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I trudge down the stairs, Johnny following close behind.

“Just for once, could I please come home and hear that you didn’t get up to mischief? Apologise to your mother.”

“But Da, I didn’t⁠—”

“I don’t want to hear it! Just apologise to your mother. Is that really too much to ask?”

I curl my hands into fists, my fingernails digging into my palms. My chest feels tight, like something is squeezing it.

“Young man, apologise to your mother right now!” Da’s voice gets that stern edge that means I’m in real trouble.

I look at Johnny, who stares back at me with sad eyes. I look at Maw, who’s waiting with that smug face she gets when things go her way. I look at Da, who’s too tired to even listen to my side.

Without a word, I turn and race up the stairs, slamming my bedroom door behind me. I kick my schoolbag across the room, scattering books and pencils everywhere.

It’s not fair. It’s never fair.

I throw myself onto my bed and punch my pillow, pretending it’s something else. Someone else.

It doesn’t help, but at least up here, no one can see the hot tears that spill down my cheeks.

* * *

The punchbag swings wildly as I slam my fist into it again and again. Each hit sends a jolt of pain up my arm, but I welcome it. Physical pain is simple. Straightforward. Nothing like the mess churning inside my head.

Sweat drips down my bare back. The garage is stuffy despite the door being wide open, but I don’t care. I need this. Need to hit something until my muscles scream and my lungs burn and my mind goes blissfully blank.

But it’s not working today.

I land another punch, harder this time, but it’s still no good. I step back, chest heaving, and grab a towel to wipe my face. The memory of Cat standing in her kitchen, talking about the fucking universe paying me, sends a fresh wave of anger through me. Gritting my teeth, I slam my fist into the bag again.

What kind of person hires someone when they’ve got no money to pay them? What kind of person talks about manifestation like it’s an actual strategy for paying bills?

A spoilt one, that’s who. A princess who’s never had to worry because there’s always been a big brother to fix her problems for her.

I’ve spent days working my arse off in that flat, thinking I was earning money I desperately need to keep afloat while this theft accusation hangs over me. And all the while, she was relying on the universe to sort things out.

Jesus Christ!

My fist connects with the bag so hard it nearly comes off its hook.

The worst part is, I actually opened up to her. Told her about my maw, about the night I found her parents’ car, about how I gave up fighting. I never tell people that stuff. There’s only Johnny, and even then, I prefer not to burden him with my mess.

And shit, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t talk to Johnny right now. Da’s made sure of that. My own brother—the one person who’s always had my back—is off-limits because of this investigation.

I pause, breathing hard, and lean against the workbench. My gaze falls on something crumpled in the corner of the garage. A small scrap of blush-coloured lace.

Cat’s knickers.

I stare at them for a long moment, remembering how I took them from her last night. How I walked away with them in my pocket.

Before I can think better of it, I cross the garage, pick them up, lift them to my face, and inhale deeply. Her scent hits me like a physical blow—sweet and musky and unmistakably her. In an instant, I’m back in those woods, with her on her knees, her mouth on me, her hands gripping my thighs. The memory sends heat surging through my body, pooling low in my gut.

“Fuck,” I mutter, tossing the knickers aside like they’ve burned me.

I stride back to the punchbag and hit it again, harder than before. What is wrong with me? I should be furious with her. I am furious with her. But even now, part of me wants to get on my motorcycle, ride to her flat, and finish what we started in those woods.

And that’s exactly why I need to stay the hell away from Catriona McIntyre.