Page 21 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

NICO

I catch Dante alone in the anteroom off the ballroom, where staff are still wiring hidden speakers into a garland the length of a commuter train.

He’s smoothing a thumb along a silver frame—one of tomorrow’s table cards bearing “Tabitha Calloway.” The grin on his face could light the Rockefeller Tree.

I clear my throat. “You know, for a man who claims he fears nothing but commitment, you’re spending a suspicious amount of time fussing over seating charts.”

He jumps. Then shoots me a lopsided smile. “I wanted to make sure she’s not stuck beside Alessio. He’s a close-talker, terrible breath.”

I fold my arms, lean against the paneled wall. “Right. Purely humanitarian. Nothing to do with the fact you’d rather be within arm’s reach all evening?”

“Pot, kettle,” he fires back. “You were in the salon with her for two hours, measuring hem lengths to the millimeter. Since when do you play stylist?”

Touché. I wave him away. “Proper fit minimizes wardrobe malfunctions. Investor dinners rarely benefit from malfunctions.”

What I don’t say: She looked up at me over the measuring tape with such trust that it made my chest ache in the best way.

Dante’s grin widens, and he claps my shoulder. “We’re both in trouble, eh?” He pockets the place card and heads for the back hall. I shake my head, but the smile that tugs my mouth lasts longer than it should.

Maybe it’s not my place to play stylist for her, but I can’t help myself.

Sal calls her doll sometimes, and she is.

I want to dress her up, take her out, show her off, do filthy things to her, then soothe her every nerve.

I’m not sure when I became that guy, but I am now.

I’ve always enjoyed coddling my submissives, but it’s different with her. I don’t know why.

It’s not just the desire to do it. It’s the raw need to do it. Like breathing or blinking.

Undeniable.

I return to the dressing suite, where Tabitha stands on a low pedestal, wrapped in emerald silk. Eight yards of bias-cut fabric drape over her curves like liquid, pooling into a tiny train behind her bare heels.

“Ready to begin again?”

“If you’ll stop fussing so much,” she teases.

“Not a chance.” I’m kneeling, pinning temporary hems so the tailor can finish the stitch tonight.

“Hold still,” I murmur. She obeys, only her eyes tracking me. They’re storm-green under the chandelier—the exact reason I chose this shade.

“Am I breathing too much?” she asks.

“Silk likes oxygen. You’re fine.” I mark the final pin, then rise to check proportions in the three-way mirror. Perfect. The bodice’s asymmetric fold finds her smallest waist point, and the deep V stops just short of scandal. I meet her gaze in the reflection. “You’ll stop hearts at the party.”

She laughs, tension easing. I step back so the seamstress can slip a robe over the gown and carry it to the sewing room. Tabitha perches on the chaise, scrolling on her phone while I log alterations on my tablet.

The sudden ringtone shatters the quiet. Tabitha blanches. “Sorry. I need to take this.” She lifts the phone with unsteady fingers, answers. I pretend to review fabric swatches across the room, but keep my ear tuned.

“Hey, Grandma Judy! Everything okay?” Pause. Her shoulders stiffen. “That soon?” Another pause—longer. “Yes, of course I’m happy…just surprised. I didn’t think they wanted to pay for the surgery.” Her knuckles whiten. “Insurance cleared it? I… That’s wonderful.”

Something sinks in my gut. What surgery?

She covers the mouthpiece. “Can you—” She gestures toward the door. The request in her eyes is explicit. Privacy. I nod, step outside, and leave the door ajar enough to hear if she calls my name.

Five minutes parade by—slow, muffled. I catch snippets. “…pre-op…” “Thursday…” “…still too much money…” “I’ll figure it out.”

When silence finally falls, I re-enter. She sits exactly where I left her, but her phone dangles from numb fingers, and tears fall in sheets down her cheeks.

Panic makes me cross the space in two strides, kneel, and take her face in my hands. She looks perfect. How can she be sick? “Tabitha, what happened? Are you sick? What’s going on?”

She blots tears with her sleeve. “They scheduled Erin’s surgery. The tumor’s pressing harder on her spinal cord.”

I don’t know if the name should ring a bell. “Forgive me. Who is Erin?”

She hiccups a laugh between her tears, shaking her head. “I can’t…” She wipes her tears away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”

“Please, Tabitha. You can tell me. What’s wrong?”

Her eyes are lined silver as she looks up at me, and it breaks my heart. Her chest heaves, so I offer my hand, and she takes it, clamping tightly. “I can’t…I’m not here for a handout.”

“Fuck, Tabitha, I know that.” I lean toward the opening to the hall, hoping my brothers can here me. “Guys, get in here now!”

To my surprise, they show up in seconds, eyes scanning. Dante is at her side in a flash, sitting next to her on the couch. Sal stands watch just behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder, but his eyes on me. He’s furious.

“I didn’t do this,” I explain quickly.

He doesn’t trust it. He kneels next to Tabitha. “What did Nico do?”

She shakes her head, a watery snort filling the silence. “I’m not here for a handout. This is my problem?—”

“Tell us.” His tone brooks no argument.

She nods, blinking rapidly. “My sister…she’s fifteen.

Erin. There’s a tumor pressing on her spine and part of her brain stem.

She needs surgery to remove it. They’ve tried everything else.

Grandma Judy and me, we’ve been taking care of her since my parents died.

I dropped out of college to move home and take care of her.

I’m working three jobs… Well, I was until I found out about the auction. ”

So many pieces fall into place in my mind. None of this was for herself. I should have known. Tabitha isn’t a gold digger or a sugar baby type. She’s not in it for the money—that should have been obvious from the start. I feel like an asshole for not seeing it sooner.

She sold herself to us to save her sister’s life. An indictment of the healthcare industry if I’ve ever heard one.

Between choking words, she continues, “I only have half of what I promised them when your first transfer clears Friday, but that’s…” She inhales a jagged breath. “I can’t be late.”

I grip her hands. “Look at me. We will cover the difference. Tonight. Sal wires seven-figure sums before breakfast. It’s not a problem.”

Her lower lip trembles. “But I—I didn’t want you to feel obliged. I can’t offer you anything beyond what we agreed. I have nothing.”

But she feels like everything.

An ache unfurls behind my ribs. I squeeze her hands, then stand. “We’ve got this. I promise you.”

Sal takes a deep breath and nods an apology to me, then perches on the coffee table, voice steady. “Tabitha, why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

She picks at a loose thread. “Because I never wanted to be…a charity case. I thought if you knew my sister was sick you might feel manipulated, like I only wanted to be here for the money, and that’s not how I—” Her voice breaks.

“I didn’t want pity or favors. And I didn’t want you to think I’m not happy to spend time with you guys, because I am. ”

Dante drops to a knee, catches her gaze. “We’d never think that about you.”

Her eyes dart between us. “People do. When they realize someone is desperate, suddenly every interaction feels transactional.”

Sal’s jaw flexes. I recognize guilt in his eyes, the same sting pricking mine. “Not here. The transactional nature of our relationship was negotiated long before we knew anything was amiss. The rest is our decision.”

I stride to the sideboard, pull out my laptop, tap into our private banking portal. “Tabitha, name the hospital.”

She rattles off the name, and I make the arrangements. It takes a few phone calls and a favor or two, but the deed is done within minutes. “She’s all set.”

Tabitha stares at the confirmation page, hands flying to her mouth. Tears spill, but they’re different—relief, disbelief.

Sal sits beside her, awkwardly at first, then draws her into a side hug. Dante folds into her other side. I remain standing—emotions like knives beneath my sternum. Sitting would break composure. The truth is, when I thought she might be sick, my first thought was finding her the best specialists.

That’s not normal. She’s basically a stranger, isn’t she? When she said it was someone else, the relief I felt was shameful. Yet the protective surge is unbearable, and I sink to my knees, cupping her face once more.

“It’s done,” I say. “Covered. Nonrefundable, even if you decide tomorrow you want out of our arrangement. This has nothing to do with that. Okay?”

She chokes on a sob. “Why?”

“Because we can,” Dante says.

Sal’s voice is softer than I’ve heard in a long time. “And because no one should worry about medical bills when their life, or their loved one’s life, is on the line.”

Tabitha draws a shaky breath, looks at each of us in turn. “I don’t know how to?—”

“Stop,” I say. I brush thumbs under her eyes, wiping tears. “We’re happy to help.”

Silence wraps us, dense, warm. Tabitha’s gaze flicks to Dante’s mouth, then mine. So many unsaid emotions crowd the space that words would drown. I kiss her, gently, reverently, tasting her tears. Sal presses a steadying hand to her back, lips glancing her temple.

I hesitate a heartbeat, I’m not sure why. But then I tilt her chin and claim a corner of her lips. The contact is soft. She turns into me, hand fisting my shirt, and the caution shatters.

We rise as one tangled unit, migrate to the large chaise longue. Her silk robe parts at Dante’s insistence, his palms smoothing over her shoulders to guide it from her while Sal’s fingers cradle the back of her skull. I trail kisses down her throat, her pulse thunderous under my lips.

I’m not sure when it happened. The way she murmurs our names like a mantra. The way our four bodies coordinate—jackets shed, cashmere lost to carpet, her satin chemise gliding off with a whisper. She’s a present we’ve unwrapped for ourselves.

There’s no script for this, no scene rules, no discussion ahead of time. Only instinct and the mutual need to replace fear with connection.

But given her fear, I want to check in.

I press my forehead to hers. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t owe us anything but your time.”

A sweet little smirk settles on her full lips as she brushes her fingertips up my stubble. “I know that.” She kisses me, and that’s all the convincing I need.

When we settle—Tabitha between Dante and me, Sal kneeling by her legs—the air smells of cedar fire, silk, faint rosewater. Our world narrows to skin, breath, and the low sounds she makes when reassurance becomes arousal. It’s the best sound in the world.

Dante murmurs encouragement against her ear, while I press kisses along her collarbone, each one a vow. Safe, safe, safe .

When was the last time she felt truly safe?

She’s so young to have lost her parents, and to take on the care of a little sister with cancer? Fuck. I can’t imagine that kind of hell, and she is the last person who deserves something like that. It’s awful, and if I don’t stop thinking about it, I won’t be able to do this.

The other side of that coin is how fucking strong she is. How proud. She knew we could have fixed things for her and her sister, and she didn’t ask. We had to pry it out of her. She’s been bearing the weight of this on her own for so long that it’s a wonder she’s stayed so thoughtful and kind.

I am in awe of her.

I press kisses all over her skin, each one a promise. When I move between her thighs, Dante and Sal have already declared their zones. Dante has her tits in his mouth, one after the other. She’s swallowed Sal into her throat in long, slow strokes.

I search the room for a condom to no avail. “Be right back?—”

She pulls up off of Sal. “Don’t stop.”

“Condom—”

“I don’t care. Please don’t leave me.” Tears glisten in her eyes, and I’m not sure if that’s the leftover emotions from earlier or from sucking Sal’s cock.

Doesn’t matter. “I won’t.” I kiss my way up her inner thigh, her flat stomach, and eventually, I line myself up with her. I’ll be careful. I need this connection too.

When I press my cock against her softness, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. There’s a sense of reassurance that makes no sense and yet, all the sense in the world. She feels like the place my cock is supposed to go.

Maybe I should stop trying to make it make sense.

As I deepen my strokes, she writhes against me and them, her senses overwhelmed.

Every flick of her nipples, every gag in her throat, the way I angle myself to hit her G-spot, it all lights her up.

When I play with her clit, she rockets through her first orgasm on me, nearly bringing me over the edge with her.

Thoughts blur after that—moans, names, soft curses.

We move like a tide. One brother’s mouth, another’s hands, switching, giving, receiving, until she arches again, shattered and beautiful in the half light.

Her second release triggers mine, so I pull out and shoot on her thigh, and then wipe it away.

Dante takes my place, mounting her as gently as he ever does anything in his life.

I take his place at her tits, starting the cycle over again.

Sal’s fingers lance through her hair, cupping around the back of her head to guide her. I’m not sure which of them needed this more. The way he watches her eyes the whole time, and the way she stares up at him with such devotion…it’s a beautiful thing.

She comes on Dante, and he’s smart enough to pull out before he comes, but Sal can’t hold back. He hisses through tight teeth, “Soon.”

She redoubles her efforts like a fiend for his cum, and suddenly, he shoots down her throat. I’m shocked. I’ve never seen him do that with any submissive at the club, no matter how much they begged.

After, bodies tangle in silence. The fireplace logs shift, and the embers flare.

Tabitha lies across our chests awkwardly, but none of us mind.

The chaise is large, but not quite large enough for four.

My palm rests low on her back, feeling each slow inhale.

Dante’s fingertips trace idle patterns on her thigh.

Sal’s breaths might slip into snores at any moment.

Whatever tomorrow’s parties bring—judgmental relatives, mob loopholes—we will meet it together. That unspoken pact feels stronger than any clause Pietro drafted.