Page 208 of The Wright Man

Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually.

I shut the tailgate and stood there for a long second, breathing through the rage. My hands curled into fists before I forced them open again. I rolled my neck, cracked my knuckles, adjusted my shirt. Every move was slow. Intentional. Dangerous.

I got in the truck without saying a word.

Started the engine.

Pulled off.

The silence in the cab was thick. The kind that pressed in on your ears and made your own heartbeat sound louder than it should. She was still crying. Quiet, pitiful little sniffs that she kept trying to hide behind her sleeve. My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.

I reached over, rested my hand on her thigh. Didn't squeeze. Didn't say anything. Just rubbed slow, calming circles against the soft stretch of her leggings. Her skin was warm under my palm. She didn't move away.

She reached down and covered my hand with hers.

I wanted to say something. Tell her she was safe now. That I'd never let him near her again. That if he so much as thought about her too loud, I'd break every bone in his body and be the last face he saw before they set them.

But I didn't say shit. Because she didn't need my rage right now—she needed my calm. So I gave her that.

And I planned.

First thing, I was getting the rest of her things out of that damn street before they were ruined. I'd call Riq and Sticks. They'd know what to do. Hell, they'd probably been waiting on a reason to fold Gavin inside out.

I thought about where to put her stuff once I had it. The garage was too crowded. The attic would piss me off, especially if I had to watch her climb a damn ladder every time she needed something. That left Mama's room.

I hadn't opened that door in almost nine years.

But today? It felt right.

Mama would've wanted Angel to have her space. She loved Angelica. Always said she'd end up being part of the family anyway. She'd be proud I was finally treating her like she deserved.

After everything I saw today—after feeling how close I came to snapping on Gavin just for breathing the wrong way—I heard Mama's voice in my head. Calm. Steady. Reminding me that protecting somebody doesn't always mean destroying what hurts them. That real strength ain't about rage. It's about restraint.

Something my father never learned. But Mama made damn sure I did.

I glanced at Angel again. Her fingers were still wrapped around mine.

I squeezed her hand once. Soft. Reassuring.

She didn't look at me. Just squeezed back like she understood.

Good girl.

As we turned onto my street, I felt the calm start to shift again. Not away from the rage—but deeper into it. Focused. Controlled. Patient.

By the time we pulled up to the house, I had it down to a system. Park. Breathe. Scan the street for Gavin's car—again. Keep it moving.

I helped Angelica out of the truck, walked her to the door, and unlocked it without a word. She was still raw, still quiet, still carrying every ounce of the weight that piece of shit put on her. So I carried everything else.

Box by box. Bag by bag. I emptied the bed of the truck like a man on a mission. Precise. Mechanical.

Not one thing touched her hands.

Her overnight bag went in the living room. Her salon gear, stacked gently beside the couch. The bin of natural hair products—some half-used, some still shrink-wrapped—went straight to the hallway near the guest bathroom. Her hoodies, her shoes, her silk scarves, all placed with a kind of reverence. Like they mattered.

This wasn't just moving her in.

This was me reclaiming her peace.