She dragged my half-dead body from the wreckage. Should’ve left me there. That’s what everyone says about Reapers—we’re feral, brutal, irredeemable. But Emry didn’t flinch. Not when I growled. Not when I bled. Not even when I told her she was mine. Now I’m healing in her ruins. Watching her patch up dying men while her own hands shake. Listening to her curse me out one minute and cry in the dark the next. And the worst part? I want her anyway. I want to bury myself in her and burn the whole galaxy down around us. I want her off this dead rock and on my ship, snarling and claimed, marked so deep the stars remember it. But she won’t leave. Not without a fight. Not without the civilians she still believes she can save. Too bad. I didn’t survive crashlanding in hell just to lose her to it. She says I don’t own her. That she's not mine to keep. She’s wrong. And she’s going to enjoy how I correct her. Read on for grumpy alien heat, stubborn human medics, battlefield obsession, and a war-torn protector who'd rather die than let her go. HEA Guaranteed!