Page 23 of Bound to the Marak

Fools.

“Their numbers?” he asked coolly.

“Twenty ships. Four carriers. At least three flagged with siege-class weaponry.”

Karian's tentacles unfurled behind him, coiling in slow, controlled arcs. “They bring siege craft… to my territory?”

“They think you’re still at the edge of the quadrant. They were emboldened by the whispers of your departure. Spies, no doubt. Planted in the trade networks.”

A low, rumbling sound escaped Karian’s chest. “Then they’ve made two grave mistakes. Believing me weak… and thinking I would return alone.”

He turned to the forward display. Beyond the shimmering edge of the wormhole, Luxar’s star system was beginning to emerge. And with it, twelve Majarin destroyers—his personal fleet. Sleek, vast, and cloaked in living metal.

“They will learn the error of both assumptions,” he said.

Temian bowed again. “Shall I prepare the war command chamber, my lord?”

Karian nodded. “Summon the captains. Ready the planetary defenses. Position the Velthra at the command point. We meet them at Luxar’s edge.”

As Temian moved to leave, Karian paused.

“And send word to the human. Let her know I will return soon… and that she is safe.”

Temian looked surprised but nodded. “Yes, my Marak.”

When the doors closed, Karian remained still for a moment longer.

He had enemies to crush. A planet to protect.

But even now, at the edge of war… his thoughts turned to her.

Her touch had awakened something in him—something more than hunger, more than curiosity. Something he hadn’t felt in cycles.

And once this battle was done… he would explore that feeling.

Thoroughly.

Fourteen

The chamber doors slid open without warning—seamless metal vanishing into the walls with a whisper like breath sucked from the room.

Leonie jolted upright.

It was one of them. The tall, silent attendants. This one was male—or at least, appeared that way. Like the others, he was slender and inhumanly graceful, dressed in deep blue robes that shimmered like water under moonlight. His skin had the same pale luminescence as the rest, and his black hair hung in a precise curtain down his back. His eyes—pure black, bottomless—reflected no light. No emotion.

But this time, he wasn’t carrying food or linens.

Instead, resting in his palm was a small, flat object. It looked like a polished river stone, silver and smooth, no visible seams or buttons.

He approached her without a word.

And then—hespoke.

But the voice wasn’t his.

It emerged from the space around him, a projection—not mechanical, not robotic, but something that cloaked the real sound beneath it. The tone was soft, neutral, and unmistakablyhuman. English.

“You must be seated. There,” the voice said, as the servant gestured toward a sleek chair in the corner.

---