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!