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

DANTE

The auction is so long that there’s an intermission.

Perfect timing. I’m not sure what’s more thrilling right now—the buzz of adrenaline in my veins as we stand outside The Armory’s grand auction hall, or the look on Nico’s face when I drop my latest bombshell.

Both are fairly entertaining, though I’d say Nico’s reaction is edging into first place.

“You did what exactly?” Nico demands, crossing his arms like an elementary school teacher scolding a delinquent.

I flash him my most charming grin. “Relax, man. It’s not that big a deal. I signed us up for the month-long engagement package, that’s all.”

“That’s all ? I barely agreed to show up tonight, let alone commit to some stranger for a whole month.”

Sal stands slightly behind Nico, arms folded over his chest, expression stoic as ever.

He hasn’t said a word since I mentioned the extended engagement portion, which is typical Sal.

He processes things quietly. Meanwhile, Nico’s giving me the full-lipped frown, a look I’m intimately familiar with.

He used to give me that look when I’d come home with bruises from BASE jumping off a radio tower.

I’m undeterred. “Look, we all know the holiday season is a minefield,” I say, ticking off reasons on my fingers.

“Family obligations, business parties, society galas, random black-tie functions for charity that we can’t weasel out of.

Don’t you think it would be…refreshing to have a single date with us the whole time?

One who doesn’t come with the usual drama or the gossip tabloids sniffing around? ”

Nico rolls his eyes. “We can hire a professional escort for that.”

“Sure,” I concede, “but this is more…exclusive. Discreet. Interesting. ” My grin widens. “Come on, you’re telling me you’d rather show up alone than bring a beautiful woman on your arm for every boring function? This is the perfect solution.”

Nico’s lips form a thin line. “You’re out of your mind, Dante.”

Sal clears his throat. “He’s got a point, though,” he finally says, voice as steady as granite. “Better to be accompanied by someone outside our usual circles. If only to avoid the typical…entanglements.”

“Thank you, Sal,” I say, giving him a small bow. “At least one of you sees the big picture.”

Nico just huffs, adjusting his tie like it’s trying to strangle him. “Whatever. Let’s just get inside. The sooner this auction ends, the sooner I can go home.”

I pat him on the shoulder. “Home, or the office? Because we both know you’ve got a stack of spreadsheets waiting on your nightstand.”

He mutters something I don’t catch, probably a creative insult.

Regardless, I let it slide. With a soft laugh, I push open one of the double doors.

The place is massive, cathedral-like in its proportions, with velvet drapes lining the walls and a lofty ceiling decked out in chandeliers that cast a warm, golden glow.

Between lots, the lights dim, leaving just enough illumination for people to find their seats or wander to the back bar.

There’s a subdued hush in the air, the kind that crackles with expectation.

Every so often, the stage lights blaze up, revealing a nervous-looking person—guy or girl or some other gender—who’s about to be sold for a jaw-dropping sum of money.

The coordinator has said many times, in a variety of ways, that every virgin is here of their own accord. The virgins sought out the auction and were vetted by The Armory’s team. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. Even if she’s not a virgin, as long as she’s a good actress, that suits me just fine.

As anxious as they all look, though, I’m betting they are the real deal.

The chairs are plush, the sort you’d expect in some exclusive theater. I scan the crowd, catching glimpses of masked faces, expensive suits, glittering dresses. It’s all the same at every event I go to, minus the masks, usually. Opulence has lost its charm.

But the virgins on stage? Charming as fuck.

The auctioneer, wearing a sleek black suit and a simple half-mask, announces the next participant.

A spotlight sweeps across the curtains, and out steps a petite brunette, visibly trembling, wearing a short slip dress.

She bites her lip and looks like she wants to vanish.

Yet the bids come rolling in, driving the price higher and higher.

After a tense minute, the gavel slams down, and the crowd murmurs with approval.

“Holy hell,” Nico whispers, eyes locked on his phone, which displays a running feed of bids. “That’s more money than I’d pay for a sports car.”

Sal grunts. “And someone paid it for one night, maybe more. Huh.”

I lean back, crossing my ankles under the seat in front of me. “Hey, different strokes for different folks.”

The lights dim again as the brunette is led offstage.

A moment passes, the stage empty save for the auctioneer adjusting his microphone.

Quiet chatter buzzes around us. Then, the curtains part to reveal a stunning young woman with long black hair, wearing a silky gown that clings to every curve.

She looks bolder than the last girl—though I still sense some nerves in her posture.

Her nipples are dark and hard, showing through the material, thanks to the spotlights on her.

The bids begin quickly. Over to my right, I catch a few masked men practically climbing over each other to raise the numbers.

Sal folds his arms, watching. “Kinda hot, right?”

Nico wrinkles his nose. “Maybe. Feels weird, though. Bidding on someone’s virginity? Feels…I don’t know.”

“Exploitive,” Sal says, finishing his sentence.

I shrug. “Or maybe it’s empowering. Hard to say without stepping into their shoes.”

I swear, there’s more nuance to this than meets the eye. They just don’t want to see it. I can’t claim to be an expert, but from the hush and excitement in the room, it’s clear a lot of people find this arrangement appealing—buyers and sellers alike. These people on stage are nobody’s victims.

They’re here for money. We want to give it to them. A simple exchange.

The bidding ends, the lights dim again, and the next participant is announced. We cycle through two or three more lots, the same process each time. Someone comes onstage, the crowd stares and chatters, bids escalate, and the price is announced to our collective approval or surprise.

My brothers and I occasionally trade crude comments—lighthearted jabs about the lingerie, or how many zeroes that last bidder must have in his bank account. But we don’t raise a single paddle.

Honestly, I’m enjoying the show without feeling pressured to jump in. The environment sparks a frisson of excitement I haven’t felt in ages—like I’m on the cusp of some outrageous new adventure. Still, I’m perfectly content to watch from the sidelines.

Until it happens.

I’m mid-sip of champagne—yeah, I gave in to the open bar—when the auctioneer’s voice booms, “Our next guest is Tabitha. Let’s welcome her.”

A spotlight flares, and onto the stage steps a redhead in a white slip dress. She’s tallish, curvy, and I realize in a split second that I know her. My brain scrambles, trying to remember.

The hostess from that French bistro. The one who looked at me like I was a lost puppy wagging my tail.

Suddenly, I’m half out of my seat, heart pounding. I never expected to see her again, let alone here.

Of all the virgin auctions in the world , she walks into mine.

She stands under that glaring spotlight, blinking at the sea of masked faces.

She looks so vulnerable—terrified, even—yet also…

determined. Her body’s rigid, her hands clasped tight in front of her, knuckles white.

The slip she’s wearing leaves little to the imagination, and there’s a sheen of nervous sweat on her brow.

I feel a jolt of empathy, as well as something a lot more primal. My inner caveman demands, “Mine.”

When the auctioneer starts the bidding with a figure, I don’t even think.

My hand grabs the digital bidding paddle, my thumb hovering over the screen.

There’s a beat of silence. Someone else from across the hall places a bid first. The number jumps, and my pulse thunders in my ears.

I shoot a quick glance at Nico, who’s watching me with raised eyebrows.

Don’t you dare. He doesn’t say it out loud, but I know him.

Screw it. I tap the screen, placing a bid.

The auctioneer’s voice echoes. “We have a bid from number 153. Do I hear?—?”

Before he finishes, another new bid surfaces, pushing the price higher. My eyes flick to Sal, who’s now leaning forward, his phone in hand. He just outbid me by a margin large enough to get the crowd stirring. The corner of his mouth twitches in a half smile.

I’m about to snark at him when Nico, grumbling something under his breath, also puts in a bid.

It’s as if the three of us are locked into some bizarre sibling rivalry—except the prize is a literal person standing onstage, looking petrified and beautiful.

The adrenaline in me spikes, as if I’m about to jump off a cliff in a wingsuit.

I am going to win this.

The next minute is a frenzy of digits flashing on the screen, counterbids from around the hall, and the three of us escalating.

It’s not just us. Others join in. I can’t stop; every time someone else tries to sneak in, I raise it higher.

Sal does the same, quietly, methodically.

Nico curses under his breath but keeps clicking the paddles.

Tabitha’s gaze sweeps the crowd, obviously unable to see who’s bidding.

She steps back slightly, lips parted, looking a mixture of stunned and maybe hopeful?

It’s hard to tell from here, but I swear I catch a flicker of relief on her face each time the numbers climb.

She needs this money. I recall her anxious vibe at the bistro.

This must be why she’s here. My chest tightens for reasons I can’t entirely parse.

Within moments, the bid has soared to a brain-melting figure, but I can’t bring myself to let it go.

Something about her, the way she’s trembling but resolute, tugs at me.

Sal places another bid, and I up it. Nico ups that.

My heart races, and I find myself borderline panting like a dog chasing a rabbit. This is insane. But I’m into it.