Page 6 of Sold to the Nalgar
How dare they touch her?
How dare they pierce what washis?
Zarokh stood without a word, the movement fluid and effortless. He crossed the chamber, the shadows deepening around him. With a single touch of his palm, he activated the comm-panel.
A moment later, the blurred projection of Captain Laggarel appeared, the Dukkar live-trader, wrapped in his glimmering harness of status, a testament to his wealth and influence. His eyes widened, a flicker of unease crossing his reptilian features at the sight of Zarokh.
“Warlord,” the Dukkar said quickly, bowing his head in deference. “She is en route, as requested.”
“She is not to be harmed,” Zarokh said, his voice low, each word a shard of ice. “You will provide her with comfort. Food. Heat. You will release her from the restraints and ensure she is covered.”
Laggarel blinked, his expression shifting from unease to confusion. “Of course, my lord.”
“If there is a single bruise on her body,” Zarokh continued, his voice now honed to a razor’s edge, each word a precise and deadly strike, “if she tells me she was mistreated, if she arrives frightened or trembling?—”
He leaned closer to the feed, his presence filling the small space, his power palpable. His crimson eyes flashed, radiating a cold, lethal light.
“—I will kill every last one of you.”
The channel went silent, the Dukkar’s face frozen in a mask of terror.
Zarokh stood there, the echo of his words still ringing in the chamber, a promise and a threat.
She was not just some curiosity now, not just a challenge to be overcome.
She was his.
And gods help the fool who forgot it.
CHAPTER 5
Cecilia drifted awake, the edges of consciousness blurring into reality, a slow return from oblivion.
The world rebuilt itself in fragments, sensations preceding awareness. Warmth cradling her cheek, a soft, yielding surface beneath her limbs, the whisper of fabric against her skin. Air that didn't burn her lungs.
Her eyelids fluttered open.
She lay on a wide, low bed, its mattress a cloud of softness unlike anything she had ever known. A blanket, the color of deep twilight, draped over her, plush and warm against her skin.
Her body was clothed now, swathed in alien garments: loose robes of soft material that felt like brushed silk, the deep green shot through with threads of shimmering silver. At the foot of the bed sat slippers, simple and padded.
What the hell was happening?
She pushed herself up slowly, groggy and achy, her limbs stiff as if she had been lying motionless for an eternity. The room had changed. Still seamless, still metallic, but warmer now. The lights had been dimmed to a soft amber glow, casting long, gentle shadows. The air carried a faint, herbal scent, clean and calming.
She blinked. For a fleeting, dangerous moment, it almost felt…comfortable.
Then memory crashed over her, cold and brutal, shattering the illusion of peace.
The restraints. The faceless figures. The sting of the needle.
She was still a captive.
Her surroundings might have shifted, but the reality remained a jagged edge in her throat. The walls might be warmer, the bed softer, but she was still trapped inside a box. Still stolen. Still a prisoner.
Her heart began to pound, a dull, heavy thud in her chest. She pressed a hand against it, desperately trying to regain control.
What is this? Why the change of scenery?
