Page 8 of Sold to the Nalgar
For what?
Her pulse quickened, a cold dread gripping her. The thought turned her stomach.
Whatever—orwhoever—they were keeping her for, they clearly didn't want her dead. If they had, they wouldn't have dressed her in soft robes. They wouldn't have warmed the room or placed a clean tray of food beside her bed like she was some pampered guest.
No. They wanted her compliant. Healthy.
Useful.
Her jaw clenched, the muscles rigid.
That meant the food was likely safe. Probably. But that wasn't the point.
This was the one thing she had left. The only sliver of control she still possessed in this alien nightmare.
So she turned her back on the tray.
Curled onto her side, knees pulled up against her chest, arms wrapped tightly around her shins. The blanket felt too warmnow, almost suffocating, but she didn't kick it off. She needed it. Needed something to hold onto. Something to hide beneath.
Her eyes squeezed shut, and there, in the darkness behind her eyelids, Earth rose before her. Not as a planet, but as her home. The deafening roar of Manhattan traffic. The reassuring feel of concrete beneath her heels. The distant hum of the subway rattling under her feet. The acrid smell of cheap coffee. The harsh glare of office lights. The sterile, suffocating atmosphere of the courtroom. Melanie's sharp, pragmatic voice. The comforting clutter of her desk. Her parents' laughter echoing on a late-night phone call. Her favorite shawarma joint, a haven of familiar flavors. The breathtaking city skyline silhouetted against the fading light of dusk.
All of it. Gone.
Her chest constricted, a painful pressure building. A low, aching sob slipped from her throat before she could stifle it.
Then another, and another.
Her shoulders shook with the force of her grief. Tears soaked the pillow beneath her cheek. She tried to swallow it down, to muffle the sounds in the crook of her arm, but it was too much. The dam had broken.
I didn't deserve this.
I didn't do anything wrong.
The grief surged up like a tidal wave, threatening to drown her.
And then, a chilling thought pierced the haze of her despair.
They could be watching.
Her sob caught mid-breath, lodging in her throat like a shard of glass.
She sat up abruptly, scrubbing at her face with both hands, using the heel of her palm to wipe away the tears. Her chest still hitched with tremors, but she forced herself to be still. To breathe.
She looked around the room again, searching for any sign of observation. Still seamless. Still silent. But that proved nothing.
There could be a thousand eyes on her, just beyond the smooth, metallic walls. She had seen how those creatures moved—faceless, inhuman, silent as air.
Watching.
Studying.
She straightened the blanket, smoothing the wrinkles with trembling hands. She pushed her knees down, forcing herself to sit upright, spine rigid.
No more sobbing.
No more fear on display.
Let them try to decipher her. Let them stare. She wouldn't allow them to see her break.
