Page 35 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

TABITHA

Hospital dawn filters through tinted windows the color of watered peach juice.

I’m bent over Erin’s tray table, spoon-feeding her oatmeal the nurse garnished with sugared cranberries shaped like a smiley face.

The pediatric oncology ward generally sees kids a lot younger than Erin, so the nurses tend toward making things more juvenile than needed for her, hence the cranberry smiley face.

But I don’t mind it, and I don’t think she does either.

Erin hasn’t had much of a childhood since Mom and Dad died.

She rolls her eyes—fifteen-year-old code for childish —but eats every bite. “I can feed myself, you know. Been doing it for a while.”

“Your hand shook so hard that you wore the first two bites, you goober. Take the help when you can get it.” I playfully shove the spoon under her nose, and she dutifully eats.

They say the hand tremors are normal, but it gutted me to see them make even a small return post-surgery. They swear up and down that she’s doing better than expected, though. That’s the part I try to focus on.

Grandma Judy dozes in the corner cot Sal had installed last night, cocooned in a goose-down duvet. Another gift from Sal. Dr. Shah glided through early this morning, tapped Erin’s toes, flexed her ankles, and pronounced her “a model of neurological stubbornness,” which we take for a compliment.

I smooth a wrinkle in the purple blanket and let relief soak deep enough to flush out three years of terror. I have to remind myself that my shoulders can drop now, my lungs are allowed the full draw.

The tumor is gone. Her future is back. I chant this every time the old fear kicks in.

Erin finishes the last spoonful, then pushes the bowl away. “Tabi,” she croaks, voice still raspy. “Cards?”

I grin. She means Brave Bunnies, our weird hybrid of Go Fish and improv storytelling. Perfect low-impact PT for finger dexterity, and doctor-approved.

“Wild rabbits at dawn,” I answer, code for game on .

Grandma rouses just long enough to bless us with a sleepy eye-roll, then plops back onto the pillow.

I shuffle the deck slowly so Erin can observe each riffle, then split it into two piles.

She’s still gauging proprioception. Her right hand reaches confidently, the left one trembles, but she manages.

This is less challenging than spoon-to-mouth coordination.

She wins the first hand by building a ridiculous story about marshmallow minions storming a carrot castle.

I mock-groan in defeat, and she giggles until her breakfast tray rattles.

Happy sounds. Hospital corridors rarely hear them.

We’re three hands deep when the realization lands like a pebble in a still lake. I was never scheduled to be here.

Technically, the auction contract requires me to be “at the bidders’ disposal” all month.

Twelve hours’ notice for events, overnight availability, and sexual exclusivity.

Yet the moment Erin’s surgery window opened, the brothers never invoked any clause, never asked, “Can you get away from the hospital for a few hours?” or “We need you for this event…”

They simply pivoted their calendars around mine, stuffed gift bags with boredom busters, and camped in vinyl chairs for ten hours without complaint. Supporting me, sure, but more importantly, supporting my family.

Even on Christmas Eve, when Dante brought Grandma and Erin to the villa, no one reminded me I had obligations or said this was tit for tat. They treated the contract like confetti—colorful, momentarily startling, then swept aside.

I glance at my phone. A text thread of three brothers.

Sal: Blood-pressure chart holding. Dr. Shah is pleased.

Nico: Hospital café espresso: six out of ten. Bringing you fruit cups.

Dante: Tell Snow Fox Girl I found unicorn-shaped marshmallows. Hot-Choc R&D begins when she can get out of there.

No request, no command. All service, zero expectation.

The pebble expands into a boulder of revelation.

I’m not bound by the contract. I never was, not in the ways that mattered.

They put Erin first without question. A burn of gratitude blooms under my sternum.

And with it, dread. Because nothing in the contract promises what happens when the clock runs out.

Shift-change chaos brings new nurses. Grandma Judy decides that it’s her cue for a cafeteria raid, promising “muffins that won’t break teeth.” On her way out, she pauses beside me, motioning me into the hallway where IV pumps sleep off-duty.

“Child, those boys dote on you,” she whispers, arms folded.

My cheeks warm. “They dote on Erin too. And you.”

“True. But you’re the reason.”

“And boys? They haven’t been boys for a long time.”

“That fact did not escape my notice.” She studies my face the same way she inspected my scraped knees when I was a kid, trying to determine infection. “I don’t pretend I understand your…arrangement. Three men, one heart.” She tsks. “Modern math.”

I open my mouth, shut it. We haven’t discussed poly anything, and I’m not sure how all of that works anyway. Explanations feel slippery as eels.

Grandma waves off whatever sputter I might offer. “I’ve heard enough to know you love them.”

My eyes sting. “More than I can say.”

“Then good.” She pats my cheek. “Just remember—blessings don’t always fit tidy boxes. The world will poke.” Her eyes crease into a mischievous squint. “Let ’em poke. You be happy. Forget the rest of the world.”

I laugh softly. “Coming from you, that’s practically an endorsement.”

“They’d be lucky to get my endorsement.” She pinches my chin, then shuffles off, cardigan swishing.

I sag against the wall, a cocktail of relief and worry swirling. Blessing granted—but for how long?

Erin waves the deck at me through the window, so I dive back into marshmallow-minion warfare.

By midday, the brothers arrive in staggered shifts.

Dante first, balancing a tray of thermoses labeled Unicorn Fuel.

Nico delivers fresh fruit and veggies, along with a printed physiotherapy schedule.

Sal last, carrying a tiny potted spruce for Erin’s windowsill, saying snow foxes have a fondness for them.

Erin’s eyes go full anime at the marshmallows floating in pink-powder cocoa. She sips, declares it “epic,” then promptly falls asleep halfway through a fourth card game. Healing hangover, Dr. Shah called it.

We convene in the family lounge to let her sleep.

One couch, four overstuffed chairs. The conversation drifts between stock-price bumps and viral views of a video taken on someone’s phone during that day I helped Nico out.

Crazy that it’s gone viral. Nico adds, “Several brands are trying to find you. I have a feeling you’ll have all the work you want and more, come the new year. ”

The new year. The contract will be over by then. The thought pulls at my heartstrings. I’m not sure what our status is, but now is not the time for that talk.

Sal suddenly talks about a plan to convert part of the villa’s garage into a dance studio for my rehearsal needs. Holy crap.

“Really?”

“If you want it. Barring that, we can build you something new.” He tips his head. “Come to think of it, where would you like a studio?”

I don’t even know what to say. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

He nods once, and their voices overlap, teasing each other—in Italian, in finance jargon, and in adrenaline slang. I’d give anything for this to be the baseline of my life.

Sal tilts his head against my knee. “Processor overload?”

“Just…grateful.” My throat grips the word. “Overwhelmed, I think.”

He nods once, like he completely understands.

Maybe he does. Even if he doesn’t, that reassurance feels like the granite I can build a life on.

Nico reaches over, presses a packet of tissues into my hand.

Dante munches a fruit cup and casually drapes an arm across my shoulders.

The gesture feels so natural, I forget we were ever strangers.

Erin wakes again for respiratory exercises, supervised by a nurse who wields a spirometer like a traffic cop. Grandma returns with blueberry muffins, and Dante declares them perfection. When Erin dozes once more, the brothers leave in search of teriyaki for Grandma, per her request.

I stay, stroking Erin’s hair. The room is quiet but for machines. Beep-pause, hiss-pause. I open my phone, scroll to the digital copy of the contract—just to torture myself, evidently.

What happens when it ends? I picture the carriage turning into a pumpkin, and my fine clothes becoming thrift-store duds again. But then I remember none of that matters. Not really.

Erin is better. That’s what I wanted out of this, and that’s what I got. If their promises of a brighter future are real, that’s amazing. But I have Erin, and that’s what really matters.

No matter what my heart says.