Page 60 of Bound to the Marak

The ship gave a subtle jolt, and the stars outside twisted violently.

“We’re entering the wormhole,” Karian said, his voice calm.

She curled closer to him as the cosmos stretched and bent outside, and the ship dove into madness.

They sat in silence as space unraveled.

And through it all, she held tightly to the one being who had once taken her—and was now becoming someone she might one day choose.

Forty-Two

The stars had disappeared.

Leonie pressed her palm to the glass of the viewing port, but there was nothing now but swirling light and impossible shadows. The wormhole was a tunnel of chaos—space warped and shrieking, the laws of physics bent into a shimmering cyclone that pulsed and twisted around them like a living thing.

She swallowed. Her throat was dry. The sight made her feel queasy, like she was tumbling in place.

“It’s not real,” she whispered to herself. “Just light. Just motion.”

From behind her, strong arms wrapped around her waist. She startled, even though she should have expected him. She always felt his presence before he touched her, a press of quiet gravity that stole her breath.

“Do not be afraid,” Karian murmured, his voice a low purr against the shell of her ear.

She leaned back against his chest, letting herself be gathered into him. His heat was immediate, grounding. One of his larger tentacles slid around her thigh, drawing her closer. Another coiled loosely around her arm.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she admitted.

“I have,” he said. “Many times. It cannot harm you while you are with me.”

She tilted her head to look up at him. “You’re really not even a little bothered?”

He didn’t answer with words. His tentacle tightened around her gently, and he bent to kiss the nape of her neck—slow, deliberate, and just a little possessive. She shivered.

The air in the chamber felt warmer now.

Leonie became aware of how close they stood, how very little fabric separated her from his body. The soft gown she wore was sheer, almost weightless. Karian’s long fingers slid over the exposed skin of her hip, stroking idly.

The ship trembled again, subtly. A sound like thunder echoed through the hull, distant and low. But here, in the Marak’s private chamber, everything was still.

His tentacles began to move—slowly, deliberately.

One curled around her waist, dipping lower. Another traced along her inner thigh, barely brushing. She gasped as one slipped under her gown, teasing the soft flesh at her center with maddening patience.

“Karian…” she breathed, half-protest, half-invitation.

“Distraction,” he said, his voice full of wicked amusement. “You’re afraid. I would rather you focus on me.”

“Oh, I am.”

She turned her head and caught his mouth with hers. He kissed her deeply, hungrily, and the feel of his lips—always warm, always commanding—sent a fresh wave of heat spiraling through her.

Another tentacle slid up her spine, curling lightly around her chest. Her nipples hardened instantly against the delicate fabric. He hummed in satisfaction, deep in his throat.

“You respond so beautifully,” he whispered.

Her breath came faster. Her body, already conditioned to his touch, grew slick with anticipation. His tentacle that had teased between her thighs pressed more firmly now, parting her with exquisite slowness, the ridged texture just enough to make her gasp.

They sank down together onto the platform behind them—his bed, if such a thing could be called that. Pillowed and shell-like, it cradled them in layers of silk and heat.

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