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“Seems like as good a place as any to take out some of that suppressed rage, don’t you think?” I pat the top of her helmet the same way I ruffle Matilda’s ears. “You’re all set. What weapon would you like first?”

She grits her teeth like she’s holding back a sarcastic retort. Then, as if conceding, she says, “I’ll take the sledgehammer.”

“Ooh. Nice choice.” I grab the heavy tool from the wall and pass it to her.

She makes her way to the center of the room just as the opening of “Jekyll and Hyde” by Five Finger Death Punch begins playing overhead.

“Are you always so theatrical?” she asks, glaring back at me as she lifts the sledgehammer over her head.

She may seem like she’s annoyed, but I know, deep down, she’s loving how much effort I put into this. I can see it in the way her eyes lit up, and she tried to hide her smile when she realized what all this was for.

A sharp, satisfying crack fills the room as she brings the hammer down onto the TV, and she immediately goes in again for another hit.

The second swing of her hammer cracks the frame in two, shattering the glass as metal pieces go flying in every direction. Hit after hit, she doesn’t stop until the ancient tech is completely busted open.

She moves onto her next object, swinging and smashing everything in her path, moving from each item with more urgency than the last.

I can’t help but feel like I’m finally getting a glimpse of the real Kira—the part of herself she keeps hidden from everyone else—as the armor she’s been clinging to finally starts to fall away.

“There she is,” I whisper to myself, leaning against the cool brick wall as I take her in. Every ugly, vulnerable, unguarded piece of her. And I feel so damn lucky to have had any part in helping her claw her way free.

I push away from the wall and stroll over to the rack of weapons, grabbing a baseball bat before joining her.

Damn, I forgot how good this feels.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Kira

We lose ourselves in a rampage, side by side fighting the invisible demons that plague us.

My mother’s voice plays through my mind, powering my aching muscles as I leave nothing but destruction in my wake.

Men are visual creatures. They don’t want a cackling woman with fangs… I think you can see where I’m going with this. Crunch.

Oh, honey, do you know how many fourteen-year-old girls would kill to have their first kiss with an older man? Trust me, more experience means he knows what he’s doing. Crunch.

Maybe you should change shirts? Your cleavage is your best accessory. Plus, it’ll distract from those extra pounds you’re carrying around your hips. Don’t worry, we can diet together. I’m in this with you. Always. Crunch.

With every satisfying crunch, I feel the shackles created from the words she spoke over me finally begin to loosen, and I’m hit with a renewed sense of strength.

I swing my sledgehammer, sending back all the well-meaning advice she gave me about being desirable to men. All her limiting beliefs she put on me that I never asked for. All the times she taught me to ignore my own intuition, making me doubt my self-worth and teaching me to settle for whatever crumbs were thrown at me.

Tears sting behind my eyes as anger bubbles up to the surface. But this time, instead of pushing it away, I look it right in the eyes. With a guttural scream, I bring the sledgehammer down onto the porcelain lamp, sending shards of glass flying in every direction. Glass crunches beneath my feet as I move on to the next item in the lineup. My hammer crashes down on the dented metal toaster, smashing it flat with a single swing.

I feel a little more pressure drip off me with each bead of sweat.

I’ve spent my whole life playing the role that everyone expected me to play, and what has it gotten me?

My sister, my best friend in the whole world, doesn’t even know how I really feel about my career. I’m miserable; my career and reputation are both dangling by a thread, and the entire internet seems to want nothing more than to crucify me. I’m not particularly smart or talented, which has never been more apparent since trying to work a real job. I can’t pivot or change directions because I have no idea who I am or what I even want.

I’m a mess.

Not even a hot one.

I use my grease-covered forearm to wipe my brow as I stand over the piles of mangled metal and shards of broken glass. Beside me, Roman demolishes an old tube TV with a single swing of his bat. My eyes graze over him, taking him in. The way his powerful muscles ripple and flex beneath his T-shirt, the way his pants cling to his thick, muscular thighs and hug his ass.

I bite my lip as a surge of heat floods my core.