Page 38 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

T he dining hall was nothing like she'd expected.

There was no blood-soaked stone or snarling guards at attention.

No cruel thrones or chains dangling from the walls.

Instead, it was cavernous and gleaming, lit with hundreds of suspended orbs casting warm light across a table long enough to seat fifty.

But tonight, there were only two places set—facing one another. Intimate. Intentional.

The table itself was obsidian, like much of this fortress, polished to a dark, mirrored sheen. And the feast… the feast was a vision of flesh.

Roasted meats. Raw cuts arranged like sashimi. Smoked, seared, charred. Some drenched in thick, spiced sauces. Others still steaming with heat. A pitcher of something crimson—definitely not wine—waited at her side, already poured into a wide chalice.

The scent alone made her mouth water.

And that startled her.

Once, she’d been a near-vegetarian. A defender of those without a voice. Meat had been a rare indulgence, not a craving. But now? Now she was ravenous.

Another goddamn sign.

She was changing.

Zarokh held her chair out for her—like a gentleman, if a gentleman were seven feet of muscle and menace. He wore black again, of course. Always black. The crown still adorned his brow. His long hair was tied at the nape of his neck, the ends brushing against his shoulder blades.

He looked… striking. Disarming. Dangerous in the way fire was—warm and deadly all at once.

She sat, careful not to show how off-balance she felt.

The translator device rested between them, blinking faintly. Ready. Watching.

“You look,” he said smoothly, “more than exquisite.”

“You look like you dressed to impress,” she replied, her voice dry.

His grin was pure predator. “Did it work?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she lifted a fork and took a cautious bite of the nearest dish—something that looked like beef, though it definitely wasn’t. Her tongue exploded with spice and salt and smoke.

It was delicious .

Zarokh watched her with amusement, but didn’t comment. He served himself silently, his movements surprisingly refined for someone who'd once torn through armored warriors with his bare hands.

After a moment, he spoke again.

“I want to know more about you.”

She looked up.

“You abducted me, altered my body, and now you want polite dinner conversation?”

“Yes.” He gave a slight nod. “I want to understand the female who stabbed me in the chest and now shares my bed.”

She blinked. Fair point.

“I used to work for a legal aid nonprofit,” she said eventually. “Earthside. I defended vulnerable people. Refugees. Victims of abuse. People the system chewed up and spat out.”

Zarokh tilted his head. His eyes were keen. “You fought for others.”

“Yes.”

“That explains much.”

His tone was oddly reverent. She hated that it sent a warm flutter through her chest.

“And you?” she challenged. “What do you want? In this Universe?”

He paused. A long one.

“For most of my life, I wanted only power,” he said. “To never be weak again. To never be at another’s mercy.”

She watched him closely.

“But it was hollow,” he continued. “Even when I conquered. Even when they bowed.”

“And now?”

“Now… I have something that feels different.” He looked at her. “You.”

She nearly choked on a bite of something red and tender.

“Why?” she demanded. “What’s so different about me?”

“You fight me,” he said simply. “Even when you’re afraid. You’re clever. Calculating. I can see you looking for weakness, even now.”

She said nothing. He wasn’t wrong.

“And,” he added, “you’re beautiful. Not just to look at—but here.” He tapped his chest. “You interest me. You wear my mark. You’ve accepted the change.”

Cecilia’s eyes narrowed.

“You forced that on me.”

“Yes,” he said. No apology. “And now it is done.”

She gritted her teeth. Her hands clenched under the table.

“Then you’d better make it worth my while,” she muttered. “If you don’t want me to stab you again, give me something to keep me interested. Let me learn. Let me live . I won’t rot in a cage.”

Zarokh studied her for a long, unreadable moment.

“My people are violent,” he said. “We are always fighting. It is our nature.”

She snorted. “So are humans.”

He raised a brow. “I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s true,” she said. “We’re constantly at war. Petty, brutal, senseless wars. Maybe our species aren’t so different after all.”

He seemed to consider that. “Perhaps.”

They ate in silence for a time.

Cecilia caught herself watching him—studying the curve of his mouth, the way he held his chalice, the angle of his jaw in the light. How utterly beautiful he was. The sheer presence of him.

It was… dangerous. Addictive.

Her fingers itched to touch him.

She hated that she was falling for him. That he was becoming more than her captor. That something in her—something feral and changed—craved him in ways that had nothing to do with logic.

This was madness.

And yet, madness had never tasted so good.