Page 10 of Bound to the Marak

And now she belonged to him.

No escape. No rescue.

Even if she found a way out of this ship, where would she go? She didn’t know what planet she was on. Didn’t know the language. Couldn’t even identify a door without help.

I’m trapped.

That thought hit like a blow to the chest.

No escape. No help. Not anymore.

The corridors narrowed slightly, and the lighting dimmed to a soft gold as they arrived at another chamber. The door dissolved open, mist spilling outward like exhaled breath.

A cleansing room.

She hesitated, but the attendants waited patiently, wordlessly. They didn’t push her. They simply bowed, elegant and remote, then stepped back, leaving her to enter alone.

Inside, warm vapor rose around her. Water—soft and scented—fell in smooth arcs from the ceiling, surrounding her in a gentle, perfect rainfall. The mist swirled with some perfumed cleansing agent that smelled of crushed leaves and electric minerals. She expected surveillance. Prodding. More humiliation.

But it never came.

This ritual, unlike the brutal sterilization back at the station, was oddly gentle. She was cleansed, and when she stepped from the mist, new garments awaited her—laid neatly on a curved bench of pale stone.

A gown. Deep green. Silken, heavier than it looked, with sleeves that slid across her arms like breath. The skirt fell around her legs in flowing layers, split to allow movement. Modest, compared to what she’d worn before. More… dignified.

A gift?

No. Not a gift.

A presentation.

They dressed her with reverent silence, then placed soft slippers on her feet. When she looked down, the soles shimmered faintly—like something made from spun light.

It would have been beautiful—if it weren’t sounreal.

There was a click. A swirl of a hand. And then, to her surprise, the collar fell away. The servant took it, along with the strange glowing wristband.

At least she was free of those things now.

But what did it all mean?

She was led onward, up a curving staircase of translucent crystal that pulsed beneath her feet. Every step felt like ascending into some impossible dream—or a velvet-lined prison.

Her quarters were waiting.

The room was large, domed, softly lit from above by unseen sources. The floor was smooth and iridescent, the walls dotted with glowing script that shifted when she looked at it too long. At the center stood a bed—grand, circular, surrounded by gossamer netting suspended from a point so high she couldn’t see where it was anchored. The net shimmered with violet and silver, like moonlight trapped in silk.

Everything was seamless. Curved. Organic. Luxurious.

And utterlyalien.

A soft chime.

She turned.

One of the attendants entered silently, bearing a tray. He didn’t look at her. He bowed—low, his long fingers brushing the floor—then placed the tray on a low, gleaming table before retreating without a word.

Leonie stared after him, chest tight.Even they won’t look at me. Why? What am I to them?

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