Page 91 of Sold to the Nalgar
This fate… it wasn’t so bad.
Not with him.
Zarokh shifted suddenly, the water rippling as he disappeared beneath the surface. Cecilia gasped—then cried out, her back arching. His mouth was between her thighs, his tongue stroking her clit with a fierce, relentless skill. The shock of it tore through her, amplified by the wild energy of his blood still thrumming in her veins.
Her climax hit like lightning.Harder.Sharper. A hundred-fold what it should have been. The water around her sloshed as she gripped the pool’s edge, moaning his name.
He rose, his gaze burning red, his mouth wet from her. She barely had time to catch her breath before he was on her again, kissing her, lifting her. They made love in the water, his strength overwhelming but never careless, his dominance a dark, consuming thing that pulled her under like a riptide.
When she came again, he held her, his fangs grazing her neck. And then—sharp pain, hot pleasure—he bit her. Hefedfrom her, slow and deliberate, each pull of his mouth sending shocks down her spine.
“You are mine now,” he growled against her skin, his voice low and dangerous, filled with something that felt like both promise and command.
“You always have been,” he added, licking the blood from her wound. “You just didn’t know it. My world is yours.”
And Cecilia—breathless, trembling—believed him.
Zarokh shifted beneath the water, lifting her effortlessly into his lap. His hands roamed her body with a possessive reverence, as though memorizing every curve, every shiver of her skin. She could feel him—both of him—pressing against her, hard and insistent, and it stole her breath.
He kissed her again, a deep, consuming kiss that left her dizzy, his tongue tasting of iron and heat. Every movement of his hands was deliberate, as if he owned not just her body but every breath she took. And maybe he did.
When he pushed into her, it was slow, almost reverent. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, every nerve alight as the water rippled around them. His forehead pressed to hers, his breath mingling with her own, his gaze locked on her like she was the only thing that existed.
“Mine,” he growled softly, the word vibrating through her chest. His movements were sensual, controlled, drawing out every tremor of pleasure until she felt she might shatter. Every thrust was a promise, every kiss a claim.
The pleasure built until she couldn’t hold it anymore, a wave of heat crashing over her as she cried out his name. Zarokh held her close as if he would never let her go, his pace fierce but unhurried, relentless in his need to brand her as his.
When she came again, the world dissolved into white heat, and his voice rumbled against her ear, low and certain:
“You are mine, Cecilia. Always.”
EPILOGUE
By Cecilia’s own reckoning, six months had passed since the day she was taken from Earth. Six months since her old life burned away, since her name and her body were stripped to something raw and unrecognizable—only to be reforged, piece by piece, into someone new.
The stronghold stood whole again. Its blackstone walls gleamed beneath the twin suns, banners rippling in the dry desert wind. Where fire and ruin had once gutted the halls, life now thrived. Warriors trained in the courtyards, their blades catching the sunlight like lightning. Children darted across the wide stone steps, laughing, while women carried baskets of grain and water with an ease that spoke of strength born from survival.
The Nalgar were alien, yes. Brutal, unyielding. Yet the more Cecilia learned of them, the more she saw reflections of humanity. They were loyal. Fierce. They protected their own. She had watched them bleed for one another, laugh and mourn together. They were a people bound by fire and steel, but also by something softer—an unspoken understanding that no one stood alone.
And Zarokh… he carried all of it on his shoulders. She understood him now in a way she hadn’t before. He wasn’t just a warlord. He was the protector of his people, the unshakable force that held them together. The fear he inspired was not hollow—it was earned. And now, she could see why they followed him.
When the Nalgar bowed to her, it was no longer out of fear. It was respect. Recognition.
She sat beside him on the raised platform of the war hall, not as a captive, not collared or trembling, but as his equal. His mate. Her spine matched the proud line of his, but her hand rested on his thigh, his warmth anchoring her in this new world.
The language no longer tasted foreign on her tongue. She’d learned its cadence—the sharp consonants, the flowing vowels, the fierce poetry woven through every phrase. She could speak to his warriors without hesitation. She knew the gestures of honor, of loyalty. She understood the rituals and the weight of their oaths.
And most of all, she understood him.
That night, after the hall emptied and the torches burned low, Zarokh turned to her. His crimson eyes softened in a way they never did for anyone else.
“There are others,” he said in their shared tongue, voice low and intimate, like a secret meant only for her. “Other humans. Taken long before you. You will meet them soon, if you wish.”
Her breath caught. She hadn’t let herself imagine there were others like her—others who had been ripped from Earth.
“And Earth?” she asked quietly, the name strange now, as though it belonged to someone else. “Could I go back?”
He studied her, his gaze unreadable but not unkind. “Yes. If you want it. I would take you there, in disguise. You could walk your home again.”
