She’s not my mate.
She’s my property.
From the moment I saw her—soft, fragile, human—I knew.
Mine.
Not in a sweet way. Not in a poetic, fated-connection way.
In a rip-their-throats-out, chain-her-to-my-bed, scent-her-until-she-screams kind of way.
I don’t care if she runs. I’ll catch her.
I don’t care if she begs. I’ll ignore her.
I don’t care if she fights. I hope she does.
Because the bond is already sealed.
She’s mine to protect. Mine to keep.
Mine to ruin — slowly.
And if the mating scent doesn’t get her first…
My cooking will.
Read on for alien fated mates, primal obsession, feral bonding rituals, and a possessive MMC who claims her soul before she knows his name. HEA Guaranteed!
