Page 5 of Sold to the Nalgar
Human.
She was unlike anything he'd ever seen. He had seen humans before, fleeting glimpses of caged creatures held by traders or flaunted as exotic trophies by low-caste nobles. But never like this. Never in such detail. The holo was sharp, real, almost touchable. He could see the gloss of her dark lashes, the tiny freckles scattered across her shoulder, the shimmer of her black hair like woven ink. Silken. Exactly as he had requested.
Beautiful.
And so very breakable.
The thought stirred something low within him, a visceral pull. Hunger, yes, but more than that. Curiosity. A primal urge to possess. She was small, but not childlike. Soft, but not weak. There was a tension in her limbs even in sleep, a subtle resistance that hinted at hidden strength. Intelligence, perhaps. Defiance waiting to ignite.
He wondered how she would fight him.
How long would it take to break her, or train her, or both?
He had a translator, purchased from the Majarin, a marvel of organic precision, already calibrated to the nuances of the human tongue. He would learn her sounds, her meaning, her mind.
Would she resist?
Of course, she would. That was the allure.
Would he be gentle?
He didn’t know. The answer was irrelevant.
But he would take from her.
Her blood.
Wheneverhe wished.
The holo flickered again, the feed shifting to new footage. She was awake now.
Zarokh leaned forward, his focus sharpening.
There. Her eyes. Wide and soft, a strange, earthy color that was jarringly unfamiliar. Not red like his kind, but a deep, rich brown. Alive. Too alive.
He saw the panic bloom in their depths, the quick dart of her gaze, the frantic assessment of her surroundings. The realization dawned, a slow-burning spark of disbelief igniting into terror.
And then…
She screamed.
Her body arched against the restraints, a desperate, futile struggle. She thrashed, her voice raw, a primal cry of fury and fear that echoed in the sterile chamber.
She isn’t prey, he thought, a flicker of something akin to admiration stirring within him. She’s not exactly meek.
He watched, fascinated, as her spirit strained against its bonds.
And then the Nemok entered.
They were smooth, faceless shadows, gliding into the frame with an unsettling grace. One of them drew a needle, a glint of metal in the sterile light: sedative, sharp, and clinical. It pressed the tip into her thigh. She flinched, cried out, a choked sound of protest, then stilled as the drug took hold.
The light dimmed in her eyes, fading into a vacant stillness.
And something cold cracked open inside him.
It rose, sudden and searing, an unexpected surge of rage.
Not the controlled fury he wielded on the battlefield, the calculated violence of war. No. This was personal, visceral. A wild, snarling beast clawing beneath his skin, demanding release.
