Page 44 of Bound to the Marak

He was one.

And he was looking at her as though she were a miracle.

Heat flared within her. It made no sense—none of this made sense—but it was real. The way he looked at her. The way he held himself still, as though one wrong move might shatter the moment.

She swallowed hard, heart thundering, and raised her hand again—this time not to explore his face, but to touch his chest. Even through his tunic, he radiated heat. Strength. Restraint.

“I want to feel you,” she said, voice low, breathy. “All of you.”

His black eyes widened slightly, and for the first time, she saw something like uncertainty flicker across his features.

She reached down and took his hand... and then deliberately moved it to her waist. "Touch me."

And then, almost shyly, almost teasingly, she whispered, "With the others, too."

For a second, he didn’t move. It was as if she’d frozen him in time.

And then his tentacles stirred—slowly, reverently—rising from beneath the folds of his robes. Seven in total. They moved with grace, like extensions of his thoughts, and when the first one coiled gently around her wrist, she gasped.

It didn’t feel slimy. Or cold. Or wrong.

It felt... exquisite. Like warm silk wrapped in electric heat.

Another one slid around her waist. Another brushed lightly over her shoulder, then her collarbone, circling her neck without pressure, as though learning her shape. It was overwhelming—and yet not at all frightening. She felt enclosed, cradled, worshipped.

A strange thrill pulsed through her, stronger than anything she’d ever known. Karian, for all his power, seemed... captivated. Helpless.

That helplessness—his vulnerability in this moment—made her feel something she hadn’t expected: control.

She had undone him.

How could she—a human, a captive, someone far from everything she’d known—do this to a being like him?

And as one of his tentacles slid slowly under the hem of her dress, teasing her thigh, her skin erupted in goosebumps.

She knew what was coming.

And she didn’t stop him.

Twenty-Seven

She writhed in the air, breathless, trembling, utterly helpless in the cocoon of his limbs. The smooth press of his tentacles stroked her with devastating precision—like he knew her better than she knew herself. Every motion was careful, slow, exacting… but devastatingly effective.

Her body was no longer hers. It was his instrument now.

And he played it masterfully.

She could barely keep her eyes open, but when she managed, she saw him—still fully clothed, still wrapped in that regal ensemble of black and silver silks, his shoulders straight, his mask discarded, those glowing blue markings on his skin pulsing brighter with every sound she made.

And the strangest thing happened.

Slits opened near the sides of his neck—gills. They flared open softly, and she felt it—he was inhaling her.

Not through his nose. Not through his mouth.

Through those strange, delicate ridges on his neck, he was drinking in her scent like it was the most intoxicating thing he’d ever experienced. His eyes half-closed, and his grip on her tightened just slightly, reverently.

A fresh wave of arousal tore through her.

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