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I didn’t do so. Instead, I went inside. Every instinct in me heightened with awareness, and I held my hand close to my weapon.

He had been expecting me.

After days of travel on foot, the warmth inside cradled me. The scent of burning logs in the hearth drew me closer to the heat where the fire crackled. Beyond it came the scent of freshly baked bread that called to my stomach. The cottage had two rooms, including a kitchen with a black kettle hanging over a low fire that cast a thin line of steam above it. The main room had a wooden table and two chairs and a rocking chair in front of the hearth. A ladder led up to a loft, with a corner of a bed peeking over the edge.

The cottage was clean. Not what I’d expect in a hermit’s hut. But the floor had been swept, the rug in front of the hearth shaken out. Even the chairs were pushed neatly across from each other at the table. I noted it and moved on.

On the table sat a leather folder, string-tied, as thick as a brick.

It had a seal on it. Ours. The wax was broken.

I straightened and clamped my teeth together. “Where did you get this?”

“The chair with its back to the wall’s yours,” he said, motioning to it. “I’d have taken it, but I’m not the one who’s outnumbered.”

By whom? I resisted giving him the satisfaction of watching me search around the room, since I’d already scanned it. “There’s one of you.”

“There’s one of me in the room.” He lifted the kettle off the arm and set it on the stone. “Sit down, Raven.”

“That isn’t my name.”

“No.” He took two white mugs that didn’t match off a shelf. “It’s what’s used by the Order.”

How did he know this?

The question needed answering. I needed more information before I took action.

I took the chair with its back to the wall and set the basket on the floor at my right foot, ensuring it was unlatched with the cloth folded back, in easy reach.

Then I took the blade out of my sleeve and opened it and laid it on the table under my hand.

He glanced at it briefly but didn’t react. “Good,” he said in the same calm voice. “Keep it out. I’d rather you did.”

“You’d rather?” I arched my brows at the strange wolf. Was he so assured that I wasn’t a threat to him? He might reconsider that before this conversation was over.

But I had questions and he had answers. So I listened.

He poured from the kettle and the scent of mint filled the room. I kept my eyes on the weapon in his hand. Boiling water and iron. Either could be used to maim badly. He didn’t make any quick movements.

Steam came up between us and the room smelled of mint and something I couldn’t identify. That smell drifted through me, stirring a memory. One of me in a third-floor office in the capital with a river outside the window. It was winter, I was eight, and my feet didn’t reach the floor. Another day of training.

The alpha set a steaming mug in front of me and sat down at the other end of the table with his, in no hurry. He didn’t hide his hands under the table.

“You take it without honey,” he said. “Which I’d call a shame, except there’s no honey, so it works out.”

More information about me.

When a target has operational knowledge they shouldn’t have, protocol dictates that the operative gather more information before proceeding to verification.

Instead of following protocol, I skipped to my question. “How did you get my info?”

“Which?” He wrapped both hands around his cup. “The training assessments, six years. The field record, four. The commendation for the widow at Calloway, about eleven months, and I’d like to talk about that one eventually, but not today.”

Calloway.

Nobody talks about Calloway. It’s a sealed action. A name I’ve never said out loud, not even in the report, where she’s a designation and a date.

“You want to ask me how I know this,” he said flatly. “You’ll ask it four or five different ways over the next hour as you’ve been trained, and I’ll give you the same answer. So I’ll give it to you now and save us the daylight. Your Order sends people up that path to kill us. Specifically me. They’ve been doing so for over a decade.”