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Forty-Three

S he had thought space would be cold.

That hurtling through a wormhole—through a ribbon of compressed time and gravitational madness—would make her feel small, frightened, or even numb. But wrapped in Karian’s arms, surrounded by the low pulse of his breath and the faint, bioluminescent glow of his skin, Leonie felt too much .

He had tucked her against his chest in their private chamber, the Marak’s sanctuary where no one else dared tread. The wormhole tunnel spun in impossible spirals beyond the reinforced walls—colors she couldn’t name, lights that moved like living things—but all she could feel was him .

Karian.

His limbs were coiled around her like cords of safety and hunger all at once. One arm beneath her neck. A leg hooked over hers. His tentacles, slow and sinuous, cradled her body in shifting patterns, each touch a silent reminder that she was his. One of them gently looped around her waist, another brushed the curve of her thigh, teasing the thin fabric of the diaphanous gown he’d insisted she wear.

She tried to slow her breathing, to focus on the wormhole, on Earth—on anything.

But he moved , just slightly, and her breath caught. A single tentacle slipped higher, stroked across her ribs with maddening delicacy. The pulse in her throat jumped.

“You’re afraid,” he said, low in her ear. Not mocking. Just observing.

She swallowed. “I’m not.”

“Your heart says otherwise.”

“Maybe it’s not the wormhole.”

He made a low, amused sound and let the tentacle at her waist slip lower. Over the swell of her hips, between her thighs. She gasped softly as it pressed into her heat—just enough to make her ache, not enough to satisfy.

Another followed. A more delicate tendril, warm and impossibly gentle, traced her inner lips in maddening strokes. She felt herself throb under his touch, every nerve alight.

He knew her now. Every sound she made, every flicker of tension, every rise of breath.

“You distract me,” she whispered, her face heating.

“Good,” he said. “I prefer that to fear.”

She turned to look at him. His obsidian eyes shimmered faintly in the dim light. One tentacle slid up her side to brush her cheek, then twined into her hair.

He kissed her slowly, deeply, with a hunger that was barely leashed. The soft suction on her clit became a rhythm now, as another tentacle slid partway inside her, stroking her with slow, careful precision.

Leonie whimpered against his mouth.

“I don’t understand how you do this to me,” she breathed.

He growled softly, shifting above her, pressing her deeper into the bedding. “You do the same to me.”

His touch grew more insistent, more possessive. She arched under him, her hips rocking helplessly into the rhythm. Every brush of his tentacles made her tremble. They coiled around her legs, her arms—restraining her in silk and fire.

She was falling apart.

As her climax built, she tried to hold back. To think. To remember Earth, Alfie, the world she’d left behind. But all she could feel was him —all heat and shadows and strength—and herself unraveling in his grasp.

When it came, the release was blinding. A sound escaped her throat—half cry, half plea—as her whole body clenched, then dissolved into his embrace. He held her as she trembled, his limbs wrapping tighter, anchoring her to him.

She collapsed against his chest, panting. One of his hands stroked her hair, the motion strangely tender for someone so dangerous.

And still, even in the afterglow, her thoughts wouldn’t settle.

“I’m going home,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I can’t believe it. Earth.”

He was silent for a while. His gills flared softly as he breathed, his glowing skin dimming slightly.

But then: “Do you still wish to?”

She turned in his grasp. “Of course.”

“But will you return with me?”

Her heart twisted.

She didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t know, but because the answer scared her.

This… thing between them—it wasn’t a fling. Not a dream. It had grown roots in her. Deep ones.

Even if she returned to Earth, even if she found Alfie , how could she ever be content again? How could she walk through her old neighborhood, drink coffee, watch movies… knowing this existed? Knowing he did?

Karian cupped her face. “You are mine now, Leonie. And I am yours.”

She exhaled shakily. “I don’t think I could leave you. Even if I wanted to.”

One of his tentacles curled around her wrist. “You don’t.”

She let out a breathless laugh, half-tearful.

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t.”

And in the silence between them—between the pull of stars and the fire of their bodies—Leonie realized something devastatingly true.

She was going home. But she’d already found where she belonged.