22
Lachlan
“I can’t believe I let Blair strong-arm me into this,” I grumble.
Key grins down at me as I give her a boost up the ladder to her makeshift “tower.” “You mean you don’t want to fight for my honor?”
“That’s not even how the story goes,” I huff. “Blair has manipulated this entire thing to boost beer sales.”
“Can’t say I blame her,” Key calls down.
I watch as she shimmies up onto the wooden platform, finding the carved “throne” that consists of a tree stump carved down into a seat with a backrest, looking like she’s enjoying this far too much.
“It’s a nice view from up here,” she says, adjusting her plastic tiara.
I frown up at her, fists against my hips. “First you make a fuss about me calling you princess; now you’re wearing tiaras?”
“I don’t know,” she says, winking at me. “Maybe it’s growing on me. I’m also loving your outfit today.”
I frown down at the kilt brushing along my knees; it was my da’s, and it’s utterly ancient, but Blair said it was a requirement to enter. Something about really getting into the spirit of the games. At this point, they barely have anything to do with the story of the pub’s name. I’m pretty sure she’s just looking for a laugh.
I scoff under my breath, shaking my head as I turn to regard the other contestants. The field behind the pub is crowded with people I’ve known my entire life as well as new faces of tourists, no doubt enticed in by the discounted beer and promise of sweaty men—all milling about with a brew in hand, laughing and chatting among themselves as they wait for the games to begin. I hadn’t planned on participating, I really hadn’t, but then I spotted Isla’s twins strutting around in their shredded tanks with their bronzed muscles and their matching heartthrob smiles, and well…turns out that maybe I am a bit of the jealous sort. Who knew.
“All right, Lachlan?”
I catch sight of Hamish just as his hand slaps the center of my back, his blue eyes twinkling in the midmorning sunlight as he smiles up at me.
“I’d be better if I were in a bloody seat and not out here on the field,” I mutter. I arch a brow at him. “Don’t tell me you’re competing?”
“And why not?” He puffs up a bit. “Don’t think I couldn’t teach you young pups a thing or two.”
I just stare at him until he finally blows out a breath.
“Fine, fine,” he relents. “Blair asked me to announce the festivities.”
“Lucky you.”
“I suspect she only asked me because she knows I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Probably. You’re the only person here she can trust not to end up passed out on the grass by the end of the day.”
Hamish nods before nudging me in the side. “And what’s got you itching to compete?” He flashes me a sly smile. “Don’t tell me you’re after a kiss from the bonnie MacKay girl, aye?”
I don’t tell him I know the exact noise the “bonnie MacKay girl” makes when my tongue is between her legs, figuring that giving old Hamish a heart attack wouldn’t go over well.
I shrug instead. “I’m just helping out the twins.”
“Sure, sure,” he laughs. “And my middle name isn’t Elsbeth.”
My nose wrinkles. “Wait, is it?”
“You’ve got your secrets,” he laughs. “I’ve got mine.”
He gives me another sharp slap between the shoulders, and then he’s strutting off to the platform that’s been erected beside Key’s tower, a speaker in the center that’s connected to the mic.
I notice the other contestants starting to make their way closer to the platform, including Isla’s twins, whose names I can’t exactly recall—one of them might be a Cormac? I also see Malcolm strutting over in a garishly red kilt of his own, his red beard braided like he’s marching to battle rather than gearing up to jump through some tires.
“He could have worn a shirt,” someone mutters beside me.
I glance at one of the twins—seriously, is it Cormac or Camdan? He’s frowning at Malcolm’s display as much as I am. Good. At least there’s one other person here with some good sense. The other twin saunters up just beside his brother, both of them wearing black shirts with the sleeves ripped off and sporting their tartan kilts of blue and green.
“Aye, he could have,” I concur.
One of them makes a face. “And isn’t he auld enough to be the lass’s da?”
“He is,” I grouse. “But I’m pretty sure he’s mostly here for the bragging rights anyway.”
I don’t like the way they both turn to eye Key where she’s chatting with Hamish from her tower, and I have to remind myself that, as far as anyone else is concerned, she’s fair game. Even if I’ve started to think of her as mine.
“Ewan,” one of them says, sticking out his hand and cutting through my darkening thoughts.
I shake it just as the other brother offers his. “Niall.”
Well, I was completely off, then, wasn’t I?
“Lachlan.”
“Aye, we know,” Ewan chuckles.
Niall waggles his brows. “Think you can keep up, auld man?”
All right, so they’re both numpties after all.
“I might ask you the same question,” I hmph. “Are either of you even auld enough to drink?”
“We’re auld enough for a lot of things,” Niall laughs.
I notice him turning his head in the direction of Key’s tower, lifting his hand and wiggling his fingers in a wave. “Auld Finlay’s granddaughter is a pretty wee thing, aye?”
He shares a fist bump with his brother, and I decide then that I’m going to destroy the both of them.
“You lassies ready to get beaten?” Malcolm calls, taking his place in front of the platform.
I eye his barrel chest and huge arms—reminding myself that I have something none of them have. That I could toss all three of them across the field all at once if I had half a mind to.
My smile feels wild on my mouth as it curls up, showing teeth. “We’ll see.”
The smugness from my immediate win of the caber toss lasts for all of ten minutes before the twins use some underhanded tactics—mainly, tripping me—to win the obstacle course, and by two hours in, I’m not only soaked with sweat, but feeling murderous to boot. Ewan is out, thank Christ, but his brother Niall and Malcolm are still in the running.
Every time I glance in Key’s direction, I can tell she’s enjoying this entirely too much. I’m happy to see her having fun, but I have definitely caught her looking a bit too much like she’s laughing at me and not with me. I should spank her arse for that.
“You all right, Grandpa?”
I narrow my eyes at Niall, leaning with my hands on my knees as I catch my breath. Damn Blair for making this whole thing so fucking authentic. We couldn’t just do a bit of tossing and climbing and be done with it?
“Next up,” Hamish calls, “we have the traditional hammer throw! Our lads here will toss a pole with a heavy metal ball attached at the end, and we’ll be judging them on their distance. The competitor with the shortest throw will be disqualified, and that will leave us with only two left to enter the final task!” Hamish gestures to Key, who does a pretend curtsy even though she’s wearing pants. “Remember, a kiss from this bonnie lass is up for grabs, so give it your all, aye?”
Nothing like the story at all, I swear.
“You can have the kiss,” Malcolm calls, “but I’m still going to kick both your arses.”
I notice Niall rolling his eyes, and I have to force myself not to do the same. “Just throw your pole, yeah?”
“With pleasure,” Malcolm answers haughtily.
He claps his hands together before strolling over to his pole, lifting the heavy rounded end from the grass to test its weight. I know that normally they can weigh upwards of twelve kilograms, but I also know that Blair likes to make everything “more interesting” so they’re probably much heavier than they should be. This is apparent by the way the muscles in Malcolm’s arms immediately bulge with effort, his cheeks puffing as he blows out a breath, steadying himself.
Niall and I watch as he starts to spin, dragging the pole through the air as he picks up momentum. His face is red, sweat dripping from his hair as he gathers speed, and in a matter of seconds he’s releasing the pole, letting it fly across the field. It lands a good ten meters away, and the crowd begins to clap and cheer as a still-panting Malcolm raises one hand in the air, pumping his fist.
“Age before beauty,” Niall says with a bow.
I remind myself that it wouldn’t be polite to strangle him in public.
I step up to my pole, adjusting my own blue-and-red tartan so it’s settled on my hips, dusting my hands together before reaching to grasp the pole. I plant my feet to get my bearings before I look over in Key’s direction, noticing that she’s leaning over the railing of her tower. She gives me a wave, and I feel a smile touching my mouth in answer.
I lift the pole, immediately scowling.
Blair absolutely made mine heavier than necessary. The damned thing has to be at least fifty kilograms. There’s no way Malcolm could have tossed this, which tells me Blair meddled to make sure it was more of a “challenge” for me.
As much as I love my friend, sometimes I hate her just as much.
I grit my teeth as I start to spin, feeling the weight of the ball at the end of my pole threaten to topple me over as I let it circle around me. I wait until it’s gliding through the air smoothly before I start to time my release, finally digging in my heel at the exact moment I let it fly. I watch it sail in an arc before dropping back down, my grin impossibly wide when it drops a good two meters farther than Malcolm’s.
I turn to him, breathing hard but no doubt looking smug. “What was that about kicking my arse?”
“Och.” He throws up his hand in a dismissive gesture. “You young pups and your bloody ego.”
Niall jogs up to his pole, winking at me. “Let me show both of you how it’s done.”
Niall beats Malcolm by a slim margin, and I suspect if it weren’t for the immediate pint of beer offered to him upon losing, he might have a lot more to say about it. As it is, he’s grumbling on the sidelines with his second glass, eyeing the field as Niall and I move into position for the final task.
“Our last game is the classic tug-o’-war,” Hamish announces, “but with a twist!”
I glare at Blair, sensing she’s cooking up something else for my benefit. She just blows me a kiss from the sidelines.
“To make things interesting,” Hamish says, “both our lads will be tying their rope around their waist, and instead of your usual pulling their opponent over a line—one of these two will actually need to bring the other to the ground.”
Fuck me.
“That’s right,” Hamish goes on. “So it’s not just about strength, but cunning also!”
Niall is already stepping into the looped bit of his end of the rope, and once it’s secured around his waist, the eejit reaches for the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it away so that all his sweat-drenched muscles are on display. He flexes his arms and makes a bit of a show out of it, smiling at me as if in challenge.
You’ve nothing to prove to him.
Then he blows a kiss at Keyanna, and I see red at the edges of my vision.
I grunt as I step into my own loop, settling it around my waist and immediately wrenching off my own shirt. I skip the theatrics; I’ve nothing to prove to this kid, after all, but given that I’m at least two inches taller than him with a good twenty kilograms on him—I can’t help standing a bit straighter. A quick glance in Key’s direction reveals her to be laughing behind her hand. She’ll no doubt have plenty to say about this after.
Niall grips either side of the looped end of his rope, planting his feet in the grass and steadying himself as I do the same. I can hear Hamish beginning to count down to the start, and by the time the whistle blows—I can barely hear it over the rushing of blood in my ears. I grip the rope tight and force a step back, satisfaction coursing through me as Niall stumbles forward a bit. He doesn’t go down, though, surprising me by using all of his body weight to immediately tug me in the opposite direction.
This back-and-forth goes on a lot longer than I’d like; even when I’m able to drag him a meter toward me, I can’t seem to get him unstable enough to fall flat on his face. I can feel sweat coating my skin, running down my temples—the sun high in the sky now and burning down on me until my entire body feels hot. It occurs to me that, regardless of my strength, this kid could absolutely outlast me, and with that in mind, I try to think of alternative methods to have him eating the grass.
The frustration of the idea of losing builds up, and the thought of anyone else kissing Keyanna—however innocent—threatens to spark a growing rage inside me that feels physical. I feel it burning under my skin, my fingers prickling as if my claws are seconds from coming out, and I force my eyes shut, knowing they must be burning.
Bloody hell, you can’t lose control. Not here.
I open my eyes with new determination, because I have to end this. Before I lose it and cause a fucking panic. I watch Niall more carefully when he attempts to bring me down again, holding my ground and studying him for any signs of weakness.
On his next tug, I notice him throwing all of his weight backward into the rope as he inches me forward, and a lightbulb goes off above my head. Barely able to contain my smile, I let the rope slacken a bit, trying to appear tired, and I can see it, the look of victory when Niall thinks he has me. I wait for him to start to press all of his weight once more against his rope, watching his feet as they lift from the ground ever so slightly as he digs in his heels.
And that’s when I let him have it.
I give a quick and brutal tug at the exact moment Niall starts to lean, the resulting force taking him off guard and throwing him off balance. The look on his face is priceless; shock and disbelief war together just before he comes crashing to the ground, and then he’s sprawled on his arse with a dazed expression as I let my rope drop to the grass.
The gathered crowd starts to cheer, but my blood is pulsing in my ears, and I’m already striding over to Key’s tower, ignoring the whistles and whoops as I start to climb the ladder. She’s waiting for me at the top; her grin wide and her cheeks flushed from the sun, rising from her makeshift throne to meet me as I step onto the platform with her.
“That was something,” she says. Her eyes rake down my bare chest. “Wow, I kind of like you all sweaty.”
“Do you?”
“Mhm.” She plucks at my kilt with her fingers, humming her approval. “And I really like this.”
I wind an arm around her waist, pulling her against me. “I was promised a prize.”
“Well,” she hums, throwing her arms around my neck. “Come and get it, then.”
I cover her mouth with mine, kissing her in a way that is far from appropriate for the casual prize she was supposed to have given me, but finding I don’t care in the slightest. Adrenaline is coursing through me, so much so that I can almost feel myself giving in to my more beastly instincts—almost as if the idea of her touching someone else has the monster inside me needing to remind her who she belongs to.
Because she really does feel like mine.
I lick my tongue through her mouth and capture the tiny whimper that results because of it, knowing that after this, people will definitely have things to say. That rumors will be flying all over the place. I decide then that I don’t care about that either. Let them talk. As long as I’m the only one who gets to touch her like this. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I couldn’t even stand the idea of anyone else getting something as innocent as a kiss from her. Is that some possessive side effect of the curse? Some latent monsterly instinct that has me wanting to own all of her touches, her kisses, everything she’s willing to give?
Or is it just me?
One thing’s glaringly obvious. I’m obsessed with Keyanna MacKay. And given that my days could very well be numbered…I have no idea what to do with that information.