Page 40 of Sold to the Nalgar
Whatever it is you bought me for,she thought bleakly, her stomach twisting.
But her face stayed blank and her spine remained straight. She would not beg. She would not rage. She would not sob or become the weeping captive he might expect. And she wouldn’t strike him again—not because she was afraid, but because it gavehimthe power. And that, she would not surrender.
Let him have her body, if it came to that.
But not herdignity.
Not hermind.
Not who shewas.
The smile on his lips faded. Just a little.
He was silent for a beat.
“Hm.” A low, considering sound emanated from deep in his chest. He patted the bed beside him with a firm, commanding hand.
“Come.”
The word struck the air like a challenge.
And her blood ran cold.
CHAPTER 20
She moved like a creature forged from frost, elegant, composed, and utterly untouchable.
Zarokh watched her in silence, his massive frame sinking slightly into the mattress as she crawled to sit beside him. Each movement was slow and deliberate. Not hesitant. Not afraid, but calculated. Contained. The robe clung to her like armor, the deep violet folds gripped tightly in her fists, as though she believed fabric could shield her from him.
She sat with her limbs drawn inward, tension coiled beneath her skin like a wire wound too tight. Her chin tilted slightly, spine straight. Regal. Beautiful. Controlled.
Not his.
Not yet.
She obeyed, but not because she’d bent to him. She obeyed because she’d assessed the gameboard and chosen the only move that left her with even a shred of power. He could see it in her eyes, in those deep, fathomless eyes, which were almost depthless black. Hers were eyes that hid nothing and everything at once.
This wasn’t submission, it was strategy.
Fascinating.
He hadn’t expected... this.
Not this clarity, this fire wrapped in ice, this quiet dignity that made her seem taller, older, and more formidable than her delicate body would suggest.
He had expected tears. Or begging. Or brokenness.
She gave him nothing except defiance hidden beneath cold composure. Strength wearing the mask of surrender.
And somehow, that was far more potent because it made her harder to break.
And far more desirable—almost unbearably so.
His jaw clenched. The scent of her—still lingering, still maddening—wrapped around him, soaking into his senses, igniting something deeper, darker, and more primal. It was everything he’d wanted when he’d demanded a human. Exotic. Fragile. Sweet.
Butthis... this wasn't sweetness.
This was something else.
