Page 37 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

T he dress was unlike anything Cecilia had ever worn.

A deep, imperial purple—soft as air but heavy with meaning.

The fabric shimmered in the light, flowing over her body like water, accentuating the subtle changes she was still coming to terms with.

It clung to her waist, fell in graceful folds at her hips, the neckline daring but elegant.

The boots were strange, made of some supple hide she couldn’t name, dyed obsidian and stitched with thread that glinted like starlight.

They fit like a second skin. Of course they did.

He knew her size.

He knew everything.

The jewels had come next—delicate chains of black metal draped over her collarbones, setting off the faint flush of her transformed skin. Tiny stones glittered at her ears and throat, cut like nothing she'd seen on Earth, in hues that shifted between blood-red, deep violet, and night-sky blue.

Then came the servants.

Two of them. Female. Silent. Unquestioning.

They didn’t speak, didn’t smile. But their touch was gentle. Reverent. They moved with precision, hands skilled as they combed and twisted and wove her hair into an intricate updo that made her look… royal. Or like a prized offering. A bride. A pet. She couldn’t decide which.

The translator was gone, of course. Without it, there was no way to ask them why. Or beg them to stop. Or scream.

Not that she would have.

There was a strange calm inside her now.

Or maybe it was resignation.

When they were done, she was left alone again, standing before the polished obsidian mirror. She didn’t recognize herself. Not completely.

Her lips were red, her eyes—still maroon-tinged—shimmered in the low light. Her posture was perfect. She looked like something out of a dream. Or a nightmare.

She didn’t know which.

And then… he came.

The door opened with a whisper. She turned.

Zarokh stepped inside like he owned the world. And maybe he did.

He was dressed differently—no armor this time, no robes.

A tailored black suit, cut to perfection, hugging the breadth of his shoulders, cinched at the waist. His long ebony hair was half-pulled back with a silver clasp, and his crown—a dark circlet of alien metal—sat upon his brow like it belonged there. Like it was a part of him.

She forgot to breathe.

He was... breathtaking.

Goddamn him.

Heat flared low in her belly. A fresh rush of arousal pulsed through her. Stronger than anything she’d ever felt on Earth. It was chemical. Primal. She wanted to drag him to the floor and devour him.

What has he done to me?

He stood still for a moment, eyes taking her in slowly, hungrily. The corners of his mouth curled—not quite a smile. Something deeper. Possessive.

Then, at last, he extended a hand. Palm up. Gentlemanly.

“Come,” he said.

Her heart skipped a beat.

This would be the first time she’d leave these chambers. Her prison. Her sanctuary. Her gilded cage.

She stared at his hand, unsure whether to slap it away or take it.

But in the end, she stepped forward.

And placed her fingers in his.