Page 63 of Sold to the Nalgar
The air here smelled strange. She’d gotten used to it: cold minerals, something metallic. And something else… her own skin. Her own scent. It was changing. Sharper. Different.
She caught her reflection in the polished metal lining the bath chamber. Not a true mirror, but reflective enough.
She froze.
Her skin wasn’t the same.
There was a faint glow to it—almost imperceptible unless the light hit at the right angle, like moonlight on pearl. Her pulse pounded in her throat, and she lifted a trembling hand to her face.
Her pupils were wrong.
Dilated in the dimness like an animal’s. Black and wide, the irises barely visible. She stepped closer to the polished surface, touching her own cheek. The flesh was cool. Not clammy, just… cooler than it should have been.
“I’m changing,” she whispered.
She stumbled back, her heart racing. “What the hell is happening to me?”
In the silence, only her breath echoed off the stone. Her mind raced, grasping for reasons. The food? The air? The planet?
No. No.
His blood.
That night. When he pressed his fingers to her mouth. When he shared it—his essence, or whatever the hell it was. She hadn’t even understood what he was doing until after. Until she started noticing… this.
A chill passed through her. Not fear. Not quite.
Something else.
Resolve.
She turned from the reflective wall and stalked back into the living quarters. The robes he’d provided were still too soft, too warm, too luxurious. She flung one on, then paced the room.
Out of the high windows, she could see the settlement sprawling far below. Black stone buildings like fangs rising from the earth. Strange transport crafts hovered now and then. Soldiers moved in ranks. And beyond that, jagged mountain ranges that glowed faintly under the light of the red sun.
She was so far from home. Earth was gone. Her life was gone.
And yet… she was alive. Still herself. Mostly.
Maybe.
Her gaze landed on the low dining table. The utensils. Long, carved instruments. A fork with two curved prongs. A set of pointed sticks that resembled chopsticks. A short, slightly curved knife with a thick handle.
She crossed the room and picked it up.
Not very sharp. But it might do damage if aimed right.
She turned it over in her palm. Thought about the way his throat looked when he tilted his head to scent her. The smoothness of his skin. The vulnerability beneath all that strength.
Maybe she couldn’t kill him.
But she could try.
And if she got the angle right—if she had one moment, just one?—
She set the blade back down. For now.
Her hands trembled, not from fear.
