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“Sara Corrin.”

The room turned pin-drop quiet. Conan tended to logs in the hearth with his back to us, and he stopped moving.

“Her son is Gage Corrin,” Imogene said. “He’s nineteen. He’s the fastest runner we have, and he’s out on the north line right now because of your six friends.”

“They aren’t my friends.”

She closed the ledger. “I’m not going to tell you it’s all right. It’s not all right.”

“Imogene,” Conan said, standing upright.

“I need to go.”

We returned to the Hermit’s Hut as the sun draped low over the forest. He started the fire, then sat on the rug with his boots off and his forearms on his knees. I found a spot in front of the hearth, which put my shoulder about four inches from his shin, and my awareness remained fixed on that short distance.

The fire’s bright glow softened as it settled down. Neither of us fed it.

“What’s on your mind?” he said.

No one ever asked me that and it took me a moment to reply. “Your pack doesn’t trust me and I don’t blame them.”

He made a sound of acknowledgment, but didn’t try to placate me with untrue words.

“You must hate me too,” I said.

“No.” He shook his head. “The Order, but not you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I knew they hadn’t broken you.”

I cocked my head, wondering what he meant.

He stood and went over to the folder on the table. “Your file.” He pulled out documentation on me. “There’s something in it that isn’t in the others.”

He sat beside me, so close that our bodies almost touched, even closer than before. A part of me that I should ignore wished that gap of space between us wasn’t there.

“On the other operatives, your grandmother wrote settled.” He pointed to a document on me. “On yours, she wrote not yet settled. Twice. In the margin the second time, in a different ink, which means she went back to it.”

I stared at the three words, then tore my gaze from it and watched the fire dance fiercely above the burning logs while I thought about the difference. My questions. That had to be what it meant. Grandmother had said I asked too many questions.

“So I sat in the cottage and I waited for the one who might still listen. You knocked on my door and I opened it. You’d either try to kill me.” He took my hand and caressed the palm. “Or listen.”

My throat went dry and I swallowed. “I’m glad I listened.”

Gold flickered in his gaze as he locked eyes with mine. “Me too.”

He moved his thumb over my palm in slow circles, as if he was memorizing the lines on it. No one had ever touched my hands like this.

I should have taken my hand back. I knew how. Turn the wrist, pull toward the thumb, the weakest point of any grip. I’d learned that at nine.

I didn’t pull away. Instead, I lowered my gaze to his lips, carved with an almost sensual fullness.

“Ruby.” He said my name low, almost in question, as I watched his mouth shape the sound.

I moved closer, toward his mouth, toward him.

Then I brushed my lips against his. The warmth of our breaths tangled in that heated space.