Page 61 of Sold to the Nalgar
CHAPTER 30
Cecilia woke with a start.
For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. The sheets beneath her were too soft, too warm, tooclean. The air smelled faintly of minerals and heat, like forged metal and something darker—his scent. That unnamable blend of iron and spice and male.
And then she remembered. All of it.
Her body tensed.
The touches. The heat. The way he’d watched her, possessed her,claimedher. Not just with his mouth or hands or the dark velvet command in his voice—but with hisblood.
She sat up slowly, expecting pain.
But there was none.
No aching muscles. No sore thighs or bruises on her wrists. No burning between her legs.
Nothing but… energy.
A coiled, electric hum under her skin, like she could leap from the bed and run for miles without stopping. As if her body had been rewired overnight.
What the hell?
She slipped from the sheets, wrapping herself in the same gauzy robe she’d left on the floor. The air didn’t bite. Her bare feet sank into the soft woven flooring as she crossed to the far side of the chamber, toward the arched windows.
The sky outside was light—but not golden. The entire world glowed faintly red, bathed in the rays of a sun unlike Earth's.Twosuns, actually, if she stared long enough. One dimmer, one pulsing crimson.
Below, the settlement stretched out in tiers of slate and stone, glinting in the strange morning light. Alien towers. Winding streets. Smoking vents. People—or beings—moved like insects far below. Busy. Purposeful.
And this was home now.
Not a prison.
Not just a gilded cage for a warlord’s pet.
Her home.
The thought settled over her like a slow, suffocating tide. There would be no rescue. No diplomatic missions. No sudden wormholes or starships descending to return her to Earth.
She was here. Forever.
And strangely… she wasn’t crying.
That had already happened. That first night, when she wrapped herself in the furs and stared into the nothingness of alien stars, weeping until her throat went raw.
But now?
She felt—god, how could she even say it—good.
Powerful.
As if she’d stepped into a version of herself stripped of fragility. Her senses were sharper. Her pulse was steady. Her thoughts clearer.
She could still feel the echo of his touch in her blood, like a low thrumming vibration. Not lust. Something deeper. Molecular.
She turned from the window.
No one was here. Not yet. The bed sat empty behind her, the sheets tangled from her restless movements. A tray of food had been left by the door, steaming faintly. Another robe—richer this time, darker in color, woven with threads that shimmered like obsidian—hung from a hook nearby.
