Page 8 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)
T he door opened again.
Cecilia didn’t flinch anymore. Or rather, she still felt the fear, but she’d learned to bury it, to breathe through it, to stand tall even when her heart thundered in her chest.
Two of them entered.
The tall, silent ones. Slender, helmeted, gliding rather than walking. She still didn’t know what they were. They never spoke. Never reacted. Just smooth, black suits stretched over inhuman frames and those blank faceplates that seemed to look through her.
Behind them came the squat green one—the one with the translator stone. Her captor.
He motioned toward her.
She stood, stiff and tense, the soft alien robes clinging uselessly to her skin. There was no choice but to follow.
The corridor was seamless metal, stretching endlessly. No doors, no windows. The lights pulsed faintly overhead, slow and unnerving.
They stopped at a new room.
This one was wider. Colder. Sterile.
The antiseptic scent hit her like a fist. Hospitals. Surgeries. Things taken without permission. Her fists clenched.
The tall creature stepped behind her.
She entered.
The walls were white, gleaming. In the center stood a smooth, curved platform—something designed for her. The lights were bright, too bright.
She turned to the alien.
“They will arrive soon,” he said, the stone in his hand glowing faintly.
Her stomach dropped.
“You must be prepared for his viewing.”
“His… what?”
“The warlord. His standards are exacting.”
Terror rose like a cold tide. Viewing? Like merchandise? Fuck you.
The helmeted figures advanced.
“What is this?” she demanded, voice cracking. “What are you going to do?”
No answer.
The lights sharpened.
They reached for her robe.
She froze as it parted under their hands, sliding away as though designed to fall apart with a touch.
“No! Wait…” she whispered.
They didn’t wait.
The robe. The slippers. Even the thin alien undergarments. Gone.
She stood naked, trembling, arms wrapping around herself as humiliation and fury warred inside her.
But they didn’t stare. Didn’t leer.
They didn’t see a woman. Just… an object.
This was worse.
The alien pointed to a second doorway.
“Go.”
She followed his finger. A circular chamber lined with coils and vents.
“No,” she whispered. “What’s in there?”
“Sanitation. You are to be cleansed.”
Her throat tightened.
“You are being treated well,” he added, his tone colder. “At his request. If you refuse, we will restrain you. There will be no marks.”
She hesitated, then stepped forward.
The door hissed shut behind her.
Mist erupted. Cold, chemical, and sharp, it coated her skin, sliding between her legs and over her scalp. She shuddered, gasping at the sting of antiseptic on raw skin.
“Stand. Legs apart,” came the voice.
She froze.
“Now.”
Her body obeyed.
The spray ended. Warm air blasted her dry. Then silence.
The door opened.
She stepped out: naked, skin prickling, feeling stripped inside and out.
They gave her a robe of deep purple, embroidered with golden thread. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t hers. She put it on, its heavy fabric whispering against bare skin. A golden belt cinched her waist.
Then the alien held up a silver collar.
Cecilia stiffened.
“You are intelligent enough not to fight,” the translation said. “This is likely unnecessary. But know that if you do anything rash…”
Cold metal pressed to her throat.
“…it will deliver pain. Great pain.”
Click.
It locked. Light and elegant, but heavy as chains.
Her hands itched to tear it off, but she held still.
She glared at the alien, hating him. Hating this unseen warlord who thought he could strip her down to nothing.
The collar hummed faintly as it synced to her pulse.
What if I fight anyway?
The ship shuddered. Lights flickered.
She reacted on instinct.
Shoving. Twisting. Screaming. “Get off me!”
The tall figures seized her arms, their grip inhumanly strong. Her robe slipped from one shoulder as her feet slid across the smooth floor.
“Do not resist,” the squat alien warned.
“Go to hell!” she spat. “You disgusting pricks!”
The collar fired.
Pain exploded across her throat, searing white-hot. She screamed, her knees buckling.
“That pain can become a thousand times worse,” the voice intoned calmly.
She collapsed against the wall, trembling, gasping.
Then the wall shifted.
Restraints slid out, coiling around her wrists, her ankles, her waist.
Click. Click. Click.
She was pinned, the collar deactivating but leaving its burn ghosting her skin.
The alarm sounded overhead. Red lights swept the ceiling. The ship groaned.
Cecilia hung there, chest heaving, robe gaping, the purple fabric mocking her.
Not a person.
Not even a prisoner.
Just cargo.
She closed her eyes as another shudder rolled through the ship.
I will survive this, she promised herself. I will survive this. And I hope they all die and burn in whatever hell is waiting for them.