Page 74 of Sold to the Nalgar
There was a strange calm inside her now.
Or maybe it was resignation.
When they were done, she was left alone again, standing before the polished obsidian mirror. She didn’t recognize herself. Not completely.
Her lips were red, her eyes—still maroon-tinged—shimmered in the low light. Her posture was perfect. She looked like something out of a dream. Or a nightmare.
She didn’t know which.
And then… he came.
The door opened with a whisper. She turned.
Zarokh stepped inside like he owned the world. And maybe he did.
He was dressed differently—no armor this time, no robes. A tailored black suit, cut to perfection, hugging the breadth of his shoulders, cinched at the waist. His long ebony hair was half-pulled back with a silver clasp, and his crown—a dark circlet of alien metal—sat upon his brow like it belonged there. Like it was a part of him.
She forgot to breathe.
He was... breathtaking.
Goddamn him.
Heat flared low in her belly. A fresh rush of arousal pulsed through her. Stronger than anything she’d ever felt on Earth. It was chemical. Primal. She wanted to drag him to the floor and devour him.
What has he done to me?
He stood still for a moment, eyes taking her in slowly, hungrily. The corners of his mouth curled—not quite a smile. Something deeper. Possessive.
Then, at last, he extended a hand. Palm up. Gentlemanly.
“Come,” he said.
Her heart skipped a beat.
This would be the first time she’d leave these chambers. Her prison. Her sanctuary. Her gilded cage.
She stared at his hand, unsure whether to slap it away or take it.
But in the end, she stepped forward.
And placed her fingers in his.
CHAPTER 38
The dining hall was nothing like she'd expected.
There was no blood-soaked stone or snarling guards at attention. No cruel thrones or chains dangling from the walls. Instead, it was cavernous and gleaming, lit with hundreds of suspended orbs casting warm light across a table long enough to seat fifty. But tonight, there were only two places set—facing one another. Intimate. Intentional.
The table itself was obsidian, like much of this fortress, polished to a dark, mirrored sheen. And the feast… the feast was a vision of flesh.
Roasted meats. Raw cuts arranged like sashimi. Smoked, seared, charred. Some drenched in thick, spiced sauces. Others still steaming with heat. A pitcher of something crimson—definitely not wine—waited at her side, already poured into a wide chalice.
The scent alone made her mouth water.
And that startled her.
Once, she’d been a near-vegetarian. A defender of those without a voice. Meat had been a rare indulgence, not a craving. But now? Now she was ravenous.
