Page 11 of Sold to the Nalgar
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.
CHAPTER 6
The 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.
