Page 39 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

T he hall breathed stillness as he entered, a deceptive calm in a place where stone whispered of power and the ghosts of war lingered. The scrape of armor as his warlords snapped to attention, the rustle of silk as dignitaries shifted, it was a symphony of anticipation, and he reveled in it.

Zarokh ascended the obsidian steps to his throne, a god surveying a domain forged in his own image. Divinity was a claim others made for him; his power was carved from blood and bone, from the wreckage of those who dared challenge him.

He sat.

The throne was cool beneath him, a shard of Anakris's volcanic heart, laced with veins of metal that thrummed with a faint light in his presence. It was a monument, a stark declaration to all who entered: here, power reigned, embodied in form, voice, and name.

"Lord Zarokh," the chorus echoed as his subjects bowed, but his attention was a captive thing.

Beside him, she stood. Cecilia.

He had chosen her raiment: a gown of crimson talar silk that clung to her like a second skin, spun from her own lifeblood.

The infernal Dukkar collar was gone. Instead, silver-black chains coiled around her throat and wrists, not as shackles, but as adornments: symbols of belonging, of power, his crest a medallion resting between her collarbones, forged from the same star-metal as his blade.

And nestled amongst the chains of her necklace, lay the silver, polished translator stone, a pendant of alien design.

But it was her eyes that held him captive.

Once brown, now maroon, dark depths flickering with embers caught in smoke. Her canines had sharpened, her posture straightened, her gaze no longer wavering.

She was becoming.

She was his.

"My lords," Zarokh's voice was a low, deliberate caress, "you will honor the one who stands at my side."

Eyes darted toward her, curious, speculative, some confused, others wary, and a few, he noted with a flicker of disdain, disbelieving.

A smile, cold and sharp as obsidian, played on his lips.

"She carries my blood now," he continued, "and is therefore of me. She is untouchable. Her needs, her comfort, her safety, are your concern as much as mine. Disrespect her, and you disrespect me."

The weight of his words landed like a hammer blow.

He watched the reactions ripple outwards. Heads bowed deeper, some spines stiffened. Lord Vrexx, ever the strategist, cast a calculating glance, assessing her, searching for the threat she now posed.

Good.

Let them wonder. Let them fear what she would become.

Even now, she was stronger than they knew. His blood flowed in her veins, sharpening her instincts, quickening her reflexes. In time, she would be more than just his consort.

She would be his weapon.

His weakness. And his wrath.

Cecilia stood, regal, silent, chin lifted, meeting their gazes without flinching.

Zarokh felt a tightening in his chest, a dark surge of pride.

This woman, torn from her world, reshaped by his will, thrust into an existence she never asked for, had not broken. She had ignited.

Stronger. Wilder. More alluring than ever.

He leaned forward, resting an arm against the carved edge of his throne.

"Speak," he commanded the room. "If you dare."

Silence.

They knew better.

And from the corner of his eye, he saw the flicker of something rare on Cecilia's face.

Satisfaction.

Yes, let her taste the intoxication of power.

Because soon, the court would understand: she was not merely his prisoner.

She was his mate.

The tense silence of the hall shattered as the great doors groaned open.

A soldier in dark armor strode in, the crest of the Lacris blazing on his chest plate, his eyes lowered but his approach urgent, bearing news not meant for public consumption.

Zarokh’s jaw tightened.

He lifted a hand languidly. “Approach.”

The soldier obeyed, bowing low before leaning in to murmur in Zarokh’s ear, a rushed, tight whisper.

Zarokh stilled.

Cecilia watched, her gaze a brand against his skin, sharp and perceptive, catching more than he intended.

“The outpost at Varahn,” the soldier hissed. “Razed. Commander dead. Survivors say Vuvak’s sigil was burned into the stones.”

Zarokh didn’t move, didn't breathe. But within him, something ancient and cold stirred.

Vuvak.

He had expected posturing, border skirmishes, sabotage perhaps, but this?

A strike so bold?

Deliberate.

Calculated.

His knuckles tightened on the arm of the throne until the black stone groaned.

Beside him, the silver translator stone nestled within the chains of Cecilia's necklace, whirred to life, feeding her the soldier’s words in real-time.

He saw her tense.

Smart girl.

Her maroon eyes flicked to him, reading the fury simmering beneath his skin.

But something else, too.

She saw it. The fracture.

Not fear, not weakness, but distraction.

She would think it was about her, that his anger was sharper, more volatile because of her. Perhaps, to some degree, she was right.

Zarokh turned his head, meeting her gaze.

He had never allowed anyone to stand beside him on this throne before.

Now that she was here, blood of his blood, flame of his thoughts, he could not pretend she was inconsequential.

She was his. That meant anything that threatened his realm also threatened her .

But it also meant something far more dangerous.

If his enemies sensed this attachment, if his own people sensed his focus had shifted…

There would be consequences.

He rose slowly, commanding silence. The soldier backed away, bowing again.

“My lords,” Zarokh’s voice was a razor’s edge. “Vuvak seeks to provoke. He forgets himself.”

He didn’t look at Cecilia, but he felt her watching, the conflict in her breath, her presence.

He added, a darker note creeping in, “And perhaps others forget as well. Let me remind them.”

The warlords lowered their eyes.

The weight of his power pressed down like a storm cloud.

He stepped from the throne, his long cloak sweeping the steps.

But just before he passed her, Cecilia, his furious, exquisite, changing human, he paused.

He brought his mouth close to her ear.

“You see now,” he murmured, so only she could hear, “why I cannot afford weakness. Not even in the form of something I… cherish.”

Then he was gone.

The court parted like shadows before a fire.

Cecilia was left standing there, adorned in finery, drenched in his bloodline, bound by chains of biology and fate, with a hundred alien eyes on her.

Wondering if she would ever be accepted.

Wondering if she could be.