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She did not know what to call him. Provost. Sir. Lord. Victim. The man she had shot. The man who could save her brother. “I came,” Sorcha said, voice shaking, “because I—”

“You came because you have nowhere else,” Gavan cut her off.

Sorcha swallowed. Her lips trembled.

“Aye,” she admitted.

Gavan’s expression didn’t soften. “And you came because you believe my brother’s home is your refuge.”

Sorcha shook her head sharply. “Nay.” The single syllable came out too fierce, too desperate. “I came because my brother will be executed.” The words finally spilled free, fuelled by terror. “And I was told . . .” She swallowed hard, forcing herself not to break. “I was informed that you are provost of Dingwall and that you have authority. That you could . . .” Her voice failed.

Destiny shifted beside Sorcha, as if bracing to hold her upright if she collapsed.

Gavan’s gaze went colder still. “You were told the truth.”

Sorcha’s breath hitched.

“For months,” Gavan continued, voice quiet and lethal, “I have lived with the truth you gave me.”

Sorcha’s heart hammered.

His eyes flicked, just once, to his right arm, then back to her. “A truth in flesh,” he said, “and pain.”

Sorcha’s mouth dried. “I did not know who you were,” she whispered. “I thought—”

“You thought we were bandits,” Gavan said, his voice a blade. “And so, you shot me.”

Sorcha flinched.

Cameron shifted, his gaze sharpening. “Gavan, she did not know—”

“She should have known,” Gavan snapped. And there it was—fury, quick and ugly, surfacing at last. It flashed across his face like lightning. “She saw men on horseback and decided they were beasts. She saw a sword and decided it was meant for her throat.”

Sorcha felt the sting behind her eyes.

“I was trying to protect Destiny,” she whispered.

Destiny’s breath caught, and Cameron’s gaze flicked to his wife with sudden tension. Was he remembering how close he had been to losing Destiny when her carriage was attacked?

Gavan’s mouth tightened. “In protecting her, you cost me the full use of my arm.”

Sorcha could not breathe.

Gavan stepped forward. Just one step, but it felt like the closing of a door behind her.

“I am not the man I was,” he said softly, and that softness terrified her more than shouting. “Every time my sword hand trembles, I remember exactly whose fear bought my pain.”

Sorcha’s tears slid free. She did not bother wiping them away. Her pride had already been stripped from her in the forest.

She lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Gavan’s laugh was quiet and bitter. “Sorry.”

Sorcha lifted her face again, because she had not come here to beg forgiveness. She had come to beg for William’s life.

She had come for mercy that did not exist in the world unless someone chose to create it. “My brother,” she said, voice breaking. “William is in Dingwall. They mean to hang him quickly, without . . .” She sucked in a ragged breath. “He needs a proper trial. He might have done wrong, but nothing so damning that he deserves to die without due process. He needs an advocate. He needs time.”

Gavan stared at her with a stillness that made the room feel suddenly colder. “Why,” he asked, “should I grant time to the man who tried to ruin my clan?”