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He hated that part most of all. Because it complicated what he wanted to keep clean. Because it made her human. He shoved the memory down until it sat hard in his gut.

Cameron’s hand came down on his uninjured shoulder, heavy with brotherly steadiness. “Give yourself time.”

Gavan had given his healing months. He had given it pain, sweat, and grim determination. He had forced his body to obey and his mind to endure. And still he woke some nights with his teeth clenched, as if he were biting down on rage.

Time did not heal everything. Some wounds only changed shape.

Cameron exhaled and studied Gavan a moment longer as if he had made a decision. Then he said, “I have something for you.”

Gavan’s eyes narrowed. “If it is another healer’s tonic—”

“’Tis no tonic,” Cameron cut in, the corner of his mouth twitching. “’Tis a promotion.”

Gavan blinked. “A what?”

Cameron’s eyes brightened, pride and mischief twined together. “Congratulations, brother. You are the new Provost of Dingwall. You are now the head of the town council and the senior magistrate of the burgh.”

For a heartbeat, the words did not land.

Gavan stared at him as if Cameron had declared him King of France. “Provost?” he said flatly. “Are you daft?”

“Nay,” Cameron replied, far too calm. “But you might be if you refuse. The council approved it yesterday.”

“The council?” Gavan scoffed. “What council would trust me to keep peace in a town full of merchants, fishermen, and squabbling fools?”

“A council that has eyes,” Cameron said, turning slightly toward him. “As provost, you will preside over the town council and serve as Dingwall’s senior magistrate. The bailies will sit with you in the burgh court, the councillors will attend to the town’s affairs, and the clerk will see that every tedious word is recorded for posterity.”

Gavan narrowed his eyes. “How reassuring.”

“You will oversee the markets, settle disputes, keep the peace, and ensure justice cannot be bought by whichever merchant possesses the heaviest purse.”

Gavan’s throat tightened with irritation, pride, and disbelief all colliding at once. “They chose the wrong Munro. Your name alone could keep order in the region.”

“A laird cannot serve as provost,” Cameron reminded him. “It must be someone who can stand apart from clan matters.”

Gavan’s mouth twisted. “And you believe I can stand apart?”

Cameron’s gaze sharpened, steady as a command. “I believe you can judge a man by his deeds rather than his name. That is why the council chose you.”

“And what if the bailies disagree with my judgment?”

“Then you will listen to them.”

Gavan gave a humorless laugh. “Now I know you are daft.”

“You need not obey them,” Cameron added, his mouth twitching. “But listening before you overrule them may discourage the council from regretting its decision.”

“They already ought to regret it.”

“Perhaps.” Cameron’s amusement faded, leaving only conviction. “But they do not. Nor do I.”

The words settled heavily.

Gavan had lived his whole life beneath Cameron’s shadow, never resentful, never unloved, but always second. Always the spare blade, the backup heir. The man who would bleed first so that the laird could live.

He loved Cameron fiercely. Would die for him without hesitation. But there had always been a small, restless ache inside him. Something that wanted a life distinctly his own.

He swallowed. “I cannot leave Foulis now,” he muttered, searching for refusal like a shield. “Not with the clan still cleaning up after William Sutherland’s deceptions.”