Page 16 of Sexting the Silverfox Daddy

Cassie

Morning light filtered through the thin curtains, spilling across the tangled sheets. I opened my eyes slowly, blinking against the soft glow. The bed was empty beside me.

He had gone. No note, no trace, just me left to wrestle with that storm of emotions.

I dragged myself out of bed, padding barefoot to the bathroom. The cold mirror reflected a stranger—pale, eyes hollow, skin marked. My gaze dropped, tracing the faint bruises and love bites he had left. His brand on my skin.

Flashes of the previous night hit hard. He had been rough, intense, almost terrifying.

But when I winced, he had stopped, those emerald eyes flickering with something soft—concern, maybe, buried under his fire.

When it was over, his fingers had grazed the spots he'd marked, gentle, almost guilty, like he hated the idea of hurting me.

The bruises had faded to a soft pink, but the hickeys, especially in those private places, clung stubbornly, screaming he was here. My fingers brushed them, sparking a mix of faint pain and… belonging. Fuck. That realization shook me to my core.

I didn't hate those marks. They were like badges—or chains—proof I had been wanted, needed, claimed in a way that was raw and real.

It was fucked up, but that feeling, that primal rush, was like a shot of adrenaline in my dull, predictable life.

Maybe, deep down, I had craved someone like him—someone who could tear through my walls, pull me into chaos, even if it left me bruised, with danger hanging over my head like a damn guillotine.

Gennady. He was a wildfire, burning everything, lighting up the dark. And I was hooked—stupidly, dangerously hooked—on the pain and glow of being caught in his blaze.

The next few days crawled by. I zoned out constantly, sometimes staring at nothing for hours. Jennifer, my coworker, kept shooting me worried looks, asking if I was okay. I brushed her off with vague excuses, but she wasn't dumb—she knew something was up.

My mind stayed stuck on that night. His cold words had cut deep, like poisoned ice, stabbing at the softest parts of my heart. But what scared me more? After that night, I had unblocked him. And my phone had stayed dead silent since. No texts, no calls. Nothing.

Bitterness flooded my mouth. I opened our chat for the hundredth time, his name sitting there like a void, sucking me in. My fingers hovered, itching to type something, but fear kept me frozen. I just gripped the phone, waiting for him to break the quiet, to flip my world upside down again.

A week dragged by. Nothing. Gennady and Anya—gone, like they had dropped off the face of the earth.

Panic crept in, drowning out the anger and hurt.

If he was pissed at me or done with me, fine.

But Anya? She hadn't shown up to school.

That sweet little girl—where was she? My brain spun with dark thoughts. Kidnapping? Revenge? Something worse?

The hole he had left behind filled with dread, heavy, suffocating, crushing my chest until I could barely breathe.

"Principal, Anya hasn't been to class in a week. I'm really worried," I said, bursting into Mr. Willson's office, my voice tight with panic.

He frowned, flipping through a thick record book. "That is odd. We tried contacting Mr. Sokolov, but his phone went unanswered, and emails bounced back."

Unanswered. No response.

The words gutted me, shredding my last bit of hope. Had something happened to him? To Anya?

Anger, pain, worry, and something else—something I hated admitting—twisted together, sparking a reckless need to act. I needed answers. I needed to know they were safe.

Sokolov Industries. A cold, gleaming skyscraper in downtown Chicago, all glass and steel, like a fortress.

"Sorry, ma'am. No appointment, no entry," the security guard said, his voice flat, robotic, but his eyes sharp like a predator's. He was built like a tank, blocking the way.

"I'm Anya Sokolov's teacher! She hasn't been to school in a week, and I'm worried about her!" My voice spiked, desperate, hoping her safety might crack his icy front.

"Rules are rules. No appointment, no entry." His tone was final, like a fucking machine.

Frustration and fear rooted me to the spot. I paced the slick lobby, scanning every polished face hurrying by—none of them his. Out of options, I headed for the shadows—the underground parking garage. Maybe I'd find something there, some hint.

The elevator hummed down, the steel walls reflecting my pale, anxious face.

Level B2. The doors slid open, and the air was thick, dead. Then—BANG! BANG! BANG!

Gunshots.

Time stopped. My blood froze, limbs locked, heart hammering so hard it might have cracked my ribs. My mind blanked, screaming with raw terror.

Dad! Dad!

Memories flooded in, dragging me back to that night when I was seven. The same gunshots, the same choking smoke, my father's body crumpling in a pool of blood. Those warm eyes, the ones that read me bedtime stories, gone forever, leaving me and Mom alone in a cold, cruel world.

No! No!

I was paralyzed, drowning in fear, the gunshots and my racing pulse the only sounds. Another shot exploded, the echo bouncing off the concrete walls. Then I saw him—Gennady.

He was in a tailored black suit, moving like a shadow in the dim garage light, gripping a glinting pistol, not a pen. The man who had kissed my forehead, who had held me close, was now a cold, lethal killer.

It hit like a thunderbolt: He's not a businessman. Never was.

His precise stance, his ease in the chaos, his unflinching calm facing death—these weren't the skills of a CEO.

He was a mobster.

The truth coiled around my heart, cold and venomous. Gennady Sokolov—the man who had whispered soft words, sent me roses, kissed me like I was his everything—was one of them. The same kind of monster who killed my father.

Fear crashed over me, not just from the gunfire but from my own choices. I had fallen for a mobster. I had let a man who'd probably killed dozens touch me, claim me, mark my body as his.

How could I have been so fucking blind? The lavish gifts, the commanding presence, the dangerous edge—I had ignored every warning sign, caught up in his charm, his intensity, the way he made me feel alive, out of control.

The world blurred, like I was underwater, the stench of gunpowder and blood choking me, mixing reality and memory.

His eyes flashed in my mind—those deep emerald pools, burning with possession when he had touched me. Then they shifted, fading to the warm brown of my father's eyes, the ones that had loved me, protected me, read me stories.

The two sets of eyes flickered, overlapping, chaotic, ripping me apart.

BANG!

A bullet hit the concrete pillar behind me, debris grazing my cheek, the sting snapping me back. But I was still frozen, PTSD trapping me in a cage of terror.

Gennady spun, his sharp green eyes catching me at the elevator. Shock, disbelief, then raw fury flashed across his face.

"Fuck!" he cursed under his breath.

Another shot, closer now. I saw the muzzle flash, heard the bullet's whine.

In a heartbeat, his body slammed into mine, knocking me to the cold floor. He shielded me, his head buried in my neck, his hot breath against my skin. A bullet whistled overhead, smashing into the elevator door with a deafening clang.

"Stay down!" he growled in my ear, his voice a mix of command and fear. "They're right there!"

Something warm dripped onto my face, the metallic tang of blood hitting my nose. My vision cleared, the ghost of my father's face fading, replaced by Gennady's. His brow was furrowed in pain, sweat beading on his forehead, but those green eyes were still fierce, locked on me with worry.

My gaze shifted to his shoulder—a deep, bloody gash.

I gasped, reality crashing back. "You're hurt!" My voice shook, barely coherent.

For a split second, relief flickered in his eyes as I snapped out of it, but it was gone fast, replaced by sharp vigilance. "Just a graze," he said, his voice cold, but his arms tightened around me. "We're getting out of here."

More gunshots, rapid, deadly. He hauled me up, half-dragging, half-carrying me to a nearby concrete barrier.

The air was thick with smoke and blood, the garage a battlefield.

His body was tense, muscles coiled like a spring, his heartbeat pounding against mine, a wild duet in that death-soaked chaos.

Under his protection, we made it out, bursting into blinding sunlight. But there was no warmth in it. My body was still shaking, every breath laced with gunpowder and blood. Something had changed—broken—inside me.

Fear, like icy vines, wrapped around my heart, sinking deep roots.

I had seen Gennady's world now.

And it was way darker, way deadlier, than I had ever imagined.