Make Me (The Fox Family Crime Syndicate, #1)

by Summer O'Toole

I’ve felt a lot of things since Beth's death, but this is the first time I truly felt halved. I’ve been angry and sad and lost and overwhelmed and scared and every other shade of emotion in between. But it wasn’t until last night when I stumbled into the apartment that I felt the absence of my other half as surely as I felt the air in my lungs or the blood in my veins. She was a part of me, and now she’s not.

She was the only person I could talk to, trust wholeheartedly, and knew that she’d always ...

My heart split open when I saw her favorite stuffed bunny from childhood ripped up the back, stuffing strewn out the torn seam. I choked back a sob before fetching my sewing kit and fixing it up.

show up for my shift with my dyed hair slicked back into a tight bun. I can’t stand the color right now. It makes me feel dirty and cheap.

When I walk in, all four Fox brothers are in the corner booth—their booth. The coldness that clings to them when they’re by themselves vanishes when they get together. It’s the strangest thing. They laugh, jeer, and talk animatedly like any other set of brothers. I can only describe the scene in front of me, as one slides his leftover burger to another in exchange for the rest of his fries, as jovial.

And it pisses me the fuck off.

All their eyes are on me—it's a weight I can feel physically bearing down on me—and I think I might snap in two.

It takes all the strength I have to roll my shoulders back and stand taller under their scrutiny.

He wants to see me firmly squashed below his heel, his dick hardening while thinking that...

They all shake their heads, grinning. I don’t know what Cash has told them about me or even what they know about him. But by the smug look on their faces, when Cash says my name again and I ignore him, they’re enjoying seeing Cash toyed with just as much as I’m enjoying doing it.

“I’m more of a salty versus sweet guy myself,” another brother says, a playful gleam in his eyes. “What kind of girl are you?” “I’d say she’s pretty fucking sour,” Cash grumbles. “Oh, I also like the sundae with the caramel when it’s hot, sweet, and dripping. You can’t help but lick it up.”

He looks at me then, his rich, green eyes like wide pools of a sort of melancholy I can’t quite describe, his brows fretted together.

Cash

I’m not a kind person. I’m not a gentle person. I never have been, and I never want to be.

So, it confuses the hell out of me when I’m lying awake in bed with the same thought on repeat i...

She didn’t tell me to stop. But she did tell me I was crazy, unhinged, and what was that other one…oh yeah, pathological. Did she let me continue because she wanted it the way her dripping pussy claimed she did? Or—and I have to rub my chest to alleviate a foreign tightness—di...

I’ve done terrible things in my life. And I’m not scared she’ll find out those things and think me a monster. Because I am and she’d be right. I realize with equal parts horror and fascination that I’m sc...

But then she comes in while I’m having lunch with my brothers and pulls shit like that. And I lose it. I just fucking lose it.

I can’t control it. My fist slams into my office wall and the look of fear on her face is worse than being shot. So much worse.

But she does this to me. She makes me goddamn crazy. It’s all her fault.

To keep from spending the next several hours brooding, I distract myself by handling some business that I’ve been neglecting due to my newest obsession. It’s good, productive, and reminds me that I’m not some moping, sad sack. I’m a Fox, the top of the fucking food chain. A king.

Bullseye

Harlow

It feels like I’m spitting on Beth’s grave describing this fictitious relationship with Cash as merely toxic. How about deadly, lethal, violent?

The man says something to the patrons, and they get up, but not before leaning over and saying something to the table next to them. I watch curiously as the two sets of people scuttle out of the restaurant. The next thing I hear is the hostess screaming as the man pulls out a gun and fires at the corner booth. One of the brothers slumps down under a spray of red and the others starts yelling and firing back. Within seconds, the place is flooded with seven to ten men, streaming in through the front door, guns blazing. Before I duck down, I see Beth’s uncle.

There’s angry shouting in Russian, and then a body slams into me, knocking the wind out of me as it blankets me like a shield.

I recognize the rich sandalwood scent instantly.

There’s more sounds all around me, but everything turns into a distant buzz as Cash unfurls himself from around me and cradles my face in his hands. His palms are rough and shaky, but they feel like the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

“Fuck, please say something. I need you to be—to tell me you’re alright.”

“You’re gonna come home with me now.”

“Why?”

He cups my cheek and lifts my head to see the apologetic look on his face, which only confuses me more. His thumb strokes my cheek as he hesitates in his response. “Because I just put this city’s biggest target right on your back.”

“Did you fucking kidnap me?” One sentence I never thought I’d say. “Think of it as protective custody.” His lip twitches in amusement.

The shooting. Beth’s uncle was there. Cash’s brother was shot. Probably others. Shouting in Russian. Cash diving to protect me. Telling me I’m coming home with him. Is that where I am, his home?

“The fucking Russians.” He spits it out like it’s a dirty word. “They’re under the illusion that I killed someone precious to them.” My lungs squeeze painfully. Beth.

“You’ve heard of the June Harbor Slayer?” I nod and try to swallow, but my throat is too dry. “His latest victim was the pakhan’s granddaughter.”

“The Boss. Don. Head honcho.” I try to think of what I remember of Beth’s grandfather. He always seemed like a sweet old man. He kept a candy jar in every room, and never forgot a birthday.

My heart is still tripping over itself in rapid beats, but my airway feels clear. I’m not suffocating. “And…and what does that have to do with me? Why am I here?”

“Because I chose you.”

“My family was under attack. My brother was hit. And I chose to protect you.”

“The Bratva thinks I killed their princess. And until I can convince them I didn’t, you will be in danger. They won’t stop until they kill someone I love.” Someone he loves…

What is the bigger picture that I’m too stupid to see, huh?”

“Because I chose to protect you over family—the previous most important thing to me—the Bratva will now be after you. They think I took someone precious from them, and now they will try to take someone precious from me.”

“So, what now? I’m just going to be locked up in here with you like some princess in a tower.”...

I convinced Cash to give me some space to “process,” aka figure out how to get the hell out of here. I think if he wanted me dead, I would be dead already. But just because I’m still alive doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous....

But the lack of security makes me think he genuinely believes I will stay here of my own will, that I will somehow buy his twisted view of protection and just kick my feet up and relax. So I wait until the moon is high in the sky and the apartment is silent. I hold my breath as I turn the bedroom doorknob painfully slowly. Cracking open the door, I pause and listen. No men with guns jumping out of the shadows. No alarm blaring. Not a sound.

I bite my lip as my breathing quickens the closer I get. Giddiness blooms in my chest when I reach the door.

“Going somewhere?” Even if I weren’t in his apartment, I would recognize that cool drawl anywhere. My hand hovers above the handle, and I consider going for it and bolting. “You won’t get far, my men will stop you before you even make it to the elevator.”

“You step outside and you’re dead. Maybe not right away. Maybe you’ll last an hour, a day. Hell, maybe a week. But they’ll find you and they’ll kill you. And if you’re hoping for a quick death, bullet to the head, don’t get your hopes up.” He pauses to take a sip of whiskey. “They’ll probably take their turns with you first. They will tear you in half, rip open every hole. And then once you’re covered in blood and cum, they’ll start the torture—” The wave of nausea building in my stomach crests, and I sprint to the kitchen sink behind me.

Anything you want, it’s yours.” He takes a step toward me, placing his hands on my hips, and I shiver at the contact. “I want to leave.” “Anything but that,” he says with a dark chuckle, pulling me into this chest. He presses a kiss to my forehead and it’s so strangely domestic and intimate that my natural response is to melt into him. His t-shirt is soft against my cheek, and his chest is warm and hard. His arms tighten around me as he sighs into my hair. This should not be comforting. But it is.