Page 17 of Sold to the Nalgar
“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.
