Author
Weslee 's hands were caked in damp soil, the earthy scent of turned dirt filling her nostrils as she knelt in the greenhouse.
The humid, warm air clung to her skin, a stark contrast to the biting cold outside.
This glass-walled haven was her rebellion.
A place where things grew wild and imperfect—just the way she liked them.
She was gathering a basket of vegetables when something caught her eye beyond the glass.
There he was.
Alpha Shawn was seated in the pavilion at the center of the koi pond, rod in hand, posture rigid even in repose.
Fishing. Always fishing. As if the answers to all his silent rages lay beneath the murky water.
Their eyes met across the expanse of snow-dusted lawn.
His gaze was dark, unreadable—a shadow in the sharp winter light.
