There was an unspoken rule in the Warlord pack: The greenhouse was neutral territory.
It was my sanctuary. When the noise of five hyperactive beast-cubs and four terrifyingly competitive men became too much, I could step through the heavy ironwood doors and immediately breathe.
The air inside was always perfectly warm, smelling of damp earth, crushed mint, and sweet blooming flowers. High above, Cassian's magically tempered glass dome let in the exact right amount of sunlight, while Caspian's beautiful, glowing ice-pipes hummed softly along the wooden beams, misting the plants with fresh water.
It was peaceful. It was quiet.
Well, usually.
"Get back here, you little menace!" I hissed, lunging forward with a woven basket.
*Boing. Boing. Splash.*
I completely missed. The target—a perfectly round, incredibly juicy, bright blue plum—bounced off the edge of the wooden planter, ricocheted off a terra-cotta pot, and landed squarely in a small puddle of water near my boots.
