Page 144 of The Wright Man

And now that I did know? It was going to take everything I had not to make sure that bastard paid.

Even as she sobbed in my arms, unraveling in a way I had never seen before, I couldn't stop being in awe of her.

Angelica was broken. Bleeding from a wound years old and still raw. Her body trembling, her voice shattered. And still—still—she was standing. Still breathing. Still here.

How?

How could anyone carry that kind of weight and still smile at people? Still pour themselves into others? Still build something from scratch, with their bare hands, while everything inside them was in pieces?

If it had been me, I would've crumbled. Hell, I had crumbled for less.

"I don't know how you're still standing," I whispered against her hair. "You're the strongest person I know, Angel. You always have been."

She shook her head before I even finished. "No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not, Leek—"

I tilted her face up to mine, both hands cradling her cheeks. Her tears soaked my thumbs. My forehead touched hers.

"You're strong. You're powerful. You're fucking magic, Angelica. And the fact that he tried to break you and didn't?" I shook my head. "That just proves it. You're still here. Still you. That man couldn't take that from you."

We stared at each other, breathing the same air, hearts still catching up to the storm she'd just survived.

Tears streaked her cheeks. My hands were still cradling her face. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered how she held me the day I found out my mother was dying. When I collapsed on her bed and she just wrapped her arms around me and held on.

This felt like that. Familiar. Sacred.

And that was the last thought I had before she kissed me.

At first, it was just lips. Soft and searching, like she was trying to find herself again through me. Her breath hitched, and mine did too.

And then something shifted.

Her hands slid up my chest, curled behind my neck, and pulled me closer. Her lips opened. Her tongue brushed mine, tentative at first, then hungrier, more desperate. Like she was trying to swallow my words whole. Like tasting them would make them true.

I groaned into her mouth, instinct taking the wheel as my grip on her waist tightened.

My hand found the small of her back, anchoring her against me while my other slid up into her curls like it was always meant to be there.

She was melting in my hands. Or maybe I was melting in hers.

She tasted like salt and sugar and everything I'd ever missed. Sweet tea on a hot day. Lemon squares and brown sugar.

My tongue swept across hers again and again, savoring every catch of breath, every gasp, every needy press of her lips against mine.

Her thighs brushed mine, and I was gone.

I didn't even realize I was lifting her until she was off the ground. Her legs wrapped around me like second nature—like her body had always known where it belonged. I carried her to the boxing ring, lips still locked, one hand under her ass, the other gripping her thigh. Set her on the edge of the ring apron like she was breakable.

Even though she wasn't. She was fucking fire.

Her fingers were threaded in my hair, tugging just hard enough to make my breath stutter. She kissed like she was unraveling—like kissing me was the only thing keeping her from falling apart again. Her moans slipped into my mouth, into my bloodstream, made my knees weak.

My palms explored the arch of her back, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip, her thighs spreading open to hold me tighter. I wanted to memorize her with my hands. Press proof into every inch of her skin that I was there. That I saw her. That I felt her.

I kissed her back with everything I had in me. Buried my fingers in her curls and poured every feeling I'd been holding back for the last eight years into that kiss. Every missed moment. Every second we'd wasted pretending. Every time I almost said it and swallowed it back down instead.