Page 127 of Made for Mayhem

My hands gripped her hips, fingers bruising, guiding but never stopping. I slid a thumb between us, finding her clit, circling tight and fast. She shattered—back bowing like a drawn bowstring, a cry tearing from her throat, raw and unrestrained. Her walls clamped down, pulsing around me, and I followed her over the edge, spilling inside her with a guttural groan, hips jerking up to meet her one last time.

I pulled her down to my chest, arms locking around her, our hearts hammering in sync. We stayed like that—tangled, breathless, slick with water and sweat and us. The sun warmed our skin, drying our bodies, the water lapping gently at the shore.

She pressed her face into my neck, lips brushing my pulse, voice muffled and small. “Don’t let go.”

I tightened my hold, one hand splayed across her back, the other tangled in her hair. “Never,” I said, the word a vow against her skin. “Not ever.”

When she shivered, I reached across and grabbed the other blanket, then threw it over us, pulling it tight around her.

The sun slipped lower, gilding the water in molten copper, and the world around us started to speak again. The waterfall hissed steady on the far side of the pond, a low white-noise heartbeat. Wind combed through the needles, shushing them like a lullaby. My own pulse slowed to match the rhythm of the mountain, Daisy’s weight a warm, steady anchor on my chest.

I thought she’d drifted off. Her breathing had evened out, lashes dark against her cheeks, one hand curled loosely over my heart. I traced idle circles on her shoulder blade, content to stay right here until the stars came out.

“Ty,” she said, voice small and cracked. “Dare me to go pick up her ashes from the funeral home.”

The words hit as hard as the cold water had earlier. I blinked, the lazy haze snapping.

Today.

After four weeks of dancing around it—mailing the death certificate, signing papers, letting the funeral home hold the urn like it was just another package—she wanted to do it now.

I swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “I can’t do that, sweetheart.”

She nodded against my skin, but her fingers tightening on my chest. “I’m scared. If I pick them up… it’s real. I can’t pretend she’s coming back. I can’t keep running.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and something in my chest splintered. I pressed my lips to her hair, smoothing it from her face. “I’ll go with you. Or I can go alone—pick them up, bring them home, whatever you need.”

“No.” She pushed up so her chin rested on my chest, eyes glassy but steady. “I have to do it. I’m just really fucking terrified.”

I cupped her cheek, thumb brushing a tear she hadn’t let fall. “Then we do it together.”

We dressed in silence, skin prickling in the cooling air. The walk back to the truck felt longer, every step heavier, the pine needles crunching like brittle bones underfoot. I tossed the wet blankets in the bed, started the engine, and the cab filled with the low rumble that usually felt like home. Today it sounded like a countdown.

The drive down the ridge was quiet. Linwood unfolded below us, tiny and oblivious to the weight of this moment. Daisy stared out the window, arms wrapped around herself, knuckles white. I wanted to reach over, pull her into my lap, absorb every ounce of this hurt, but grief didn’t work that way. This was hers to carry.

The funeral home sat on the edge of town, a low brick building with petunias out front like it could out-pretty the ugly tears that happened here. I parked under a nearby pine and killed the engine. The silence rushed in, thick and suffocating.

I didn’t get out to open her door. Gave her one last out.

She stared out the windshield for a long beat, then drew a shaky breath, popped the handle, and stepped out. She crossed the lot, shoulders squared like she was walking into battle, and I followed a step behind.

Heart in my throat.

Ready to catch whatever pieces fell when the weight finally broke her.

29

The automatic doors to the funeral home sighed open and I stepped through, the air-conditioning slapping my damp skin like a reprimand for taking so long to get here. My pulse thundered in my ears so loud I couldn’t hear my own footsteps, couldn’t hear the receptionist’s greeting, couldn’t hear anything except the frantic drum line in my skull.

Ty’s hand settled warm between my shoulder blades, steady and grounding, but the rest of me floated somewhere above my body, untethered. I caught the receptionist’s eyes flick to him, then back to me.

She knew him.

Of course she did.

She didn’t ask my name; she just nodded, murmured something I couldn’t parse, and disappeared through a side door.

I stood rooted to the tile, staring at a scuff mark shaped like a comma. Time expanded, seconds stretching into years, all while my lungs forgot how to work.