Page 6 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

T he tray sat where the alien had left it, now stone-cold.

The thin vapors of steam had long faded, and with them, any pretense of freshness. The pale porridge-like substance congealed faintly around the edges of the bowl. The sliced fruit looked unnervingly untouched, their strange colors dulled. The water sat still in the metal cup, mocking her.

She stared at it from the bed.

Motionless.

And then, finally, she let out a slow, steady breath.

This was not surrender.

This was logic.

Her stomach felt hollow, gnawing at itself. Her lips were cracked, tongue thick. Her head pounded behind her eyes. She was dehydrated, undernourished, and weak—and she could not afford to be any of those things. Not now.

They had told her what would happen if she refused. Sedation. Stasis. Feeding tubes. She’d be kept alive, yes. But helpless. Consciousness gone. Control gone. Her body treated like a specimen, her mind put in storage.

No.

Not that.

She couldn’t face the dark again.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her limbs trembled as she stood—more from fatigue than fear. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and padded across the floor to the small, spartan table tucked against the wall.

The chairs were low. Functional. No design, no hospitality. Just utility.

She sat.

The tray scraped softly as she pulled it closer. She picked up the spoon. It was cool in her hand—curved, but slightly too large, with a shallow bowl at the end.

One small scoop.

She hesitated, then tasted it.

It wasn’t… terrible.

Bland. Slightly sweet. The texture thick and gluey, like oatmeal left out too long. But not disgusting. And—most importantly—not poisoned.

Another bite. Then another. She forced it down slowly, methodically. No gagging. No tremors.

Just silence and the rhythm of chewing.

The fruit was dense, mildly tangy, with a fibrous texture she didn’t recognize. The water tasted neutral. Nothing added. No chemicals. Just clean, flat hydration.

They knew what a human needed.

That thought settled in her like a stone.

She froze, spoon halfway to her mouth.

They didn’t just guess what she might eat. They hadn’t offered her slabs of alien meat or tentacled delicacies or whatever the hell they consumed on other planets.

They had given her food she could process.

Food her body could recognize.

What if… she isn’t the first?

Her fingers tightened around the spoon.

What if there have been others?

How many humans had been taken before her? Studied. Fed. Examined. Used.

The porridge turned to lead in her mouth.

She forced herself to swallow anyway.

Because she needed strength. Clarity. She needed her body to work, her mind to stay sharp. For whatever came next.

This wasn’t a nightmare.

It wasn’t a psychotic break or a hallucination. There were no corners of her consciousness left to hide in. The metal walls around her were real. The cold air was real. The food in her mouth, the ache in her limbs, the blank, watching eyes of the creature that visited her—they were all real.

And she had to adapt.

Fast.

She set the spoon down gently.

Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

And sat back in the chair, staring at the sealed door across the room.

Somewhere beyond it, there was a warlord.

The one who gave orders.

The one even monsters obeyed.

And he was waiting for her.