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Imogene. He’d mentioned she was his beta.

She snorted. “And what’s she going to do with it?”

I stepped toward her, my knife still in hand. “Considering I just learned that my grandmother has signed my death warrant, I don’t have every damn answer yet,” I snapped at her. “But I’m not going back to the Order. And I’m not going to betray your pack, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I need to know how many because that will help me understand their strategy.”

All the softness that had been developing while I shared meals inside the cottage with Conan disappeared as I snapped back into my usual mode. Assess, strategize, act.

She came closer in one quick movement, and Conan blocked her from entering with his wide shoulders. She studied me around him as if I were a threat. “Put the blade down.”

I weighed the risks of doing so. The next nearest weapon I could use if she came for me was an axe near split wood, four paces from me. With shifter speed, she’d take me down before I made it two steps.

I ran that assessment and put the knife down on the table, but within a step of me.

“You’ve killed six of us,” she spat.

“Yes.” I didn’t deny it or justify my actions. She asked and I told her the truth.

That stopped her for a second. She turned to Conan, who remained between us in the doorway with his arms folded. Then she faced me. “Six operatives, three days out.”

I exhaled, slowly, my shoulders sagging. “That’s not a recovery team.”

“What is it then?” Exasperation edged her question.

“Clearance. I’ve been on four teams.”

“Meaning?” She turned her hand up with impatience.

A pause. “You were right. They want me dead.”

Conan’s jaw twitched, that slightest reaction exhibited by this rugged alpha who could keep his face as neutral as stone.

She studied me. “You’ve been on four clearance teams. And now you’re the target.”

I stepped around Conan to head outside and found a stick. In the clearing, where I’d seen Conan shift from a magnificent dark gray into a man, which still replayed in my head, I drew in the dirt.

“They won’t approach up the corridor,” I explained. “Two go long and come in from the northwest at dusk on the second day. Four will hold a line across the run. The assumption being that the target will run downhill toward the water.”

“They know you know this,” Conan said.

“Yes,” I agreed and glanced at Imogene, silently conveying my gratitude. “But they don’t know that I know they’re coming.”

Imogene folded her arms, watching me still. “Show the Harrow.”

My brows drew closer. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Six years back in spring, we lost eleven in one night. Including my sister.” Her mouth twisted at the memory. “We never figured out how.” She crouched down opposite me across my drawing, which put her closer than I liked. “You want me to believe you’re off their books? Show me how that worked.”

“I’m not sure, but I might be able to figure it out.” I asked her about the location, the terrain, the water.

As she told me, I sketched out points in the dirt. “It sounds like a push. They used the ridge to their advantage and pushed you toward the edge.”

Imogene turned as gray as the darkening sky. She stood and walked to the end of the clearing, staring out to the forest beyond.

When she came back, she said, “I don’t trust you, even if he does.”

“I’d think less of you if you did.”

And with that, we had an understanding.