Page 210 of The Wright Man

She looked guilty. Like she was about to argue.

"You don't have to do all this," she said softly. "I know you've got work, and you were already in the middle of something, and I just—this wasn't supposed to derail your whole day."

I clenched my jaw. Her voice. That fucking tone. Like she still thought she was a burden. Like somewhere in her bones, she still believed she had to earn softness.

Like Gavin had successfully convinced her that peace came with a price.

"Maleek, you really don't have to—"

I didn't let her finish.

I set the mug down. Slow. Deliberate. Then I closed the space between us before she could get the last word out.

I kissed her. Hard.

I pressed her back against the wall, one hand cradling her jaw, the other fisted in her curls. Her tea clattered somewhere behind us, forgotten.

She gasped into my mouth, and I took it, swallowed it, gave her a low groan in return. My hips met hers with slow, deliberate pressure. My tongue swept over her bottom lip like a promise I fully intended to keep.

She melted into me. Moaned against my mouth. Clutched the front of my shirt like she didn't care if it ripped.

I kissed her like I wanted to erase him from her memory. Like I wanted to erase every lie, every bruise, every tear Gavin had ever coaxed out of her. I kissed her like she belonged to me.

Because she did. And I would keep showing her that until she believed it.

When I finally pulled back, our lips broke with a wet, desperate pop. Her lips were swollen, her chest heaving. Her eyes were glossy, lips parted like she wanted to cry again—but didn't dare ruin the moment.

I kissed the corner of her mouth one last time and stepped back.

"Go to your dad's." I said, voice hoarse.

She blinked up at me with something breaking open in her chest. I saw it. Felt it.

She heard me. Heard why I needed her gone:

Let me take care of the mess... So you don't have to.

"Okay," she whispered, breathless.

She peeled herself off the wall, legs still shaky, and made her way down the hall to grab some clothes and shower, while I stood in the living room with my fists clenched, heart pounding, still thinking about that motherfucker across town.

The water ran steady behind the bathroom door, a low hiss of steam and eucalyptus. I sat at the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, palms pressed together so I didn't put them through the wall.

All I could see was the look in Gavin's eyes when I stepped out of my truck. That coiled, bitter kind of fury that made every hair on my neck stand up. That look a man gets when he's gearing up to throw hands with someone who can't fight back. She didn't flinch, but I saw it.

I saw what could've happened if I'd shown up a minute later.

And if he had touched her—if he'd even tried—I'd have ended him. Simple as that.

Not just out of rage. But because she's mine.

Not in a possessive, brand-her-like-cattle way.

But in the real way. The sacred way.

Mine to protect. Mine to honor.

Mine to make whole again when the world tries to split her apart.