Page 44 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

T he stronghold rose from the flames like a wounded beast, its blackstone towers split and bleeding fire.

Zarokh stalked through the shattered gates, his men at his back, Cecilia’s presence like a second heartbeat trailing him.

She had refused to leave his side since the square, her new strength radiating from her like heat.

But here, at the heart of his domain, the time for hesitation was gone.

The great hall loomed ahead, its once-gleaming doors splintered and charred. He pushed them wide with a single shove, the sound cracking through the chaos outside. The hall, carved of obsidian and ashstone, still stank of blood and smoke.

Vuvak was there.

The upstart stood at the far end of the throne dais, thick and gnarled as an old war tree.

His skin bore the weathered scars of a hundred battles, but the fire in his black eyes was still arrogant, still alive.

Beside him, Velkar waited like a shadow with a blade, his jaw set, his betrayal carved into every line of his face.

Zarokh’s rage sharpened to a knife’s edge. His voice cut across the silence:

“Did you really think you could usurp me?”

Velkar’s eyes flickered, but he did not speak. It was Vuvak who stepped forward, his grin stretched wide and furious.

“You grew soft, Zarokh,” Vuvak snarled. “A warlord distracted by a human pet. You left your walls open. You left your throne unguarded. Now I will take what is mine.”

Zarokh’s claws curled into fists. “It will never be yours.”

Vuvak raised his hand, and the red guard stepped forward—armored in blood-colored plating, the symbol of Clan Kovak scorched into their chests. They moved with military precision, energy blades igniting with a low hum, guns locked and ready.

Zarokh’s warriors shifted around him, a low growl rumbling through the ranks. The tension hung thick, heavy, electric.

Cecilia stood at his side, her eyes wide but unyielding. The blood he’d given her still burned in her veins—he could see it in the way she held herself, ready to fight.

“No,” Zarokh said, turning to her. His hand brushed her arm—firm, commanding. “Stand back.”

She shook her head. “I’m not leaving you.”

“This fight is mine.” His voice was low, steel-edged. “Do you understand? I cannot shield you and slaughter them.”

“I don’t need?—”

“Cecilia.” Her name came out like a growl, a warning and a plea all at once. “If you are mine, you will obey me now. Stand back. ”

She hesitated, fire in her eyes. But she was clever, quick enough to understand this was not surrender but strategy. Finally, she stepped aside.

His men closed around her instantly, forming a wall of muscle and blackstone armor. They had seen her bite his throat, drink his blood. They had seen him give her power. They knew what that meant. She was his mate now. Sacred. Untouchable.

And now they let him do what he did best.

Zarokh stepped forward, alone.

The great hall fell silent except for the hum of energy blades. He rolled his shoulders, the sharp crack of muscle and bone echoing in the chamber. Vuvak sneered and barked an order, his red guard surging forward in a wave of armor and steel.

Zarokh welcomed them.

The first soldier lunged—he tore the man’s weapon from his hand and drove it back through his chest. Another swung at his head; Zarokh ducked, his claws slicing clean through the man’s throat. Blood sprayed, sizzling on the stone floor.

He moved like a beast unchained, a blur of strength and violence, his roars reverberating off the high walls. Each strike was precise, lethal—designed to end.

From behind the wall of his warriors, Cecilia watched, her breath ragged. He could feel her eyes on him, could feel the heat of her bloodlust rising with his own.

But this was only the beginning.