Page 3 of The Fox

I permit myself a few more seconds of gazing before turning back to my book. I can’t afford to get involved with anyone, even if my heart is shouting at me to let him in.

CHAPTER 3

Rhodes---Engima

I feel her eyes land on my back the second I walk in the door; the way she keeps track of my movement, clocking every decision I make. She is stealthy in the way she holds herself, but full of contradictions that I don’t think she wants the world to see. I see the way she flexes her hands, the ripped cuticles likely stress-induced damage. I note how she sits at the same table every morning, seemingly reading a book and yet, for the last two weeks, she has never turned a page. Interesting.

I make my way to the counter, finding Parker like I always do.

“Hi, Parker,” I drawl, crossing my fingers that the redhead in front of me has decided to be nice today. Apparently today is not the day, not with the scowl making an appearance on her face. She’s busy behind the espresso machine, pulling shots for what I can only assume is my coffee in an effort to get me away from her as soon as humanly possible. I don’t know what I’ve done to anger the woman, beyond asking a few questions about the siren sitting in the corner.

“Don’t ask me again, Rhodes. I’m not telling you anything about her.”

Dammit. Every day, I try my best to get her to tell me something. Anything.

“Parker.” I’m thankful I’d overheard someone holler her name one day; not that it made any difference in the way we interacted.

“Don’t ‘Parker’ me. Here’s your coffee. Goodbye.”

Parker walks away, shaking her head. She’s fiercely loyal and protective, I’ll give her that. Shaking my head, I chuckle, placing the bills to cover my drink on the counter. I know the instant I walk away, Parker will return to collect them.

I move to my booth, placing my back to Amelia. I’m sure it bothers her, not being able to see me. Her gaze has lingered in my direction more than once; she’s stealthy about it—as if she doesn’t want anyone to notice. I don’t care. I want her to get riled up. I want her to get so angry, she slams the books shut and stomps toward me, her body shaking with rage. Anything would be better than the way she watches from her perch—sly, calculated. Her eyes are keen, not missing a trick. She is a puzzle I can’t solve, a language I don’t speak.

My years as a Special Operations sniper are useless against her and that frustrates the hell out of me. I pride myself on reading cues, on understanding the nonverbal dance of bodies. And yet, here is a five-foot-five dark haired enigma giving me a run for my money.

I want to know everything. What makes her laugh, the sounds she makes when she orgasms, how she takes her coffee—or if that mug is tea instead. I want to know what is going on in that gorgeous head of hers. Because she is gorgeous.

Her hair is the color of my morning coffee, tinged with vibrant streaks of color reminding me of the lilac bushes at my childhood home growing up, and those grey eyes that lure me in like a siren’s song to a sailor. I never see her in any color other than black and it suits her. The worn leather jacket seems like a security blanket, a way to ward off any sort of interaction, and black denim is painted onto her curves.

Gods, her curves. I want to run my hands over every inch of her, mapping her reactions, her moans escaping those plush lips as I worship her goddess body. I need to know how she will sound the instant she lets go, the way her lips move as she orgasms.

I reach down, subtly adjusting my now raging cock. I need to break her, to convince her to let me in, and having a hard on is not going to help my case.

CHAPTER 4

Amelia---Flashback

I have known from the time I was thirteen that one way or another, men would control my life.

I am the only child of the Conte Family Don. Was. Iwasthe only child. He’s dead now. And here I am, picking up the pieces. Growing up, I was surrounded by men who’d kill for my father. I was raised by bloodshed and death.

I didn’t know what it meant to be a family that laughed together or ate meals at the same table. No, my upbringing was full of constantly looking over my shoulder and keeping secrets. To further add to the unconventional nature of my childhood, my father had told me that on my twenty-fifth birthday, I would marry to strengthen our family’s position—to ensure that the Outfit would have aleader.

I was thirteen when I was informed that my life would be reduced to a transaction, nothing more than a sale of the potential for heirs held between my hips. I would not marry for love. In fact, I likely would not meet my husband until I walked down that aisle. This was an undebatable fact that I was not allowed to speak against.

My father was progressive, but he still held close a few archaic ideals left behind from the traditional Mafia Outfits. Women don't lead, they don't dictate protocols, and they don't influence the direction of the Family. No, women are meant to be bred, kept on the side, and on their backs, according to made men.

Seen, fucked, silent.

Two days before my twenty-fifth birthday, my father’s right hand called me and informed me that he had passed. I had a choice—I could marry, effectively letting a stranger take the helm, or I could take the chair myself. As the sole child, I had a claim, despite being a woman.

I remember everything about that conversation. A piece of me wishes I could go back and choose differently; if I had known what would be required for me to step up to the helm, I may have chosen otherwise. I can still feel them, still feel the way my body begged for something I wouldn’t be given.

I walk in, taking note of the six men surrounding the wooden table. I had done my homework here, holidays spent eating meals my mother had made before she passed when I was six. The men at that table were not strangers; these were my father’s men, his trusted inner circle. They had sworn an oath to protect him and by extension, me. I had grown up around them, considered them uncles. I straighten my spine, knowing I cannot afford to show weakness—not here, not with them. My heels echo as I approach the empty chair at the head of the table. Papa. Gods, I missed him.

I move to pull the heavy chair out, softly sitting. Lifting my eyes to Santiago—my father’s right hand and the man who had called me three days prior—I spy a ring on the table, bearing an acorn adorned with three leaves. Papa’s sigil ring.

“I am sorry for your loss, Amelia,” he begins. “Your father was a good man and his absence is palpable.”

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