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Gavan’s jaw hardened.

Calder had already poisoned enough lives from the shadows. William sat in chains, awaiting trial for a crime he undeniably committed; yet even now, Gavan suspected others remained untouched behind the scheme. Men wealthier. Cleverer. Safer.

Not for long.

His gaze shifted briefly towards Sorcha. Whatever Calder had set into motion, Gavan intended to end it before more blood was spilled for another man’s ambition. And if danger truly waited somewhere along those darkening roads, it would find Gavan Munro was prepared for it this time.

Chapter Eleven

Sorcha did not feel the cold until they were back on the road. Now the air pressed against her skin like ice. The rhythm of the horse beneath her felt distant, unreal, as if she had left part of herself behind in that stone room.

She closed her eyes, and for a moment, she saw William as he had been when they were children—mud-streaked, laughing, daring her to climb higher than she should. Her brother had always walked first into danger, and she had always followed. Two halves of a single story.

Only now the danger had teeth.

Her fingers tightened against the folds of her cloak as memory rose, unbidden. William had looked thinner than she had ever seen him, the sharp angles of his face made harsher by exhaustion and confinement. Even his eyes had seemed older somehow, stripped raw by sleeplessness and fear.

Someone had been slowly hollowing him out and calling it justice. The woods closed around the road, shadows thickening beneath the trees. She sensed the change in the men long before she saw it—the way shoulders stiffened, the subtle shift of reins, the quiet signals passed between the warriors who trusted one another without words. Gavan rode slightly ahead, posture hard as carved stone.

He had ended the meeting too soon. The memory lingered like an ache beneath Sorcha’s ribs, dull and hollow rather than angry. She had wanted one more moment with William. One more question whispered where guards could not overhear. One more chance to hold on to the certainty that her brother still lived before prison walls swallowed him again.

But she had seen the change in Gavan before he ended the meeting—the way his attention sharpened towards the corridor beyond the holding chamber, the way his hand rested nearer his sword as though instinct warned him of something unseen.

Now, as they rode the forest road back towards Lemlair, that same tension followed beside him still.

The winter woods pressed dark and narrow around the small company. Bare branches clawed against the fading sky while damp earth muffled the sound of hooves beneath them. The guards had tightened formation without command spoken aloud, their horses riding closer than before.

Gavan must have sensed her thoughts because, after a long silence, he said, “I apologise for shortening your time with your brother.”

Sorcha tightened her fingers against the reins. “I was not ready to leave him.”

“I know.”

The quiet understanding in his voice hurt more than dismissal would have.

She glanced towards him through the dimness beneath the trees. “Why?” she asked softly. “What changed?”

Gavan’s gaze swept the forest ahead before returning briefly to her. “William named Calder.”

The name settled coldly between them.

“Men like Hugh Calder survive because they keep distance between themselves and their schemes,” Gavan said quietly. “And if Calder believes William has begun speaking before the trial . . .” His jaw hardened. “Then anyone close to your brother becomes dangerous to him.”

Understanding moved uneasily through her. “You think someone may try to silence William.”

“I think men protecting power rarely wait calmly while secrets threaten to surface.” He glanced towards her again, his expression unreadable in the fading light. “And you met with him today. Publicly.”

Sorcha looked away, unease tightening low in her stomach. She had been so consumed by William’s imprisonment that she had scarcely considered what danger might follow simply from speaking to him.

“My safety has never been your concern before,” she said quietly, though even as the words left her mouth, she knew they were unfair.

The memory rose instantly between them anyway. A scar of pale skin traced beneath the edge of his collar where her bullet had found him months ago. She knew exactly where the wound lay beneath his coat. She had seen it too many times in her thoughts, waking and sleeping.

Guilt flared, tangled with something warmer, something she refused to name.

Gavan’s horse moved slightly nearer as the trail narrowed between thick stands of pine. “You mistake me,” he said after a moment, his voice lower now. “Your safety became my concern the moment I realised someone was willing to use you to reach others.”

The words struck deeper than she expected. She turned towards him despite herself.