MIKE
The heavy leather punching bag swung violently on its chains, absorbing the brutal impact of my knuckles. Sweat glistened across my broad, tense shoulders, my golden-blonde hair damp and sticking to my forehead. I didn't bother with wraps; the raw, stinging ache in my hands was the only thing grounding me.
I was losing my mind.
Ever since Tuesday evening in the library, when I had pinned her hand to the trackpad and read those raw, piercing lines of her manuscript, the atmosphere on the estate had turned completely toxic. She had fled like I was a monster. And today, Wednesday, she had treated me like an absolute ghost. She had skipped our morning ride, taken the public bus before dawn, and literally sat on the opposite side of the AP English classroom, using rows of basic stud
