Page 49 of Bound to the Marak

It felt like a dream. The kind you wake from with tears in your eyes, trying to claw your way back into sleep.

But this time, she didn’t have to wake up.

For the first time since her abduction… since the auction… since thefear—she didn’t want to go back.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Thirty-Three

Leonie had stopped counting the days. Time passed strangely in the floating palace above Luxar, untethered to the rhythms of Earth. The suns rose and set, and the moons shimmered through the enormous glass windows of her quarters. The seasons changed—if they could be called that—but her world had settled into a rhythm, predictable and plush.

Each morning, she awoke in silken sheets in her private quarters—grand, opulent, carved into the sky. Nuak or one of her silent Yerak attendants would arrive to offer her an assortment of delicacies, none of which resembled Earth food but were crafted with aesthetic precision. The clothes prepared for her were exquisite: sheer, weightless materials that shimmered with alien light. She had everything she could want.

Except... she didn't.

At first, learning the Majarin Tongue had filled her days with purpose. Karian taught her each evening in his Inner Sanctum, guiding her mind with strange drugs that sent her thoughts soaring, words sinking in like drops of dye in water. His voice—low and commanding—wove into her, and she had found herself craving those lessons for more than just language.

Now she could speak with him. Fluently. Easily. The translator stone was no longer necessary.

But that connection, that brief illusion of closeness, only made the distance between them more apparent.

Karian remained a mystery.

During the day, he was gone. She didn’t know where. Affairs of governance, she assumed. After all, he was the Marak—ruler of the largest territory on Luxar, a being revered like a god. The Yerak never said anything. They answered only what was required, always polite, always reserved, always slightly afraid of her.

She was his possession, after all.

In the evenings, Karian would come for her. And her body still ached for him the moment she saw him. She was no less drawn to him. His voice, his scent, his touch—these were addictive. He made her feel worshiped. Wanted. No man—human or otherwise—had ever known how to touch her like that.

But tonight, when the door opened and she heard his familiar voice, part of her recoiled.

“Come,” he said, standing tall and regal in the doorway, his long silver-black robes fluttering with his movement.

She stood but didn’t move toward him immediately. Her gaze drifted out the window instead, to the stars and moons. Her chest ached with the sharp, unwelcome memory of Earth—of bitter coffee and warm croissants, of Sunday mornings with Alfie curled at her feet. Of grass beneath her toes and the breeze through the trees in her neighborhood park.

Karian said nothing, but she felt his gaze sweep over her.

“Something troubles you.”

She didn’t answer right away. Then, slowly, she turned to face him.

“I miss my world,” she said, the words simple in Majarin now. “The small things. The smell of rain. My dog. Real bread.”

His expression didn’t change. Not exactly. But something in the angle of his head shifted, almost imperceptibly.

“You are well cared for.”

“I know.” She swallowed the bitterness rising in her throat. “Everything here is perfect. Too perfect. I want… I don’t know what I want.” She crossed her arms. “To feel human again, maybe. Not… kept.”

He took a step toward her, his presence filling the room, and yet she didn’t retreat.

“I do not keep you in chains.”

“No,” she said. “Just silk and pleasure and a palace in the sky. Forgive me if that’s still a kind of cage.”

His eyes narrowed slightly—not in anger, but in something deeper. Perhaps thought. Perhaps guilt. She didn’t know.

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