Page 22 of The Highland Game

I pause mid-swipe and look up at him. “I never said you were.”

He gives me a curt nod then steps behind the bar and pretends to rearrange the glasses, even though I know full well they’re already perfectly aligned. His silence speaks volumes—it always does. Da’s not one for big declarations or emotional outbursts. He communicates with his hands, his actions, and, in moments like this, his stubborn refusal to meet my eye.

As I pour the bucket into the sink, it’s hard not to think of the money going quite literally down the drain. I think, in future, it’d be better if I handled deliveries, but that conversation will have to wait until another day. He’s just told me he’s “not over the hill yet”—I’m not about to bring up anything that he might consider as implying otherwise.

My mind wanders back to Jamie—LochNLoad—and our unfinished conversation. The thought of him trying to poach our customers on top of everything else . . . it’s too much. Don’t get me wrong, I want to tell him who I am but . . . maybe it’d be smarter not to rush things? I mean, if I can use our online friendship to figure out what he has planned, then . . . that just makes sense, doesn’t it? It’d be better to be prepared for what might be coming. I’m only looking out for me and my da.

I will tell him soon. Just . . . not quite yet.

CHAPTER NINE

JAMIE

My shift at the snug is over and the hotel has settled into its nightly hush—just the occasional creak of old wood and the faint hum of the boiler keeping me company as I climb upstairs. Once in my room, I kick off my shoes, ready to unwind.

My head has been spinning with ideas to wow Lewis and Emily. I’ve had a few decent ones, but none of them feels like the one—the idea that will turn around the snug’s fortunes. On the bright side, the ache in my thigh has finally eased up. Small mercies and all that.

I check my phone but there’s still nothing from Sass. I’ve not heard from her since she abruptly logged off before we’d even made it into the keep. I fired off a message to her a few hours back to suggest we give the quest another go tonight, but . . . no reply. Nada.

It was kind of odd that one moment there was something she really wanted to tell me, then the next her big news suddenly wasn’t important anymore. What was that about?

I don’t want to hound her but I shoot her one more message in case she missed the first one. Just a quick note to say I’m up for gaming tonight, if she fancies it. This might sound a bit tragic to anyone whose idea of “gaming” starts with Scrabble and ends with Monopoly, but trust me, you really do feel like something is off when your favourite teammate goes AWOL.

Staring at my phone and willing it to light up with a response is a pointless exercise, obviously. But when I manage to tear my attention away from it, my gaze instead lands on the Highland Legacy figurine perched on my shelf. The red-haired woman’s staff is raised high, ready to cast a spell on anyone who calls her an action figure instead of a collectible. Of course, her uncanny resemblance to SassyLassie’s in-game character had nothing to do with why I bought her . . . honest. Okay, okay, I couldn’t believe my luck when I spotted her in a Highland Legacy merch drop, and I knew I had to have her. I’ve never actually admitted to Sass that I own a physical representation of her, and I never will. I mean, it’s possible she’d find it endearing—but it’s also possible she’d find it creepy. Better not to take that risk.

I force my eyes away from the figurine, but there’s sod all else in my room to distract me. My other shelves groan under rows of sci-fi and fantasy books, while a weathered paperback copy of Dune sits on my desk beside what might be the world’s most chaotic tangle of charging cables. But I don’t feel like reading right now, and there’s no point gaming without Sass because I’d just spend the whole time wishing she were there beside me.

But . . . there is something else I could do.

I grab my laptop then settle on my bed. If Sass isn’t around for some virtual adventuring, maybe it’s time I finally dipped into the Highland Legacy TV series. Everyone’s been raving about it for years but somehow I’ve never got around to watching it. Probably because no adaptation could ever live up to the game. Still, Sass said if I wanted to understand her secret kink, I should watch season two, episode seven, so that’s what I’m going to do.

Sure, I could start at the very beginning—season one, episode one—and work my way up to that particular episode, but I’m nowhere near patient enough for that.

I find the episode online and click play, settling back against my pillows as brooding choral music swells through my tinny speakers. The opening shot pans over a mist-shrouded battlefield strewn with broken spears and shattered shields, corpses lying in grotesque disarray—some human, others twisted remnants of reanimated flesh. A lone wolf howls in the distance—because of course it does.

The scene shifts to a dimly lit castle chamber, where a towering Highland warrior (yes, shirtless already—classic) is deep in conversation with a woman whose auburn hair looks like it could ignite wet wood. They’re discussing their next move: gathering forces for another clash at dawn. Apparently, the earlier bloodbath wasn’t enough.

I’ve no idea who these two are. In the game, players design their own unique avatars for the adventure, so there are no set “heroes”. It seems the show’s creators have come up with an original cast of characters to drive the narrative, though I have heard that a few NPCs from the game make an appearance.

I watch about ten minutes, in which various other characters are introduced, but since I’ve no idea who’s who, it’s a tad confusing. I give up trying to follow the story and scrub through the episode instead. And then . . . bingo. This has to be it.

The Highland warrior and flame-haired woman are back, this time in a smaller chamber. Swords and axes hang on stone walls alongside banners embroidered with Celtic designs. Torches flicker, their light glinting off steel and painting the room in a warm amber glow.

The warrior is still shirtless, his breeches riding dangerously low on his hips. His companion, meanwhile, has traded her earlier leather coat for something far thinner: a gauzy chemise that clings to her curves in a way only a TV wardrobe department could pull off.

“Let me mark you for battle,” the man says, dipping his fingers into a bowl of thick blue pigment. His voice is low and rough—like he gargles gravel every morning—and his muscles shift under skin so bronzed, it’s as if Scotland suddenly relocated to the Mediterranean.

I snort softly as I settle further into my pillows. Body painting before battle? Pretty sure they’re off by a few centuries with that. Mind you, given they’re preparing to fight an army of the undead, I suppose I shouldn’t worry too much about historical accuracy. And there’s something about the way he leans closer to her that draws me in despite myself.

His hand moves slowly across her cheekbone, leaving trails of cobalt over pale freckled skin as she watches him with wide green eyes—a mixture of barely concealed nerves and something hotter simmering below the surface. His movements are practised but reverent. Every stroke feels deliberate, like he’s not just painting her face but committing it to memory in case fate isn’t kind when the sun rises. And given the way they occasionally glance towards the weapons that lie ready nearby, perhaps they know it won’t be.

The camera lingers as his hands shift lower—from her jawline to her neck, tracing swirls across her collarbone where firelight makes her skin glow molten gold beneath streaks of blue. Her breathing hitches when he slows over her shoulder. Neither of them speaks, but Christ almighty, you don’t need dialogue when the tension between them is thick enough to choke on.

Without a word she takes the bowl from him, dipping her fingers into its depths before gliding them over his chest, drawing slow spirals across taut muscle. Her hand trails lower until it hovers just above the point where those breeches rest so precariously on his hips.

The music swells, a tempest of strings and mournful harmonies that seem to carry every ounce of their longing, as though the sound itself aches for release. Clothes come off piece by piece: first his breeches slide past powerful thighs dusted with dark hair until he’s stark-bollock naked. Jesus Christ, that’s a whole lot more Highland warrior than I needed to see. Then her chemise slips free until bare breasts gleam under firelight. Fuck, her tits are absolutely gorgeous.

The warrior takes the bowl back and paints her breasts like they’re part of some ancient masterpiece. His fingers move slowly over her skin, leaving strokes of azure across the gentle swell of one breast before circling her nipple. Wow, he definitely lingers there too long for it to pass as innocent artistry. When she lets out a shaky breath, he stills for a moment, as if trying to rein himself in.