Page 3 of Sold to the Nalgar
Velkar’s grin faded, replaced by thoughtfulness. “Then perhaps it is good they serve you.”
Zarokh didn’t answer. His mind had already shifted again, back to the woman.
Human. Black-haired. Soon to be his.
And for the first time in cycles, the silence was no longer comfortable. It was… charged.
CHAPTER 3
She woke to a cold that wasn't born of wind or weather. Not the casual chill of a drafty window, nor the familiar bite of a New York night. This was a sterile, insidious cold, a vapor clinging to her skin, leeching the warmth from her bones. She tried to move, a desperate twitch, but something held her fast. Tugging at her wrists, her ankles, her chest.
Restraints.
Her eyes snapped open, a jolt of adrenaline tearing through the fog in her mind.
The room was seamless, an expanse of gleaming, featureless white. No corners, no seams, no purchase for the eye. Light emanated from the walls themselves, an even, depthless glow that offered no shadows, no warmth, no escape. No door.
She was strapped down.
A flat, metallic surface cradled her spine. Cold. Unyielding. Not human. Wide bands pressed across her arms, legs, and chest, imprisoning her, restricting even the slightest turn of her head. The air was odorless, too clean, too precise, devoid of life.
She looked down…
And froze, the breath hitching in her throat.
Her clothes were gone.
In their place, a scrap of fabric, as thin and translucent as morning mist, clung to her skin, barely concealing anything. Not hers. Not chosen.
Something inside her recoiled, a visceral wave of shame and violation. A sickening certainty that unseen eyes had witnessed her vulnerability, that unwanted hands had touched her, perhaps done more.
Her voice cracked the sterile silence.
“Help!” she screamed, the sound raw and ragged, torn from her throat. “What is this?! Let me go!”
But there was no answer. The walls didn’t echo, as if the very fabric of the room refused to acknowledge her existence, her terror.
She screamed again, louder, pushing past the pain, tearing at her throat. She writhed against the restraints, her skin burning with the friction. Her chest heaved, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs, threatening to burst.
This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be real.
You were on your balcony. A glass of wine, its ruby depths catching the starlight. The case files, spread out before you. The stars, a familiar comfort.
Her mind flickered through memories, frantic and disjointed. The quiet hum of the city below. The taste of Shiraz lingering on her tongue.
The thud.
The hands.
Terror seized her, a cold hand tightening around her throat.
Another scream, desperate, pleading. “Somebody! Please!”
The wall across from her shimmered, the seamless surface dissolving into nothingness.
A figure appeared.
No, two.
