Page 83 of Made for Mayhem

I frowned, turning toward the sound.

A stereo sat on the rickety table near the door, some angry rock song blasting loud enough to make the surface vibrate.

Ty leaned against the wall next to it, arms crossed. There was no pity on his face, no attempt to soften the moment—just quiet approval in his hazel eyes, like he saw every ugly piece of me and hadn’t flinched.

That did more for me than any comforting words ever could.

I straightened, chest still heaving. “That felt good.”

“I bet,” he said. “You needed it.”

As the last of the anger drained out of me, I took in the damage. Cabinets demolished. Tiles shattered across the counter. Wood crunching under my boots.

The kitchen was a disaster, and so was I. My hoodie was dusted white, hanging low over my hips. Only then did I realize I was wearing… not much else.

Heat crawled up the back of my neck when I remembered I’d thrown it on over a sports bra and boy shorts to answer the door. In the middle of my rage, I’d stopped being a person and become pure motion.

Now I was very much a person again.

I lifted my gaze to Ty, realizing how close he’d been and how exposed I was.

But he looked almost as undone as me.

Gone were his typical jeans and work boots. Instead, he wore black athletic shorts, running shoes, and a backward cap. His faded gray Mayhem Hockey Club tee had the sleeves ripped off, showcasing broad shoulders and corded muscle I didn’t have language for.

And then⁠—

The tattoos.

Holy hell.

Black ink wrapped his right shoulder in bold geometric lines, curving down his bicep before disappearing beneath the cotton. Another snaked along his thigh—a compass surrounded by mountain peaks and what looked like Norse runes, stark against sun-warmed skin.

I swallowed. “You have tattoos.”

He lifted a brow, his mustache doing a terrible job of hiding his smile. “Sharp observation.”

“I just—wow. Okay. That’s new information.”

He tilted his head. “Didn’t fit the flannel-and-boots version of me you had in your head?”

“No,” I admitted, heat blooming higher on my face. “Not even a little.”

His chuckle was low and warm.

Before I could find something resembling composure, the song changed, and I looked over at the stereo. It sat on one of Aunt Maggie’s old side tables, rocking with the bass. With each vibration, a sliver of white edged farther out until a piece of paper slipped free and fluttered to the floor.

My chest tightened.

I set the hammer down and crossed the room on unsteady legs.

Just like last time, the envelope had a simple daisy drawn on the front.

Tears blurred my vision as I bent to pick it up, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped it again.

Oh, good. You stopped avoiding me.

My knees gave out. I sank to the floor, the letter clutched against my chest.