Page 11

Eleven

H e had wanted a human for many cycles.

They were spoken of in hushed tones among certain corners of the outer markets—rare, fragile, soft-skinned creatures from a primitive planet on the edge of the mapped stars. Most of his kind dismissed them as curiosities, irrelevant. But not Karian.

Karian had studied them.

Watched black-market feeds when they surfaced. Read stolen biological reports. Catalogued linguistic patterns. Desired .

But not like this.

Not like her .

She was more than he'd imagined. And now that she was here, in his chamber, her warm hand against his, her trembling fingers brushing one of his tentacles with innocent curiosity—he found himself… unbalanced.

She was so small .

So soft.

Her skin was smooth, her scent light and strange—sweet, like a blossom from the floating gardens of Virelle. Her breath came quick, but not in fear. Not real fear. She did not understand what he was. What he had done.

What he was capable of.

She didn’t know that he had once shattered a fleet in orbit with only seven ships.

That the other Marak had attempted to dethrone him in the First Divide—and that he had silenced them with fire, forcing them to kneel. Even now, they did not speak his name lightly.

The Marak of Malvar.

The Warlord Beneath the Black Waves.

Breaker of the Eastern Armadas.

Karian the Untouched.

He was power incarnate. Ruthless by design.

Yet now, with her hand stroking the ridged edge of his tentacle, with her wide, searching eyes lifting to meet the mask that concealed him… all he could feel was heat .

And wonder.

He had not expected to find her beautiful .

Not like this.

Her dark hair, tangled slightly from sleep, shimmered in the low light. Her skin, sun-kissed and luminous, held a softness unlike anything he had touched. And her eyes—those large, expressive orbs—held none of the guile or venom he was used to from the court schemers and the outer diplomats.

She was innocent. Not weak. Unarmed.

And yet, he realized with a slow breath, she had already begun to disarm him .

She let him touch her. Let his tentacle wrap around her arm. Had she known what he could do with it—how it had once strangled the life from a steel-blooded war general—she might’ve screamed.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she looked at him.

Explored him.

And he found… that he liked it .

He liked the way she touched him not out of duty, but out of curiosity. He liked that she hadn’t begged, or groveled, or flinched in disgust. There was hesitation, yes. But not repulsion.

She was learning him.

And he, her.

When her fingers slipped along the velvet underside of his tentacle, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His tentacle tightened, just slightly, pulling her closer—not enough to frighten, but enough to claim .

He could have her now.

It would take no effort at all.

But he wouldn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he released her, slowly, letting his appendage slip away like water falling from her skin. He stepped back, taking her in. The rise and fall of her chest. The flushed warmth in her cheeks.

She would remain innocent a little longer.

But not untouched.

Not anymore.