Page 73 of Sold to the Nalgar
“I could fuck her on this table and still tear your spine out before I finish.”
With one sharp movement, Zarokh crushed Bokut’s throat.
The body hit the stone with a wet thud.
The chamber was silent.
Zarokh turned slowly, sweeping his gaze over the council. “Anyone else feel I’ve grown... soft?”
No one answered.
He looked at Velkar. “Have his remains burned. Feed them to the spinebeasts.”
Velkar bowed his head. “As you command.”
Zarokh returned to his place at the head of the table.
“The next time one of you questions my judgment,” he said, voice calm again, “remember what I am. I do not lose. I do not bleed without permission. And I do not forget.”
He leaned forward, placing his hands flat against the stone.
“Vuvak is a gnat. When I choose, I’ll crush him like one. But for now... let him gather. Let him hope. His fall will be that much sweeter.”
No one spoke as the council adjourned.
And when Zarokh left the chamber, it was in silence—his dominance absolute, his throne undisputed.
But even as the doors sealed behind him, Velkar’s words gnawed like bone-shard.
Distracted.
Perhaps. But she was no distraction.
She was the beginning of something else.
And that... was far more dangerous.
CHAPTER 37
The dress was unlike anything Cecilia had ever worn.
A deep, imperial purple—soft as air but heavy with meaning. The fabric shimmered in the light, flowing over her body like water, accentuating the subtle changes she was still coming to terms with. It clung to her waist, fell in graceful folds at her hips, the neckline daring but elegant. The boots were strange, made of some supple hide she couldn’t name, dyed obsidian and stitched with thread that glinted like starlight. They fit like a second skin. Of course they did.
He knew her size.
He knew everything.
The jewels had come next—delicate chains of black metal draped over her collarbones, setting off the faint flush of her transformed skin. Tiny stones glittered at her ears and throat, cut like nothing she'd seen on Earth, in hues that shifted between blood-red, deep violet, and night-sky blue.
Then came the servants.
Two of them. Female. Silent. Unquestioning.
They didn’t speak, didn’t smile. But their touch was gentle. Reverent. They moved with precision, hands skilled as they combed and twisted and wove her hair into an intricate updothat made her look… royal. Or like a prized offering. A bride. A pet. She couldn’t decide which.
The translator was gone, of course. Without it, there was no way to ask them why. Or beg them to stop. Or scream.
Not that she would have.
