Page 224 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

The countdown begins.

For the first few seconds, Ivy just stands there with the sledgehammer, scanning the room. Then she spots her first victim.

A printer.

She crosses the room, plants her feet, draws the sledgehammer back over her shoulder with both hands, and brings it down so hard the printer fucking explodes. Plastic shrapnel and toner dust sprays across the concrete.

Ivy lets out a victory scream.

My crowbar hangs forgotten at my side because this five-foot-nothing omega absolutely annihilating office equipment just might be the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed in my life.

She hits the printer again. And again. Each swing is wilder than the last, her whole body rotating into it, the flannel flaring out around her waist. Cartridges go flying. A chunk of the printer's lid skips across the floor and clangs against a filing cabinet.

"FUCK YOU!" she screams at the printer's corpse, flipping it off.

I don't know if she's talking to the printer—because let's face it, printers suck fucking ass—or to Wade Kelly or to every person who ever made her feel small, and it doesn't matter.

She's loud.

She's so fucking loud.

I join in because standing still is against my religion and there's a perfectly good fax machine begging to meet its maker. I wind up with the crowbar and swing for the fences.

The fax machine splits down the middle with a satisfying crunch and its innards spill across the floor. I kick the remains into the wall and they scatter.

"Fuck yeah!" Ivy shouts from across the room.

The chairs go next. She brings the sledgehammer down on the first one's seat and it cracks in two, the four legs shooting out in every direction.

I hook the crowbar under the top drawer of a massive filing cabinet and wrench it open. Probably weighs almost as much as I do, but I hook the thing again and flip it over, drawers facing the ceiling, and go to town.

It rains old receipts and memos with every strike, yellowed paper curling through the air.

Ivy charges through them like it's snow.

She's laughing now between the screams. Full, ragged, breathless laughter as she winds up for another swing. She takes out a monitor and the glass implodes inward. She doesn't even flinch. Just pivots and swings again at the one next to it.

"LEFT!" I yell.

She spins and nails a keyboard I chucked into the air for her. It explodes into a shower of keycaps that rain down around her. She drops the sledgehammer to throw her arms up, howling.

I match her energy because that's what I do. Crowbar meets car hood. An old monitor goes sailing when I hook it with the crowbar's curved end and launch it into the graffitied wall. It shatters and leaves a beautiful crater in the drywall.

We find a rhythm without trying. She smashes, I clear the debris. I set things up, she knocks them down. We orbit each other in the destruction like we've been doing this together our whole lives, and when our paths cross in the middle of the room, she bumps her hip against mine and keeps going.

My arms are burning. My back is on fire because I'm apparently not completely healed from the car crash in Canada, but there's no way in hell I'm stopping.

When the timer hits zero and the alarm sounds, Ivy pulls her skull mask onto the top of her head and looks around, leaning on her sledgehammer, panting and grinning at our destruction.

"Holy fucking shit," she says.

"Holy fucking shit," I agree, coming up alongside her and pulling my own mask off my head. "You tore this place apart, wildcat."

"Too bad there are cameras in here," she says wistfully, batting her lashes up at me.

"Huh? Why?" I ask, blinking.

Her face splits into a grin that tears the air right out of my lungs and goes straight to my fucking dick.