Page 5 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

C ecilia drifted awake, the edges of consciousness blurring into reality, a slow return from oblivion.

The world rebuilt itself in fragments, sensations preceding awareness. Warmth cradling her cheek, a soft, yielding surface beneath her limbs, the whisper of fabric against her skin. Air that didn't burn her lungs.

Her eyelids fluttered open.

She lay on a wide, low bed, its mattress a cloud of softness unlike anything she had ever known. A blanket, the color of deep twilight, draped over her, plush and warm against her skin.

Her body was clothed now, swathed in alien garments: loose robes of soft material that felt like brushed silk, the deep green shot through with threads of shimmering silver. At the foot of the bed sat slippers, simple and padded.

What the hell was happening?

She pushed herself up slowly, groggy and achy, her limbs stiff as if she had been lying motionless for an eternity.

The room had changed. Still seamless, still metallic, but warmer now.

The lights had been dimmed to a soft amber glow, casting long, gentle shadows.

The air carried a faint, herbal scent, clean and calming.

She blinked. For a fleeting, dangerous moment, it almost felt…comfortable.

Then memory crashed over her, cold and brutal, shattering the illusion of peace.

The restraints. The faceless figures. The sting of the needle.

She was still a captive.

Her surroundings might have shifted, but the reality remained a jagged edge in her throat. The walls might be warmer, the bed softer, but she was still trapped inside a box. Still stolen. Still a prisoner.

Her heart began to pound, a dull, heavy thud in her chest. She pressed a hand against it, desperately trying to regain control.

What is this? Why the change of scenery?

She couldn't decipher their motives. Had she been relocated? Was this some twisted experiment? Were they watching her now, scrutinizing her every move?

Her gaze darted to the corners of the room, searching for any sign of surveillance. There were no cameras, no telltale seams in the metal. Just smooth, silent walls. Like being entombed alive in a luxurious mausoleum.

She touched her throat, then her hip. All intact. No new bruises. But a phantom ache lingered in her thigh, a ghostly echo of the sedation.

She had no idea how long she had been unconscious. Hours? Days?

Her stomach growled, loud and demanding, a primal protest. As if summoned by the sound, a hatch opened silently in one of the walls.

She recoiled, startled. A faint hiss of air escaped, followed by a wave of scent.

Sweet. Warm. Intensely comforting. Familiar enough to make her mouth water. Maple syrup? Or something eerily similar.

A small platform extended from the wall, revealing a tray crafted from clean metal.

A shallow bowl held a white, porridge-like substance that steamed gently in the amber light.

Beside it, a smaller dish contained slices of pale, unidentifiable fruit.

A cup, stainless and gleaming, held a clear liquid.

Her throat was parched. Her body screamed for sustenance.

But she remained frozen, immobile.

She stared at the tray as if it were a venomous snake, ready to strike.

Is it poisoned? Drugged? She wouldn't put it past them.

And even if it wasn’t, what then? Simply accept their offering? Eat like a docile lab animal, pacified with rewards after being experimented on?

Her hands clenched into fists in her lap, the soft fabric of the robe bunching in her grip. The bed was warm, the room was comfortable, and every detail of this calculated kindness infuriated her.

Fuck them.

She wasn't a pet to be fed after being prodded and dissected. She wasn't a toy they could dress and sedate and then reward with a carefully curated meal.

Tears stung the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back fiercely. She wouldn't cry. Not now. Not yet.

Out of all the people on Earth, why her?

She had never intentionally harmed anyone.

Never broken the law. She had dedicated her entire adult life to helping others, fighting for justice in courtrooms filled with grief.

She worked herself raw for clients who could never truly repay her.

She tried, with every fiber of her being, to do the right thing.

What did I do to deserve this?

There was no answer, only the silent hiss of the hatch closing behind the tray.

She turned her face away from the food, pulling the blanket higher around her shoulders. She would not eat. Not yet.

She would not be broken so easily.

She stared at the tray for what felt like an eternity.

It steamed gently, the aroma curling through the air, warm and faintly sweet, undeniably appetizing. Comforting. A calculated act of benevolence.

She didn't move.

Her lips pressed into a tight, defiant line, her throat aching with thirst, her stomach churning in protest.

She wouldn't eat it.

Wouldn't drink.

They wanted her well-fed. Hydrated. Kept alive.

For what?

Her pulse quickened, a cold dread gripping her. The thought turned her stomach.

Whatever—or whoever —they were keeping her for, they clearly didn't want her dead. If they had, they wouldn't have dressed her in soft robes. They wouldn't have warmed the room or placed a clean tray of food beside her bed like she was some pampered guest.

No. They wanted her compliant. Healthy.

Useful.

Her jaw clenched, the muscles rigid.

That meant the food was likely safe. Probably. But that wasn't the point.

This was the one thing she had left. The only sliver of control she still possessed in this alien nightmare.

So she turned her back on the tray.

Curled onto her side, knees pulled up against her chest, arms wrapped tightly around her shins. The blanket felt too warm now, almost suffocating, but she didn't kick it off. She needed it. Needed something to hold onto. Something to hide beneath.

Her eyes squeezed shut, and there, in the darkness behind her eyelids, Earth rose before her.

Not as a planet, but as her home. The deafening roar of Manhattan traffic.

The reassuring feel of concrete beneath her heels.

The distant hum of the subway rattling under her feet.

The acrid smell of cheap coffee. The harsh glare of office lights.

The sterile, suffocating atmosphere of the courtroom.

Melanie's sharp, pragmatic voice. The comforting clutter of her desk.

Her parents' laughter echoing on a late-night phone call.

Her favorite shawarma joint, a haven of familiar flavors.

The breathtaking city skyline silhouetted against the fading light of dusk.

All of it. Gone.

Her chest constricted, a painful pressure building. A low, aching sob slipped from her throat before she could stifle it.

Then another, and another.

Her shoulders shook with the force of her grief. Tears soaked the pillow beneath her cheek. She tried to swallow it down, to muffle the sounds in the crook of her arm, but it was too much. The dam had broken.

I didn't deserve this.

I didn't do anything wrong.

The grief surged up like a tidal wave, threatening to drown her.

And then, a chilling thought pierced the haze of her despair.

They could be watching.

Her sob caught mid-breath, lodging in her throat like a shard of glass.

She sat up abruptly, scrubbing at her face with both hands, using the heel of her palm to wipe away the tears. Her chest still hitched with tremors, but she forced herself to be still. To breathe.

She looked around the room again, searching for any sign of observation. Still seamless. Still silent. But that proved nothing.

There could be a thousand eyes on her, just beyond the smooth, metallic walls. She had seen how those creatures moved—faceless, inhuman, silent as air.

Watching.

Studying.

She straightened the blanket, smoothing the wrinkles with trembling hands. She pushed her knees down, forcing herself to sit upright, spine rigid.

No more sobbing.

No more fear on display.

Let them try to decipher her. Let them stare. She wouldn't allow them to see her break.

She wiped the last tear from her cheek, her resolve hardening.

No.

She remained in the bed.

Still. Silent. Curled beneath the blanket as if it could shield her from everything beyond this room, this alien reality.

She didn't move. Didn't touch the food. Didn't drink.

Let them wait. Let them watch. She wasn't going to make this easy for them.

Time blurred, losing all meaning in the unchanging environment.

There were no clocks, no sunrise or sunset, no shift in the artificial lighting.

The food had long gone cold, the tantalizing aroma fading into a stale memory.

Her throat ached with thirst. Her stomach felt hollow, a gnawing emptiness that threatened to consume her.

But she stayed put, her will a stubborn flame in the face of despair. Because it was the only thing she could control.

Then—a soft hiss.

Her heart leaped into her throat, a frantic bird trapped in her chest.

The wall across from her began to dissolve, the seamless metal folding back like melted wax.

She scrambled upright, clutching the blanket tightly.

A figure stepped through the opening.

It was…not what she expected.

Shorter than her, barely reaching her chest. But wide, incredibly wide.

Solid. Its body appeared to be carved from stone and brute force, the thick, muscular limbs swinging at its sides with slow, deliberate weight.

Its skin, a vibrant shade of green, gleamed wetly in the room's soft light, like polished jade coated in oil.

Blunt fingers ended in thick, claw-like tips.

Its head was squat and thick-necked, almost nonexistent. And its eyes…

They were completely black.

No whites. No irises. Just reflective pools of ink, absorbing the light and reflecting nothing.

No emotion. No recognition.

Just the cold, flat stare of something that didn't need to pretend to care.

Cecilia froze, every muscle locking in place.

It was undeniably alien. Unquestionably so.

One of them.

One of the creatures that had abducted her.

She recoiled instinctively, pulling the blanket tighter around herself as if it could somehow protect her from whatever this thing was. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out all other sounds.

The creature—her captor—raised one thick hand.

Resting on its massive green palm was a stone. Small, flat, smooth, like a river stone, but silver, faintly glowing at the edges with an ethereal light.

She didn't have time to wonder what it was.

Then it spoke.

Its guttural, grinding voice rumbled from deep within its chest, the sounds harsh and alien. But overlaid, as if piped through invisible speakers, came a second voice.

Perfect English. Neutral, almost soothing in its artificial clarity.

"You must take nourishment."

Cecilia blinked, her mind reeling.

She stared, speechless.

"Eat. Drink. You have no choice."

Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Her brain scrambled to process the impossible.

How is this possible? she thought, stunned. A translator? Real-time? But not robotic, not even slightly. It wasn't just translating the words; it was perfect. Better than anything she had ever heard, better than any AI on Earth.

How advanced were they?

"I'm not eating anything," she snapped, her voice rough and hoarse from thirst and exhaustion.

The alien—she didn't know what else to call it—tilted his head slightly, the black eyes unwavering.

"There is no poison." There was that artificial voice again, overlaid with his.

She narrowed her eyes, suspicion hardening her gaze. "And if I still refuse?"

The creature remained silent for a beat, the black eyes unreadable.

"You will be sedated."

Her chest constricted, a wave of nausea washing over her.

"You will be placed in stasis. Nutrients will be delivered through tubes. You will not be harmed. His orders."

Something inside her recoiled, a visceral rejection.

Stasis. Sedation. Again. The thought of it—of being rendered unconscious, helpless, her body violated without her even being aware—made her skin crawl.

She couldn't endure that again. Not knowing what they might do to her while her mind floated in the oblivion of darkness. It was worse than control. It was erasure.

But then…

One word echoed through her mind, resonating with a chilling force.

His.

Her lips parted, her breath catching in her throat.

"Whose orders?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"The warlord," the Dukkar said simply, the translated word hanging in the air, cold and heavy.

She froze, the blood draining from her face.

The warlord.

That meant there was someone even above this creature. Someone who held dominion over him.

And if this thing—the one who had drugged her, watched her with impassive eyes, stood over her without flinching—was obeying orders…

Then what did that say about the one giving them? What kind of power did he wield? What kind of being was he?

She swallowed hard, her throat dry and tight.

The short alien took one step back, the light emanating from the translator stone flickering slightly.

"You would do well to heed these instructions. If you wish to live. For if you are found to be... defective…"

He didn't finish the sentence, the unspoken threat hanging in the air like a poisoned dart.

He didn't have to. She understood.

He turned and walked out of the room, his heavy steps echoing on the metal floor.

The hatch hissed closed behind him, the sound smooth and final, sealing her off once more.

And then she was alone again.

But not the same.

This time, she was left with more than just fear.

She was left with a new, chilling awareness.

Whoever had ordered her abduction, whoever waited at the end of this terrifying ordeal, was powerful and ruthless enough that the monster who had just threatened her was afraid of him.