Trunk—yes, that’s what they call him—is a massive Xylan miner on the remote planet of Timbur who’s been ordered to guard me while I investigate his family’s darkest secret.

He hates journalists, hates questions and he really hates me.

The feeling is mutual. Mostly. Except for the part where I can’t stop staring at his ridiculous muscles as he leads me through glowing mine shafts. And how his growl does highly unprofessional things to that area between my thighs.

But none of that matters, because according to Xylan biology, we’re not compatible.

Thank the gods. One less complication.

Until someone tries to kill me because they can’t let my story run. And then a fancy med lab heals my entire body—including things I thought were unfixable.

Trunk inhales sharply, his whole body goes rigid, and he pins me with a look that makes my knees buckle. “Mine,” he rasps. “Finally. Mine.”
Oh hells.

I came to Timbur for a story.

Why do I have the feeling I’ve become the story?