The Highland Bad Boy (True Scotsman #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

ROBBIE

Seven years ago

Fights like this don’t end with handshakes—they end with blood, broken bones, or worse. My fists are up, chest bare and shoulders taut, feet planted wide. Each breath tears out of me, harsh and uneven in the damp air of this crumbling warehouse. Sweat trickles down my spine, slick and cold against my skin.

My opponent stalks me in a slow circle, his eyes never leaving mine. He’s bigger than me—most aren’t—but I’ve got the reach. Our makeshift ring is nothing more than a chalk circle scrawled on the gritty floor, hemmed in by a heaving wall of bodies. The crowd stomp their feet and howl like they’re at some ancient gladiator battle. The place reeks of stale beer and cigarettes.

He lunges, and I duck. It’s instinct now, years of muscle memory that fires faster than thought. The world shrinks to only this: me, him, and the intoxicating simplicity of hit or be hit.

I feint left to draw him off balance then pivot sharply right. My fist shoots out—fast and clean—connecting with his ribs just below his guard. He grunts, stumbling back a step.

“Finish him, MacDonald!” someone yells at me, the voice cutting through the haze of my focus.

“Twenty quid says Big Cal drops in the next minute!” another shouts.

My focus tunnels back to Big Cal. He charges again, swinging wildly, but I step aside and his strike slices through air.

I shift my weight onto the balls of my feet, every muscle coiled tight. My joggers hang low on my hips, my skin gleaming under the harsh overhead lights that are rigged to a generator in the corner.

When Big Cal’s next punch comes—a hook aimed square at my jaw—I’m half a second too slow slipping it. His knuckles connect with my mouth hard enough to split my lip wide open. Pain blooms hot and sharp for an instant, but then adrenaline numbs it to a dull throb.

“That all you got?” I taunt through bloodied teeth before spitting a mouthful of crimson onto the floor.

His eyes narrow. Good. Angry fighters make mistakes.

The crush of bodies presses in on us, like a noose pulling tighter and tighter. There’s no official referee, just a burly man who occasionally barks out reminders to keep it clean. No hitting a man when he’s down. No weapons. Everything else is fair game.

Big Cal comes at me again, throwing a flurry of combinations I mostly slip or block. One catches me in the ribs, and I let out a low growl, absorbing the impact. I counter with a hook that glances off his jaw. Not enough.

He grins, thinking he’s got me. I let him think it.

Above us, heavy rain pounds the corrugated metal roof in a relentless drumbeat, a soundtrack to this brutal dance. My gaze locks on Big Cal’s, watching for my opening.

When he winds up for another bone-breaking swing from hell, I spot it. His right hand drops just a fraction lower than it should. Rookie mistake. Doesn’t matter how big you are if you leave your chin unguarded.

I duck under his punch and come up with everything I’ve got, my fist connecting with his jaw in a perfect uppercut, the impact jolting up my arm. His head snaps back, then he crumples to the floor like his strings have been cut.

A sudden silence falls over the crowd. No one moves. No one breathes. The only sounds are the rain and the angry hum of the generator. Fighting is one thing, manslaughter is another. We’re all thinking the same thing: Get up, you bastard.

Long seconds stretch out unbearably before finally Big Cal groans, his massive frame twitching on the grimy floor. His eyes blink open—unfocused, glassy, but alive. A collective exhale rushes through the warehouse. Someone hauls him upright, propping him into a dazed sitting position. He shakes his head like he’s trying to remember where he is.

And then, as if someone has flipped a switch, the quiet shatters into a cacophony of cheers and groans. Money changes hands with greedy smirks or defeated grumbles. A meaty hand claps my back hard enough to jar my aching ribs.

“Fucking hell, MacDonald. For a second there, I thought you’d killed him!”

I swipe at my split lip with the back of my hand, wincing when the sting flares anew, but a cocky grin tugs at my battered mouth anyway. My knuckles are raw, my ribs throb like someone has taken a hammer to them—not far from the truth—but the noise in my head is quiet for once.

I’m aware there’s nothing glamorous about this—bare-knuckle brawls in abandoned buildings, men betting money they can’t afford to lose, every second loaded with the chance that blue lights will flicker outside and we’ll scatter like rats into the night.

But winning? Winning just tastes so bloody good.

For a few fleeting minutes, I’m not Robbie MacDonald, Bannock’s resident screw-up and walking disappointment, the man most folk have long since written off. Here and now I’m something better. Stronger.

I’m a winner, for once in my bloody life.