Page 13 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

SALVATORE

I surface from sleep the way divers return to daylight—slow, disoriented, lungs aching for air. For half a breath, I expect to see Alana’s ghost hovering over the bed, like every dawn since the breakup.

But no. The pillow beside mine holds a tumble of auburn hair instead of black, and the only scent teasing my senses is rosewater and faint almond—not the citrus perfume Alana favored.

It takes a full heartbeat for the change to register. Then another, and another. Alana isn’t here. And for the first morning in half a year, she isn’t even a memory clawing at my chest.

Instead, I’m spooning Tabitha. My hand rests on the curve of her waist, fingertips grazing the thin silk of a camisole she must have borrowed from one of the adjoining closets. She must have climbed into my bed sometime in the night.

She settles back against me with a sigh, utterly trusting, like a stray cat that decided I’m safe enough to nap beside. I lie perfectly still, cataloguing the foreignness of the moment, breathing her in. This moment feels strange. I can’t quite put my finger on it.

How did one night with Tabitha knock Alana out of my morning thoughts? Tabitha is a treasure, to be sure, but it doesn’t seem right that she’d make me forget, even for a few minutes.

And then I put my finger on my mood. Good. It feels good . That’s why I didn’t recognize it at first. When was the last time I woke up feeling good?

A sliver of winter sunlight slips between the blackout curtains, striping her bare shoulder.

It also illuminates the pearl panic necklace glinting at her throat—a reminder that, legally speaking, she holds veto power over anything that might happen.

The thought pleases me. Too many dominants think they hold all the cards, but control is worthless if there’s no freedom to surrender in the first place.

If she can’t say no, it’s not a yes.

But comfort can breed misconceptions, and her soft wriggle against my thigh tells me she’s waking up aroused. We’ve already given her one whirlwind introduction to sensual excess. It wouldn’t surprise me if her body expects an encore.

Mine does too, but I’d rather just enjoy her presence. I exhale, easing my arm away. She stirs, spine arching. When my heat leaves her back, she turns to face me, lashes fluttering.

“Morning,” she whispers, voice husky with sleep. A rosy flush spreads across her cheekbones when she registers how close our faces are.

“Morning.”

Her eyes flick down, and a sly smile curves her lips. She’s noticed the half-hard line tenting the sheet at my hips. Without hesitation her hand slips under the linen, fingertips grazing the waistband of my boxers.

I catch her wrist and guide it back between us. “Not right now.”

Confusion clouds the green of her eyes. “Did…I mess up last night?”

“You were perfect.” I push upright against the headboard, adjust the sheet for modesty I’m not sure either of us needs, and choose my words carefully. “I just have other things on my mind.”

I leave it there. I doubt she’d appreciate an existential lecture on how unexpectedly peaceful it feels to wake without mourning a woman who stole my money, my trust, and nearly my life.

Tabitha sits cross-legged, sheet draped around her waist, camisole strap slipping off one shoulder. “We have a contract,” she reminds me—half tease, half question. “I thought mornings counted.”

I rub a hand over two days’ growth of stubble. “We’ll honor the contract, trust me. But jumping straight into round two the moment we open our eyes is far from mandatory. We’ll let things happen naturally. No sense in placing expectations on every moment.”

Her shoulders relax a fraction. “You look…distracted.”

“Quarterly sales emails didn’t read themselves overnight.”

“That’s what you wake up thinking about?”

“Sometimes. I could delegate the issue, but delegation means my phone explodes with follow-up questions.” I nod toward the nightstand, where the screen already pulses with calendar alerts. “Hence the distraction.”

“Nico said you want me for parties. All three of you. Rotating arm candy.” Her tone tries for flippant, but a vein of unease runs underneath. “That’s the real reason for a month, right?”

“Primarily,” I admit, rolling my shoulders.

“December is a gauntlet of charity balls, brand launches, and holiday galas. I do not envy you the assignment of showing up to all of them when we have a handful to attend each. Turning up solo invites speculation—the press connects any woman standing within five feet of us to a secret engagement or something equally tabloid.”

She considers. “You want me to pretend I’m dating all three of you?”

“Something like that.”

She chews the inside of her cheek. “And on nights when there’s no event?”

“That’s negotiable, though it’s preferred that you stay with us. That keeps the rumors to a minimum.”

“I’ll still get to visit my family at Christmas?”

“We’ll arrange something,” I promise. “Private jet if schedules clash.”

Relief softens her features—but only for a heartbeat. Then she licks her lips, studying me in that sharp, perceptive way she has. “Who’s Alana?”

The name is a slap. Heat pricks beneath my sternum. “Where did you hear that name?”

“You said it in your sleep.”

My jaw tightens. “Old history. Not relevant to you.”

She nods. “Okay. I didn’t mean to pry.”

I appreciate the grace and decide to reciprocate. “No worries. The past is the past.”

Silence expands between us, and she settles against the pillows, looking up at me with the biggest green eyes. “So what should I expect from you this month, Salvatore Moretti?”

I cock an eyebrow. “I’m the quiet one. Good wine, good music, and the occasional scowl if someone mismanages something. From me, you will receive companionship and the occasional formal dinner.”

Her lips curve into a grin. “Grumpy exterior, lives for luxury, marshmallow center?”

“Experienced,” I correct dryly. “Not grumpy.”

She chuckles, then tilts sideways until her temple rests over my heart. The weight of her is unexpected. She’s cuddly. I’m not. Yet I don’t hate feeling her pressed against me. I’m hyperaware of the warmth of her body, but more aware of the calm inside my own skull.

“That’s why I came in here to sleep with you for the night,” she murmurs. “You make me feel safe.”

A rusty laugh escapes me. “Ask the submissives at Black Fox—they’d disagree. I’ve been called ‘Stone-face’ more than once.”

She draws an idle circle on my skin. “I like stone. Solid. Unshakeable.”

My heart thuds—slow, steady, no hint of that post-MI flutter that used to kick when stress hit. Fascinating. I allow myself the indulgence of stroking her hair, letting the soft strands slip through my fingers.

“Tabitha,” I say after a long beat, “I wasn’t on autopilot last night. You were…a surprise.”

She glances up. “Good surprise?”

“Very.” I clear my throat. “And I’m not easily surprised.”

A soft knock interrupts the cozy hush—Dante’s rhythmic rat-tat-tat. “Breakfast in ten,” he calls through the door. “Chef wants to know if our princess prefers croissants or waffles.”

Tabitha giggles. “Both.”

I shake my head, amused. “He’ll bring both, you know.”

She stretches, sheet slipping enough to reveal the camisole’s slack neckline, then heads to my bedroom’s bathroom. “Good. I worked up an appetite last night.”

Once she’s ensconced, I pad to the window. Trees in all directions this far out from the city. Chilly temperatures have left a cool mist in the air, gray on green leaves. I test my pulse—steady. For the first time in months, I feel…refreshed.

Maybe that’s the real gift this month will bring. Not scandal management, not a distraction from bored socialites, but a brief reprieve from the weight I’ve carried too long. She calls me “safe.” If anyone else said it, I’d think it an insult. But from her, it feels like an honor.

I chuckle under my breath at the irony, grab a fresh T-shirt, and head for the door. Breakfast, then a briefing with my executive assistant, then fittings for the winter show. December doesn’t slow down for introspection.

It should. It’s the perfect time for deep thoughts.

As I glance back at the bathroom doorway—Tabitha humming some off-key pop song while she washes her face—I recognize that my morning pattern has already shifted.

And for once, I’m not inclined to fix it.