. Low. Rich. Startled. As if amused by her rage and her readiness.

And then he stopped laughing and looked at her.

His gaze raked down her body, lingering where the silken robe had fallen askew, exposing a long, pale thigh.

“You’re stronger,” he said softly.

She blinked. “What?”

He moved toward her. One step. Then another.

“You’re faster. More powerful than you were two days ago.”

Her pulse roared in her ears.

“What’s happening to me?” she demanded. “What did you do to me?”

Zarokh didn’t answer at first. He reached for her face, brushing her jaw with a knuckle—blood still streaking his hand. It left a faint red smear along her cheekbone.

“You are changing,” he said at last. “Your body is responding to mine. To my essence.”

“Your essence ?” she nearly spat the word. “You mean your blood?”

“Yes.” His eyes glowed faintly in the low light. “You’ve consumed it. Tasted it. It’s inside you now. Rewriting things.”

Her stomach dropped. “Rewriting what ?”

He exhaled, and it wasn’t quite a sigh. “You’re becoming something new. Not Nalgar. Not fully human. A hybrid. Something between. Stronger. Faster. More resilient.”

Her throat constricted. “You mean I’m mutating.”

“If that’s what you wish to call it.” He shrugged, unapologetic. “My blood is potent. Most would die from even a drop. But you… you’re adapting.”

She staggered back a step, breathing shallow, her mind skidding sideways.

“You’re saying I’ll be like you?”

“No,” he said. “Not like me. Stronger. My blood is rare. My genetic signature… unique. You are becoming something no other being in this sector has ever seen.”

A beat passed. A long one.

“And what,” she whispered, “am I supposed to do with that? If you keep me locked up in here like a doll in a box?”

Her voice shook with fury.

“I will go mad , Zarokh.”

He studied her for a long moment, then—infuriatingly—smiled.

“You want more?” he asked gently.

She bared her teeth. “Yes.”

“Tomorrow,” he promised. “I’ll take you out. I’ll show you what it means to be mine. The world I command. The people who kneel. You’ll see why I brought you here.”

“I didn’t ask to be brought here,” she hissed.

“No,” he agreed. “But now that you’re here, you deserve to see it. To know what your strength will be used for.”

“What do you mean—used for?”

But before he answered, she felt it.

A rolling wave of heat.

Arousal. Dark and undeniable. Her thighs clenched around it, her breath catching in her throat.

Her nipples peaked against the soft robe. Her vision blurred at the edges. Her skin tingled.

It was coming from him —from the way he looked at her, the raw hunger in his scent—and from her own changing body, humming with alien chemistry.

She reached for the tie of her robe. Yanked it loose.

Zarokh stepped forward, his cocks— twin, thick, pulsing —rising beneath the folds of his clothing.

“You can’t control it, can you?” he murmured.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Her body betrayed her with every breath, every heartbeat. She was starving for him. For the feel of him inside her. For the brutal satisfaction only he could bring.

And she hated it.

And she wanted it.

“Come,” he said softly, extending his arms. “Let me show you what your new body can do.”