Page 82 of Made for Mayhem

The kitchen was a wreck.

Cabinet doors sagged, warped and split where water had soaked in. The tile backsplash bowed, almost falling off the wall. But the biggest problem was the mildew smell clinging to the back of my throat.

Nothing in this room could be saved. Too damaged. Too far gone.

Was I the first person to empathize with a cabinet? Maybe.

Ty disappeared down the hall and came back a moment later with a hammer. He tipped his chin toward a cabinet hanging crooked on the wall. “Start there.”

Something in my chest snapped.

I took the hammer and glared at the cabinet as if it had offended me. When I swung, a scream ripped out of my throat, but the hammer barely left a dent, bouncing off with a dull, useless thunk.

I swung again. Harder.

Still standing.

“Of course,” I growled, bringing it down a third time. Wood finally cracked, a splinter flying loose across the floor. “Of course I’d fuck this up, too.”

The cabinet groaned but didn’t fall.

I laughed, sharp and bitter. “Doesn’t that just figure.”

Ty’s voice came from behind me, low and maddeningly calm. “You’re pulling up when you hit.”

“I don’t need you,” I muttered through gritted teeth, drawing the hammer back again.

“Well aware, sweetheart.”

Before I could tell him where to shove his sweetheart, he stepped in behind me—close enough that his heat brushed my back.

“Here,” he said, his voice rougher now.

His hand slid over mine, guiding my grip on the handle. “Keep your wrist straight. Let your shoulder do the work.”

My breath hitched. He wasn’t gentle, but he wasn’t condescending either. He met my fury head-on—steady, grounded, and unafraid of it.

“Now,” he said, pulling my hair away from my face, “swing through.”

I did.

The cabinet split with a sharp crack, wood splintering clean down the middle.

“Good,” he murmured, stepping back just enough to give me space. “Again.”

So I swung harder this time. Then again. Each hit landed deeper, shaking something loose in my chest—grief, rage, all of it tearing free in jagged pieces.

When the cabinet gave way, my gaze snapped to the backsplash. Rows of chipped tile glinted under the light, crooked and smug, and I hated them.

Without thinking, I brought the hammer down.

Ceramic shattered. Sharp fragments flew, clattering across the counter and skidding over the floor. The sound rang through the house, violent and echoing.

I didn’t stop.

The crash of tile against plaster filled the room, rhythm and chaos blurring together until it didn’t matter what I hit anymore. Only that I kept swinging.

By the time I slowed, my arms trembled with effort. Sweat dampened my hairline. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, then gradually gave way to music.