Page 4 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

T he chamber was a sanctuary of black, carved from seamless stone, warmed by slow-burning plasma veins that pulsed through the walls like molten blood.

Silence reigned, undisturbed by the outside world.

The only light came from the flickering red glow of the hearth and the faint shimmer of the holographic display suspended before him.

Zarokh sat motionless, the center of his private universe.

He was garbed in his customary black: woven targarin fiber, soft to the touch yet battle-worthy, regal in its unadorned simplicity.

Across his brow rested the circlet of Vaelian, made from a metal as rare as starlight, unbreakable as his will, a crown forged in silence, as all true power must be.

The holo-display flickered, then resolved.

And there she was.

The Nemok scientist's voice droned in the background, clinical, detached, a litany of data and dosage reports. He tuned it out, a buzzing annoyance.

His eyes were fixed on her.

Strapped down, unconscious, her limbs pale and delicate against the harsh restraint bands.

Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, a fragile rhythm in the sterile environment.

She wore the gauzy examination shift, a whisper of fabric that revealed more than it concealed, barely covering the swell of her small, pert breasts, the soft inward curve of her waist, the subtle flare of her hips.

Human.

She was unlike anything he'd ever seen. He had seen humans before, fleeting glimpses of caged creatures held by traders or flaunted as exotic trophies by low-caste nobles.

But never like this. Never in such detail.

The holo was sharp, real, almost touchable.

He could see the gloss of her dark lashes, the tiny freckles scattered across her shoulder, the shimmer of her black hair like woven ink. Silken. Exactly as he had requested.

Beautiful.

And so very breakable.

The thought stirred something low within him, a visceral pull.

Hunger, yes, but more than that. Curiosity.

A primal urge to possess. She was small, but not childlike.

Soft, but not weak. There was a tension in her limbs even in sleep, a subtle resistance that hinted at hidden strength.

Intelligence, perhaps. Defiance waiting to ignite.

He wondered how she would fight him.

How long would it take to break her, or train her, or both?

He had a translator, purchased from the Majarin, a marvel of organic precision, already calibrated to the nuances of the human tongue. He would learn her sounds, her meaning, her mind.

Would she resist?

Of course, she would. That was the allure.

Would he be gentle?

He didn’t know. The answer was irrelevant.

But he would take from her.

Her blood.

Whenever he wished.

The holo flickered again, the feed shifting to new footage. She was awake now.

Zarokh leaned forward, his focus sharpening.

There. Her eyes. Wide and soft, a strange, earthy color that was jarringly unfamiliar. Not red like his kind, but a deep, rich brown. Alive. Too alive.

He saw the panic bloom in their depths, the quick dart of her gaze, the frantic assessment of her surroundings. The realization dawned, a slow-burning spark of disbelief igniting into terror.

And then…

She screamed.

Her body arched against the restraints, a desperate, futile struggle. She thrashed, her voice raw, a primal cry of fury and fear that echoed in the sterile chamber.

She isn’t prey, he thought, a flicker of something akin to admiration stirring within him. She’s not exactly meek.

He watched, fascinated, as her spirit strained against its bonds.

And then the Nemok entered.

They were smooth, faceless shadows, gliding into the frame with an unsettling grace.

One of them drew a needle, a glint of metal in the sterile light: sedative, sharp, and clinical.

It pressed the tip into her thigh. She flinched, cried out, a choked sound of protest, then stilled as the drug took hold.

The light dimmed in her eyes, fading into a vacant stillness.

And something cold cracked open inside him.

It rose, sudden and searing, an unexpected surge of rage.

Not the controlled fury he wielded on the battlefield, the calculated violence of war. No. This was personal, visceral. A wild, snarling beast clawing beneath his skin, demanding release.

How dare they touch her?

How dare they pierce what was his?

Zarokh stood without a word, the movement fluid and effortless. He crossed the chamber, the shadows deepening around him. With a single touch of his palm, he activated the comm-panel.

A moment later, the blurred projection of Captain Laggarel appeared, the Dukkar live-trader, wrapped in his glimmering harness of status, a testament to his wealth and influence. His eyes widened, a flicker of unease crossing his reptilian features at the sight of Zarokh.

“Warlord,” the Dukkar said quickly, bowing his head in deference. “She is en route, as requested.”

“She is not to be harmed,” Zarokh said, his voice low, each word a shard of ice. “You will provide her with comfort. Food. Heat. You will release her from the restraints and ensure she is covered.”

Laggarel blinked, his expression shifting from unease to confusion. “Of course, my lord.”

“If there is a single bruise on her body,” Zarokh continued, his voice now honed to a razor’s edge, each word a precise and deadly strike, “if she tells me she was mistreated, if she arrives frightened or trembling?—”

He leaned closer to the feed, his presence filling the small space, his power palpable. His crimson eyes flashed, radiating a cold, lethal light.

“—I will kill every last one of you.”

The channel went silent, the Dukkar’s face frozen in a mask of terror.

Zarokh stood there, the echo of his words still ringing in the chamber, a promise and a threat.

She was not just some curiosity now, not just a challenge to be overcome.

She was his.

And gods help the fool who forgot it.