MOONLIGHT BOUND

I'm Andrew Johnson, and I've got this thing-skin hunger, they call it. A deep, aching need to be touched, to feel someone close. But my mate, Sophia Lewis? She's a she-wolf with a germ phobia so intense it's like she's allergic to me.

I brush her arm, and she's scrubbing her hands raw with half a bottle of sanitizer.

I steal a kiss, and she's brushing her teeth for ten minutes straight, like I'm some kind of walking biohazard.

One night, I tried playing drunk, stumbling into her bed, hoping for a crack in her icy walls. Big mistake. She kicked me out-me and the whole damn bedding set-tossing us like yesterday's trash. Standing over me, her eyes cold as a winter moon, she sneered, "What, you that desperate?"

Her words hit like a slap, sharp and stinging, leaving me shaking.

Three years we've been bound, and I've tried everything-every trick, every gesture-to get through to her. She's a mountain, unyielding. The lowest point? Sneaking her worn clothes from the laundry, clutching them like some creep just to feel close to her. Pathetic, right?

I was done. Defeated. I slunk to my study, printed the bond-breaking papers I'd had ready for weeks, and steeled myself to find her in the guest room to sign them. But then I saw her slip out of her bedroom, heading straight for her workshop at the end of the hall.

Sophia used to be a sculptor before she took over her family's empire. That workshop is her sanctuary, where she spends most of her time. Even our binding night-our so-called sacred bond-she spent it in there, carving away. That room's her fortress, off-limits to everyone. Including me, her mate. I'd ask about it, just curious, and her face would frost over faster than a windshield in a blizzard. I learned to steer clear, not wanting to upset her.

But now? With the bond-breaking papers in my hand? Screw it. I had to know what held her so tightly.

I crept after her, silent as a shadow. Peeking through the crack in the door, my jaw dropped. I bit my hand to stifle a gasp.