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I peer out of my window. The trees that whip past are nothing more than inky streaks against the raging night.

And then suddenly it happens: a sudden shift in the car’s movement. The tyres stop gripping properly. They slide, like they can’t find purchase on the slick surface below. My pulse spikes.

“Angus!” Maw says urgently.

“I’ve got it,” Da replies, though there’s a waver in his tone. He tries to correct our path but the car doesn’t respond like it should. It lurches and skids sideways with an awful inevitability.

“Jesus!” Maw shrieks.

The world outside spins in sickening flashes. My fingers dig into the door handle. We veer towards a hulking shadow—a tree—and then⁠—

A deafening crunch reverberates through my body as metal crumples like tin foil and my head slams forward into something hard.

I wake up thrashing, my hands clawing at a duvet twisted around my legs like a restraint, my body jerking as if still trapped in the crash. For a few seconds panic clouds everything—the darkness too thick, my chest too tight. I reach out blindly and frantically until I finally find the switch for my bedside lamp. Light spills across my room, washing over familiar shapes: my shelves crammed with geeky books; my perpetually messy desk; the gamer chair that probably needs replacing but feels like home.

Fuck. I’m safe. Alive.

Unlike—

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, hard enough to see stars behind closed lids, as though I may be able to block out that tree or the awful sound of metal folding in on itself. In daylight those moments stay locked away in some shadowy corner of my mind, one I can’t access, like my brain knows I’m not strong enough to face them. But in dreams like that one? They tear through me with a ferocity that leaves me gasping for air.

For some moments I just lie there, my chest heaving as I fight to slow my breathing, the sheet beneath me clinging uncomfortably to my sweat-soaked back. Eventually, with a groan, I force myself upright and swing my legs over the side of the bed. That’s when it hits—the sharp, stabbing ache in my left thigh.

“Fucking hell,” I hiss, rubbing at the spot like that’ll do anything. It’s been seven years since they shoved the titanium rod into my femur—seven years since that night—and although I’ve recovered well, the pain still comes back sometimes. I can understand it when I take a tumble—like when Bruce turned me and Maisie into human dominoes a couple of weeks back—but on occasions like this, when I haven’t done anything physical to trigger it? That’s the worst. “Psychosomatic pain”, my doctor called it. But knowing that it originates in my mind doesn’t make it any less real.

I drag shaky hands through sweat-damp hair then, bracing myself, get to my feet. I hobble over to a chest of drawers where I always keep a bottle of whisky stashed. Well, I didn’t get to swallow the drams at the distillery, did I, so I shouldn’t feel guilty about having a wee nightcap? Not that I usually need an excuse. Thus the bottle in my bedroom.

No glass required—I tip the whisky straight from the neck, letting the fiery liquid burn its way down. It’s not exactly smooth, but right now that roughness is just what I need: a distraction, a small comfort wrapped in heat.

I take a second swig for good measure then shuffle into my en suite bathroom, the tiles cool underfoot. When I click on the light, the brightness stings my eyes. I grip the edges of the sink and examine my reflection: shadowed eyes, hair sticking up in awkward tufts, skin pale except for blotches of heat blooming on my chest and neck, courtesy of the adrenaline still surging through me.

Twisting on the tap, I splash cold water over my face, the icy shock chasing away some of the memories and anchoring me back in the here and now. Then, peeling off my boxers, which are damp with sweat, I wet a cloth with warm water and wipe down my armpits and chest, then the lower regions too. There’s nothing quite like giving your balls a scrub at three in the morning to really hammer home that you’re winning at life, eh? Not exactly glamorous, but better than sitting around drenched in sweat and smelling like a bogborn. Obviously a shower would be better, but no, thanks. Not right now. Too much like rain.

Fucking rain.

Back in my room I pull on joggies and an old T-shirt then slump into my chair and flip open my laptop. Sleep, I know, is a lost cause. Even with the whisky warming my insides, my heart is still racing and my thoughts still spinning. I need . . . I need to not be me for a while.

I log in to Highland Legacy. SassyLassie won’t be online at this hour, and even if she were, she seems to be giving me the cold shoulder at the moment. That’s okay—I think a solo quest is exactly what I need right now.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

MAISIE

My head pounds in time with every wet swish of the mop across the Pheasant’s wooden floor. The hangover gods have outdone themselves this time. My brain feels like it’s hosting a bagpipe concert, with each note more discordant than the last.

Still, I soldier on and attack a patch of gunk. What even is this? I wonder. Something sticky. Whatever it is, it’s stubborn and obnoxious, not unlike a certain man I spent some time with yesterday—and who had the audacity to chuck me out of his car into rain so torrential it could’ve been the final scene in a disaster movie.

Bloody Jamie. Just the thought of him has me gripping the mop so tightly it’s a wonder I don’t snap it in two. What makes everything worse—what I really can’t wrap my head around—is that, before I was sent out into the storm, I’d actually been enjoying myself with him. There had been . . . moments. Like when I caught him watching me during the tasting, his eyes lingering on mine just a second too long before he looked away. Or when he’d steadied me as we were leaving, his chest solid and warm against my back. And as for the drive home, well, let’s just say it’s hard to square the obvious contempt he has for me (enough to banish me into a monsoon) with the . . . enthusiasm he had going on in his trousers.

Sure, I might have poked the bear a bit right before he kicked me out, but come on, this is Jamie McIntyre we’re talking about—the king of inappropriate banter. If you can’t take it, don’t dish it, right? The whisky must have dulled my awareness of just how wound up he was getting, but still, his reaction was wildly over the top. Is SassyLassie really that sacred to him? Was suggesting she might in fact be some guy called Big Davie such an unforgivable crime?

At least I got revenge, of sorts, in Highland Legacy. After months of healing LochNLoad’s sorry arse, buffing his stats, and saving him from death on practically every quest, it felt bloody brilliant to abandon him, just like Jamie abandoned me on the road home. And look, I’m not unhinged—it’s just a game—but . . . watching that wraith finish him off? Deeply satisfying. I know, I know, but I’m only human! Afterwards, I teleported myself to safety—perks of being a mage—and logged off.

Still, if I’m planning to leverage my online alliance with LochNLoad to suss out Jamie’s intentions for the snug, betraying him might not have been my smartest move. I’ll have to message him, smooth things over, grovel a bit. Although . . . now that I’ve had time to dry off and think about it, isn’t all this sneaky scheming a bit much? Aye, Jamie was an arse yesterday—an utter prick, in fact—but maybe I should be taking the moral high ground. Don’t get me wrong, there’s not a chance in hell I’m about to confess to keeping certain details from him longer than was strictly necessary. I’m hardly going to admit to a failing and offer an apology when what he did was so much worse. But . . . maybe I could just block LochNLoad and never play with him again? Clean break. No drama.

When my phone vibrates, my first thought is it’s probably him, wondering what that was all about with the wraith fight. But no, it’s Cat in the Scottish Sirens chat. She’s sent a photo of herself glaring at an Everest-sized stack of essays with a caption that reads: Send help!

Iona