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He thought of Freya singing to them, unaware of what was happening, and something in his chest twisted—grief for a brother he’d never reconciled with and something sharper still, the realization that fate had handed him his family before he’d even known to ask for it.

“Speak plainly.”

“They’re yers now, me Laird, whether ye assume the title or nae,” Jack said in a clipped tone. “The bairns have no one else. Yer sister-in-law was an only child whose parents perished two years ago. Ye are the only living relative the twins have.”

The words landed like a blow, harder than his father’s sword had ever managed.

Evander stood very still, aware of Callum watching him, aware of Jack doing the same, waiting to see what the Wolf would do with news that had nothing to do with blades or blood.

Twins.

His brother had twins. And now those twins were his.

After Evander was banished from his childhood home, his brother went on to build a life. He took his rightful position as head of the family after their father’s death, eventually marrying and starting a family of his own.

How had Evander lived his life while his brother was gone?

He had always hoped that one day he would see Malcolm again, that they would be able to bridge the gap that had formed between them since he left, but now he would never have that choice.

“The twins are with me wife right now,” he answered after a moment, trying his best to keep his voice steady.

“And what of the lairdship?”

Callum bared his teeth, and Evander shot him a quelling look.

“I’ve made no decisions yet. Ye cannae show up here after so long and expect me to accept it.”

Jack’s lips pressed together. “I understand, me Laird. I daenae expect an answer yet, neither do yer people. They are grieving the loss of yer braither⁠—”

“Look around, Jack. These are me people,” Evander ground out. “The people ye speak of are the ones I left behind well over a decade ago.”

“It doesnae change the fact that⁠—”

“The Laird has spoken on it,” Callum snapped. “Ye have yer answer, so let things lie for now. He has only just learned of the death of his only braither.”

Evander turned without a word and went to the tent. He could hear Freya babbling to the children, and a ghost of a smile touched his lips, but it faded when the truth crashed down around him.

Twins. In his care.

Evander hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t asked for babies, or a brother’s ghost pressing against his ribs, or a wife who sang lullabies as though she’d been born for it. Yet here they were, all three, waiting for him.

Whatever else this day had taken from him, it had given him no choice.

He stood there a moment longer, letting his wife’s voice settle something in him that Jack’s news had knocked loose. He thought of his father, of the sword and the wound and the words that had followed him for twelve years.

He would not be that man.

Whatever grief waited to be dealt with, whatever guilt over a brother he’d never made peace with, it would wait until morning. Tonight, two babies needed feeding, and a wife needed to hear the truth from him, not from Jack.

Through the canvas, her song faltered. A small, indignant squawk cut across it, followed by a giggle, and then her voice sounded again, lower and softer. It was a voice he’d never heard from her, the kind a woman reserved for bairns and frightened animals. She had certainly never used it with him.

He found he wanted her to.

The thought startled him. He pressed his palm flat against the tent pole and let it pass, the way he let pain pass on a battlefield.

Three weeks, she’d said. He had no business wanting anything she hadn’t agreed to give.

Freya hadn’t heard him. She was kneeling beside the bed with her back to him, one baby tucked against her shoulder and the other sprawled across the blankets, kicking at her knee. A strand of hair had come loose from her braid, and the baby boy was tugging at it with great determination.