Page 35 of Sold to the Nalgar
And that man—thisalien—owned her.
Her voice was barely more than a whisper now, quiet and hollow.
“Who are you?”
Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe hopelessness was settling into her bones like a frost that wouldn’t lift. For all her fury and defiance, a part of her—something small, buried deep—began to wonder what difference it made to know.
His answer was slow, deliberate, so normal it chilled her.
“I am Zarokh.”
She repeated it silently. Zarokh. It didn’t sound human. It sounded like steel: sharp, cold, and unforgiving.
“What are you?” she asked, voice hoarse from hours of screaming, tears still raw in her throat. “What is all this?”
He regarded her with quiet patience, then finally spoke.
“Nalgar. We are the people of Anakris. I am Warlord of the Lacris Clan. I rule from the Xarith River to the Merakan Mountains. This stronghold and the settlement below—those lands are mine.”
There was no arrogance in his tone, no threat. Just facts, cold and unmovable.
Like a mountain.
As immovable ashim.
Almost as an afterthought, he added, “You are fortunate… to have been chosen.”
Her eyes widened. She almost laughed, but all she could manage was disbelief, fueled by burning rage. Fortunate? He’d stolen her—torn her from her world, violated her body, robbed her of her freedom—and he called her fortunate?
Her fists clenched tighter in the folds of her robe. Her voice trembled with a mix of fury and despair.
“Go fuck yourself,” she spat, voice raw and defiant.
His expression didn’t change. She didn’t see even the slightest hint of anger in him, and somehow, that was worse—much worse.
His brow creased slightly, a tiny furrow between the dark arches. It was like he was trying to grasp something foreign—perhaps her outburst.
“You are angry,” he said finally, tone maddeningly calm. “That is understandable.”
She stared at him, frustration bubbling up like acid.
“But the life you will have here,” he continued, “will be far better than what you experienced on Earth. You were a peasant there. Here, you are mine. I have endless resources. You will want for nothing.”
Her fists gripped the fabric of her robe tighter, her throat tightening with the effort of keeping her composure.
“You can’t give me what I want most,” she whispered. “Home. Freedom. My life back.”
A faint smile flickered on his lips: not warmth, but something colder, almost amused. He looked at her as if she’d just thrown down a challenge. That tiny twitch unsettled her more than his silence, more than his power. It was a hint of something dark and dangerous—more than amusement—something predatory.
He inclined his head, watching her as though she were something exquisite—and flighty, as if she could try and escape at any moment.
“Do you know,” he said softly, “that no one who has ever told me to go fuck myself has survived?”
Her heart stopped.
“Until you,” he added, voice dipping like the promise of thunder. “That is how precious you are.”
Cecilia’s breath caught.
