Page 65 of Sold to the Nalgar
“Go on,” he said again. “Do it.”
Everything in her snapped.
She surged forward with a cry, robes whipping behind her, rage uncoiling from her spine, and drove the knife—small, curved, alien—into his chest.
She felt the resistance—then the give.
The blade met bone. Slid in.
He didn’t flinch.
His body jerked slightly as the steel bit through muscle. Then he looked down… at her hand, still gripping the hilt embedded in him.
Blood welled up—dark, shimmering, not quite red.
His eyes lifted again. Met hers.
No fury.
Just something else. Something quiet. And unreadable.
Her breath hitched.
She waited for the blow. For retaliation. For pain.
But Zarokh… just stood there, gazing at her, his expression unreadable as blood slowly dripped down his chest, pooling along the edge of his silver trim.
“You should have gone for the throat,” he said softly.
And he reached up… and gently covered her hand with his.
Not to stop her.
Not to remove the knife.
Just to hold her.
CHAPTER 32
Cecilia stared at the blood spilling over her hand. Warm. Viscous. Deep red—red like hers.
But this wasn’t right.
He should have roared. Collapsed. Fought back.
Instead… Zarokh simply held her, his massive hand still resting atop hers, the knife buried in his chest.
“Why?” she breathed. Her voice cracked around the single word. “Why would you let me do this?”
Her fingers trembled against the hilt. She didn’t know if she should pull the blade out or leave it there. What was the protocol for stabbing an alien warlord who claimed to own you?
He didn’t answer.
His eyes—bright and inhuman—were fixed on hers, full of something that made her feel even more trapped than before. Not fury. Not pain. Just… knowing.
And then, impossibly, he laughed.
It came as a soft, low sound, vibrating from deep in his chest.
