Page 55 of Sold to the Nalgar
“Don’t,” she rasped as he stepped closer. She shoved at his chest, palms flat against his heat. “Let go of me.”
To her shock, he did.
She stumbled back, shaking, anger mixing with confusion, despair gnawing at the edges of her strength. “You bastard,” she snapped, the words a whip crack.
She fled—not far, there was nowhere far to go—but to the only place that felt even remotely hers. The bed. That cursed, silken bed, perfumed and treacherous. She crawled onto it like a cornered animal, clutching the sheets around her like armor.
He didn’t roar. Didn’t lash out. He followed with the patience of something ancient. That calm was worse than rage. Rage she could fight. This quiet presence, this relentless gravity, wore her down like water against stone.
“Don’t touch me,” she bit out.
Zarokh stopped beside the bed. He didn’t move, didn’t reach. Just stood there, his red eyes gleaming.
“You haven’t let me out of here,” she snapped, her voice raw. “Do you expect me to just sit in these walls? With nothing—no one—just waiting for you to appear and take what you want?” Her voice rose with every word. Weeks of swallowed emotion erupted like fire. “You’ve taken everything. My home. My planet. My life. Am I supposed to forget who I am? Become your pet? Grateful for whatever scraps you toss me?” She trembled. “You’ll drive me mad. I’ll die here. Alone. Lost. Is that what you want?”
His gaze didn’t waver. The firelight made his eyes burn brighter, deeper. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw something flicker in them—recognition. Guilt, even. But it was gone before she could name it.
He didn’t answer. And maybe that was good. Because if he spoke, she might break.
He came to her then, slow and deliberate, and sat on the edge of the bed. One arm propped behind him, his body loose yet commanding, like he owned everything in the room—her included.
Cecilia’s throat tightened. He wastoo much. Dark hair spilled around his shoulders, catching the crimson light like a net of black fire. His mouth curved faintly, cruel and beautiful. He looked like a devil wearing silk.
“If it’s freedom you want,” he said, his tone languid, “I will give you more.” His voice stroked her skin, coaxing goosebumps she despised. “I’ll give you things to see. To learn. To use. Tohold. You will learn our tongue. After all…” His smile deepened. “You are one of us now.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs.One of us.The words chilled her.
“But you won’t let me go, will you?” she asked.
His smile didn’t falter. “No,” he said simply. “You are mine.” The words landed like stones dropped into still water. “And I’ve decided…” He leaned closer, his gaze flicking to her mouth, her throat, her heart. “I like you very much.”
Heat and dread twisted in her chest. Why did his words feel like both a brand and a promise?
“Now…” His hand reached for her, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers were warm, deliberate. “Come here, my sweet human.” His voice was a purr, soft as a knife’s edge. “Let me give you pleasure. Let me make you forget that small, dying world of yours.” His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. “You should forget.”
She turned her face sharply away. “No.” The word struck like flint.
She didn’t thrash or scream. Instead, she held her ground, testing him.Will he listen?Some deep instinct whispered the answer—probably not. And yet, he had. So far. He had drunk from her, yes. Touched her. But never forced more.
“No,” she said again, louder. “Leave me alone.”
Zarokh tilted his head, studying her like a flame that refused to be extinguished. “I can’t,” he said softly. “But if you are unwilling…” He reclined beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. “I will not force desire. Instead…” He folded his hands behind his head. “I’ll wait.”
Cecilia glared. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He looked at the ceiling as if her anger were background noise. “Don’t you have work to do? Warlord duties? Enemies to crush?”
“I’m good at delegating,” he said. “And my enemies know better than to cross me. Here, on Anakris, I am as close to all-powerful as you’ll ever see.”
“Arrogant prick,” she muttered. “Sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“I’ve earned it,” he said. “I bled for it. Everything you see—this stronghold, these armies—it’s built on sacrifice. On suffering.”
A fissure. A glimpse beneath the steel surface. “So,” she pressed, “you weren’t always this… untouchable?”
“No,” he admitted. His voice lost a fraction of its iron. “I was born to nothing. My parents died in battle when I was young. I was expected to follow them. The others thought me defective.”
“Defective?” she echoed.
