Page 207 of The Wright Man

I didn't give him the word.

But God help Gavin if I ever did.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Maleek

Gavin had been inside for at least ten minutes, but I was still one second away from burning his whole damn house down.

I'd known something was wrong since I came back home.

The signs were all there—the way she downplayed everything, the way she avoided speaking about him, the way she laughed but never smiled when other people talked about him. That quiet kind of misery people mistake for "making it work."

He never hit her, at least not that I'd seen. But I knew what emotional damage looked like. I'd lived it. And I saw it in her—the shrinking, the second-guessing, the way her light got dimmer every time he was around.

Still, knowing and witnessing are two different things.

Seeing him square up on her like he was ready to make her flinch.

Seeing her body tense before she even turned around.

Seeing her fall into me like she hadn't breathed in weeks.

Seeing her things—her life—dumped out like trash. Clothes, brushes, her favorite blanket folded just so. No yelling. No warning. Just locked doors and spite.

It wasn't about a fight. It wasn't even about ending things.

It was about humiliating her. Breaking her. Spitting on her dignity just because he could.

That flipped something in me I don't know how to put back.

Silenced the part of me that usually thinks first.

Made room for something colder.

Anger. The kind that doesn't scream—it makes burial plans.

Every time I picked up another one of Angel's things, I had to fight the urge to drop it and storm that front door. Every single item felt like a fresh offense. Like proof. Like Gavin had left a breadcrumb trail of disrespect just so I could follow it straight to his throat.

Instead, I loaded each thing into the bed of my truck with calm, measured movements. My hands stayed steady even as my jaw clenched tight enough to crack every tooth in my head. I didn't slam the tailgate shut. I didn't punch the brick wall just to bleed some of the fury out. I didn't do what the old me would've done.

It would've been easy. So easy.

One blackout and I could've had Gavin on the pavement, begging for the teeth he'd lose trying to spit my woman's name. My body knew how. Knew the angles. Knew how to break a rib without blinking. That kind of training never leaves your muscle memory.

But knowing she was watching held me.

She'd already been hurt enough for one damn day.

Angelica sat curled in the passenger seat, hugging her knees, her eyes red and puffy. She wasn't crying as loud now, but the tears were still coming—slow, stubborn, determined. Like her. Like she was trying to hold them back out of pride, but grief kept leaking through the cracks.

It made my chest ache in a way I didn't have words for. A deep, seething ache I could only translate into action.

I loaded everything that would fit into the bed of the truck, stacking things as carefully as I could. I wrapped her expensive salon tools in her robe, the one with "Mrs. Riddle" embroidered on the back that I knew damn well she never wanted. The irony nearly made me laugh, but the sound curdled in my throat. I set her shoes on top like glass—like they mattered. Because they did. Because every single thing that belonged to her deserved to be treated better than he ever treated her.

I looked around for anything left behind. There was still too much. Dress bags. Hair bins. Tote boxes. Boxes of products. Her diffusers. Her ring light. All of it baking in the sun like trash he couldn't wait to get rid of.

I was going to hurt him.