Page 51 of The Fox

I make my way into our bedroom, sighing as the door closes behind me.

“You were out late,” Rhodes remarks, closing the book he’d been reading while waiting for me.

“Rhodes,” I breathe, my voice cracking from both physical and emotional exhaustion. I haven’t been sleeping well, tossing and turning most—if not all—of the night. There are remnants of my brush with death that neither of us wants to bring into the light, but they are affecting our daily lives. Couple that with the revelation that Duncan withheld crucial information from me today? I am a walking disaster.

“Come here, baby.”

I walk toward him, my steps unsteady from the height of my heels. I don’t know why I wear them. Sure, they make my ass look incredible, but I don’t care about that anymore. I stop short of the bed, my shoulders slumping, and I feel my bottom lip start to tremble. Rhodes turns, placing his feet on the ground and running his hands along my hips.

“Amelia. What happened?” Rhodes dips his head, trying to meet my eyes, but I won’t allow him to see them. I don’t like him seeing this version of me. I am broken today, and I need to process that alone. There is nothing he can do to fix this part of me.

Rhodes moves his hands down my curves until he reaches the back of my knees. He brings one leg up, resting the ball of my foot on his thigh. My hands come up, settling on his shoulders. I feel him slip the heel off and begin massaging my aching arch. I’m torturing myself in these shoes. I take a deep breath as his thumb places more pressure in the middle of my arch.Gods, that is glorious.I know I’m blaming myself for my ambush, that I’m compensating for something that was out of my control. He gently sets my foot down, repeating the process on the other.

The glare on Rhodes’ face tells me he knows what is running through my head as well.

“On the bed,kochanie.”

I raise an eyebrow, and I crawl across our linen duvet, smirking. I wonder what he has planned, and knowing him, it’ll likely end in me screaming his name. I flop onto my back, and Rhodes sits next to me, pulling my feet into his lap. He pushes his thumb into my arch again, and it hurts in the best way. I settle against our pillowcases, rubbing my shoulders back and forth; the satin feels nice along my skin.

“What happened, Amelia?” He asks again, increasing the pressure from his hands, squeezing my feet.

“I went to the range today after a few meetings. The meetings were annoying. And then fucking Duncan told me that Medina was apparently aware of my ambush. Oh! And to top it off? The other Dons found it necessary to call an official meeting to make sure I’m, in their words, competent.” My eyes close, and I can feel my nostrils flaring at recalling conversations from earlier in the day.

No one would ever truly understand what goes into being the head of my Outfit, but I know he sees the weight of the immense responsibility bearing down on my shoulders.

“Why did Duncan not tell you about Medina? He answers to you, baby.”

I roll my eyes and flex my fingers to stretch out my palms. “He said that he didn’t want to make me worry while recovering. I may have exploded on him this afternoon.”

Rhodes doesn’t say anything. He just hums, and it is nice to vent without someone trying to fix my problems. He flicks his gaze to my face, his hands pausing for a beat before he speaks. “Did he deserve it?”

I sigh. The truth is, I’m not sure he did, but I also refuse to apologize for reminding him of his position while we are at work. I don’t answer Rhodes, and he accepts that easily.

“How did the range go?” Rhodes asks, changing the subject in his attempt to coax me into letting him in.

“I couldn’t use my blades today. My grip still isn’t strong enough to let them fly the way I love. So I had to shoot. So stupid. I hate bullets.” I reach for my nightstand, pulling a knife from the drawer. I remove the piece from its sheath, the steel edge glinting in the soft light. The handle is wooden, the color of a blazing sunset. The knife is wonderfully balanced and light in my hand. Perfect for flicking it across the room…or slicing an organ.

Rhodes keeps rubbing my feet, moving from one to the other, making sure he is paying attention to the heels now. “Why do you hate bullets?” he murmurs, running his hands up my ankle and giving me some love there. I spin the tip of the blade on my finger, watching the way it illuminates in the night glow. Between the gleam of my blade and Rhodes’ skilled hands, I am slowly being lulled to a state of calm.

“They’re archaic. I’d much rather feel the give of slicing skin open with a blade. Besides, men expect bullets. They don’t expect blades.”

“So you had a shit day at the office, yelled at someone who is supposed to have your back, and then you couldn’t do the one thing as easy as breathing for you.” Rhodes doesn’t try to pin my gaze or force me to meet his eyes. He simply lets me sink into the comfort wrapping itself around my soul.

“Yeah.”

He hums as I pause, knowing that he wants me to let him in. I know that what I’m about to say will be the root cause behind everything I have felt today.

“I was weak, Ro. I hit one shot. One shot of ten. I-I can hit a damn shot. I am the fucking leader of the godsdamn Mafia.” I take one shaking breath in, then another, before the dams no longer hold the waves from crashing into my spirit.

He doesn’t say anything. Rhodes just sits there, letting me release it all freely.

After a while, he speaks softly.

“It took me a month to be able to bear all my weight after my accident.” Rhodes has told me how he lost his partner while on a mission and that he had to recover alone after. He’s never talked about the aftermath until now. “I was sofrustrated.All I wanted was to walk again. I remember being so fucking angry,kochanie. Angry at the world, angry at my partner, angry at myself.”

A low chuckle comes from him, his hands trembling for a brief moment before returning to the methodical movement. “I would walk into therapy and refuse to do any of the exercises. I was dropped from two therapists because I was acting out. The third one finally broke through and convinced me that I could actually live again.”

His fingers caress my ankle, lost in thought. “That point when I wanted to give up? That feeling of failure? I felt that, too. It was consuming, like the heaviness of a tidal wave you cannot outswim. I spiraled, thinking of things I could have done differently. Things I should have done instead.” His eyes snap to mine, clear like the ocean after a storm. “But I cannot change what happened.”

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