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He opened his mouth. I had to come in close to count them, closer than the third checkpoint, close enough to feel the warmth coming off his jaw against my cheek. Inside I found the sharpened canines, indicative of wolf shifters. Like those who had taken my parents.
“Canines observed,” I stated.
“So that I can—”
“Don’t say it,” I warned, cutting him off with a raised hand. “Why are you messing with me?”
“I’m not,” he insisted. “Just confirming who I am. To help you with your verification.”
My breath came quicker. I ran my fingers through my hair. Never in all my years as a field operative had I ever been so disheveled during verification.
“State your name,” I demanded.
“Conan Lockridge, alpha of the Lockridge pack.”
“Verification complete,” I declared, relieved that it was over.
Until I thought about what came next. The entire reason I’d been sent here: to resolve this alpha.
My stomach twisted. My skin prickled. Why did the idea of it seem dreadfully wrong? I’d killed wolves before. He’d killed humans. We were sworn enemies.
The silence went on long enough that I heard the ash settle.
“Hollis taught you the verifications,” he said.
Hollis. The name brought back the smell of the training hall, sawdust, and lamp oil, and a grip like a vise closing on my arm.
“How do you—”
“I’ve read your files. Just as you’ve read mine.” He paused. “Impersonal facts on paper.” His lips twisted into a sneer. “They are not you. They are not me. They are just words printed on a piece of parchment by a regime that doesn’t give a damn about either of us.”
My heartbeat edged up a notch as his words worked their way into my mind. How could eighteen years of training start to unravel in the presence of a mark? Simply because he’d poured me tea and listened when I spoke? That could be part of it. No one in the Order asked what I thought. They gave orders. I carried them out.
I sensed, deep down, that whatever the reason was, it went far deeper than that.
And I had no idea what it could be.
The muscles in my legs felt weak. I held on to the edge of the table as I worked my way back to my seat.
He glanced at me and then gave me space, walking over to the fire to add another log. I sat there, heart beating, breath rushing, as I struggled to resolve his words with what I’d known.
I’d spent the night in a cottage with my target. Instead of following orders, I’d eaten his stew and slept by his fire.
What did I know?
Everything had come from the Order, or more specifically, from my grandmother.
The more time I spent here with Conan, the more I questioned what they’d told me. They pushed for death, where he claimed to want to put an end to that.
Was I capable of that?
Or simply the blade in the Order’s hand?
Enough putting off the inevitable. It was time to see what he knew. I reached for the leather folder that had tormented me with its presence since I’d arrived here yesterday.
I pulled out files. Documentation on me and other field operatives. Orders. Field reports. Countless pieces of information.
On the top of it was a sealed order.
