Page 25 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

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 thenightstand, 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 whatshouldI 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.”

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