Page 8 of Bound to the Marak

Leonie froze, breath catching in her throat. A flare of panic hit her chest. She felt exposed—tooexposed. The collar around her neck felt tighter.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then—

The figure beside her stopped.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t raise a hand. He simply turned to face them.

The drunken aliens fell silent mid-jeer.

It was like someone had cut the air out of the room.

Recognition dawned like a slap. The one who’d howled made a choking sound and shrank visibly. Another dropped his drink. The laughter turned to stillness. Heads bowed. Not out of respect—but instinct. Like animals before a predator.

One by one, they backed away into the shadows, stumbling over each other in their hurry. Not a word. Not a glance.

The robed figure lingered for a moment, silent.

Then a sound escaped his mask—barely audible. A low exhale. Almost a sigh. Maybe annoyance. Maybe disgust.

Leonie stared up at him.

She couldn’t see his face. The mask was smooth, seamless, dark as obsidian, split only by a faint vertical line that hinted at nothing beneath. He hadn’t raised his voice. Hadn’t made a threat.

And still, they had scattered like leaves in a storm.

She swallowed hard.What kind of power does he have?What sort of reputation made aliens twice his size run at a single glance?

He turned toward her again. His voice emerged—just one word, quiet and melodic, that meant nothing to her but carried the tone of a command. Not cruel. Not aggressive. But firm. Like someone telling a child,Come along.

So she did.

They descended deeper into the station. The noise faded. The walls changed—less chaotic, more refined. The lighting dimmed, turned golden and indirect. Every line was smooth, every angle deliberate. There was no more need to shout here. No posturing. The very air felt still.

And then they reached the hangar.

She saw the ship.

And all the breath left her lungs.

It loomed on the polished floor like a beast coiled in sleep. Sleek and seamless, like it had been poured into being rather than built. Its surface was a gleaming gunmetal grey, lined with soft matte-black ridges that hinted at weaponry and speed. The hull shimmered faintly, like it was veiled in water. No seams. No windows. No doors she could see. Just one long, lethal shape curved for power and grace.

Her feet stopped moving.

She stared at it, rooted to the floor, the realization crashing into her all at once.

This was real.

She was leaving.

Earth—gone.

Alfie. Her flat in Shepherd’s Bush. Her morning rituals. The smell of fresh coffee and the buzz of the kettle. The chaotic din of the surgical ward. Her coworkers. The chatter. The exhaustion. Thenormalcy.

Her life.

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