Page 17 of Sexting the Silverfox Daddy

Gennady

The car rumbled toward the estate, the air inside thick with a cold, heavy silence. The engine's low growl was the only sound, save for the thud of my own heartbeat, heavy as a drum in my chest.

I glanced at Cassie through the rearview mirror.

She was curled up in the backseat, her face pale as a ghost, her eyes still wide with the shock of the gunfire we'd just escaped.

That hollow, lost look in her eyes twisted something deep in my gut.

Why the hell did she react like that to the gunshots?

It wasn't just fear—it was something deeper, something raw.

But what really got under my skin was the way she looked at me now.

Gone was the starry-eyed admiration, the soft crush she'd had on me.

Now, her gaze was layered with something I couldn't quite read—fear?

Confusion? Or maybe she was finally seeing me for what I was.

Fuck. She wasn't supposed to be there. She wasn't supposed to see that side of my world.

"Gennady," her voice came out soft, trembling like a leaf in the wind, "your wound…"

"I told you, it's just a graze," I snapped, sharper than I meant to. My fear—for her safety, for losing her—made my words come out like a blade.

She didn't say another word, just pressed her face closer to the cold window, like she could shrink into it and hide from everything. From me. From the blood and chaos she'd just witnessed. The sight of her like that made my chest ache.

The estate's medical room was ready when we arrived, the air sterile and sharp with the smell of antiseptic. Aisor, my old butler and private doc, was already waiting, his calm professionalism a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me.

"Mr. Sokolov, please remove your shirt," Aisor said, his voice steady, like he'd stitched up a hundred wounds like mine before. He probably had.

I yanked off my blood-soaked shirt, the fabric tearing at the wound and sending a sharp jolt of pain through my shoulder. It was nothing compared to the irritation clawing at my insides. As Aisor started cleaning the gash, the door creaked open, and Cassie slipped inside.

She froze in the doorway, her face still pale, her eyes flicking to the bloody cotton in Aisor's hand and the ugly wound on my shoulder. For a second, I thought she'd bolt.

"Miss, if you're feeling unwell, you can wait outside," Aisor offered, his tone kind but firm.

"No." Cassie took a deep breath, her voice shaky but resolute. "I want to stay."

She sank into a chair in the corner, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles turned white.

I could see her forcing herself to watch, to face the blood and the needle, to confront the reality of my world.

Every time Aisor's needle pierced my skin, her face paled a little more, but she didn't look away. She didn't leave.

My rose. That stubborn strength of hers made my heart ache and swell with pride all at once. She was tougher than I'd given her credit for.

"All done," Aisor said, packing up his tools. "Mr. Sokolov, keep the wound dry. I'll prepare light meals for you, and I'll remove the stitches in three days."

He left, and the room fell quiet, just me and Cassie. She sat there, her gaze distant, like she was still processing the blood and the stitches and the whole damn mess.

"You okay?" I asked, my voice softer than before.

Her head snapped up, her eyes meeting mine, a flicker of something complicated passing through them. "I didn't expect it to be so…" She paused, searching for the right word. "So real."

"Real?"

"The blood, the pain, all of it," she said, her voice trembling. "I knew you were hurt, but seeing the doctor clean it, seeing all that blood… it hit me that you could've—"

She didn't finish, but I knew. She'd almost lost me. That thought shook her, and it was starting to sink in just how dangerous my life was.

"This is my world," I said, my voice heavy. "This is why I don't want you anywhere near it."

She went quiet for a long time, then slowly stood and walked over to me. "Is this how you've been living all week?" Her voice was shaky, words tumbling out in a rush. "I mean, Anya hasn't been to school either, and I didn't know what to think. I was just—"

Her rambling, the worry in her voice, softened something in me. She was scared, confused, trying to make sense of it all and coming up empty.

"I've been dealing with some threats," I said, keeping it as honest as I could without dragging her deeper. "People who want to hurt me, my family. I can't let you get caught up in that."

"Threats?" she echoed, her brow furrowing. "Like what happened today?"

"Yeah." I held her gaze, willing her to understand. "Now you see why I can't tell you everything."

She nodded slowly, but her frown didn't ease. I could tell there was more she wanted to say, but she looked so damn exhausted, so pale, that I let it go. For now.

Dinner was a welcome change of pace. Anya burst into the room, her energy like a ray of sunlight cutting through the gloom.

"Miss Monroe!" she squealed, throwing herself into Cassie's arms. "I missed you so much!"

"I missed you, too, little angel," Cassie said, hugging her tightly. The warmth in her voice melted away some of the tension from earlier.

Watching them together, my daughter and my woman, safe under my roof, hit me like a punch to the chest. It was too perfect, too good to be real.

My little Anya, giggling in Cassie's arms, and Cassie, smiling like the weight of the day had lifted for a moment.

This was the kind of happiness I'd never dared to dream of.

A quiet, fragile warmth spread through me, loosening the knots in my nerves, if only for a second.

Maybe I can have this, I thought. Even if it's just for now.

"What've you been up to this week?" Cassie asked Anya, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face.

"Daddy said it wasn't safe outside, so I had to stay home," Anya said, pouting. "It was so boring. But Daddy painted with me and told me stories!"

"Your daddy loves you a lot," Cassie said, glancing at me. Her expression was hard to read—curious, searching, like she was trying to piece together who I was through Anya's eyes.

After dinner, the three of us ended up on the estate's terrace.

The night sky was a blanket of stars, the city lights shimmering in the distance like a river of gold.

Anya was out like a light in no time, curled up in Aisor's arms. I nodded for him to take her to bed, leaving just me and Cassie under the moonlight.

She leaned against the railing, staring up at the stars, but I could feel the storm brewing inside her.

The moonlight painted her face in soft silver, highlighting the quiet beauty in her features, but also the conflict in her eyes.

There was a depth there I hadn't seen before, a mix of pain and longing that made my chest tighten.

"You know," I said, breaking the silence, my voice low in the cool night air, "I don't get to just stop and look at the stars like this often."

She turned to me, her eyes cautious but curious, a hint of something raw flickering in them.

"My childhood didn't have nights like this," I went on, staring out at the horizon. "My father was always busy, always dealing with business. I learned early on how to face the dark alone."

Cassie froze, like she hadn't expected me to open up like that.

"Sounds lonely," she said after a moment, her voice soft.

"It was. Until Anya." I paused, then turned to her. "And now you. You're changing my world, too."

The words hit her like a shockwave. Her breath hitched, her hands gripping the railing so tightly her knuckles paled. Her eyes shimmered with a mix of shock, fear, and something sweeter, something that hurt to look at.

"Cassie, you're not like anyone I've ever known," I said, my voice dropping softer. "I want to know you. What made you you."

She didn't answer right away, her fingers tracing the railing, her gaze darting away.

"There's not much to tell," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

"My dad was a dockworker, busting his ass every day.

My mom took care of me at home. We lived in a tiny apartment, but it was… happy."

That word—happy—came out warm, like a memory she was holding close.

"What was that happiness like?" I asked.

A flicker of pain crossed her face, her hands balling into fists.

"After dinner, we'd sit together. Dad would tell me stories, and Mom would knit.

In the winter, we'd pile onto the couch under one blanket and watch TV.

" Her voice cracked with nostalgia and grief.

"It was simple, but I felt like the luckiest kid in the world. "

Her words hit me hard, stirring up a mix of awe and guilt. I had power, money, fear, respect—but she'd had love, the kind of warmth I'd never known. And here I was, dragging her into my world, tainting that memory.

"How'd your father die?" I asked, my voice quiet, dreading the answer I already half-knew.

Her body went rigid, her face draining of color. "Gang war," she said, her voice cold as ice. "They were fighting over the docks. My dad was just there, working. He'd get hurt, hide it from us, and keep going to provide for us. Until a stray bullet got him in a shootout."

Each word was a knife to my heart. Her voice shook, her hands gripping the railing like it was the only thing keeping her upright. The pain wasn't just from the memory—it was from standing here, spilling her soul to a man like me. A man tied to the very world that had destroyed hers.

"They ruined my family, my childhood," she went on, her voice raw. "After that, I swore I'd never have anything to do with people like them. They're monsters, the worst kind of evil."

She didn't look at me, but we both knew who she meant. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, not just for her past, but for the betrayal she felt now. She was looking at me—a monster, by her own definition—but she couldn't hate me. Not fully. And that was tearing her apart.

In that moment, I felt a pain so deep it burned. I was the kind of man she despised, the kind who'd shattered her world. And now, I was doing it again, breaking her principles, her sense of self, her very soul, just by being near her.

"I'm sorry," I said, the words heavy with more guilt than she could know. Sorry for her loss, for who I was, for the conflict I was causing, for the pain I'd keep causing.

She looked at me, her eyes a storm of emotions. I could see her trying to hold onto her anger, her hate, but it was slipping, softening. That softening scared me as much as it relieved me—it meant she wasn't lost to me yet, but it also meant I was still destroying her.

"What happened after?" I asked, desperate to move past the moment. "Your dreams? You said you wanted to play the violin on a stage."

Her expression softened, a faint spark of longing in her eyes. "Yeah. When I was a kid, my dad saved up to buy me a violin. I dreamed of standing on a real stage, letting the world hear my music. But…"

"But what?"

"After he died, we couldn't afford lessons anymore. I had to give it up, start working to help my mom." Her voice held regret, but no bitterness. "Now, I'm just happy to have a steady job."

"You'll make it happen," I said, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "I'll make sure of it."

The promise hung between us, heavy with meaning. I was offering her dreams, tying her to me with them. It was a deal—her loyalty for her future. And I hated myself for it.

She turned to me, her eyes searching, filled with a mix of hope and pain. "Would you? Even if I don't belong to you? Even if I'm just… passing through your life?"

Her question cut deep, laying bare all her doubts, her fears, her need to know where she stood.

"You're not just passing through," I said, locking eyes with her, letting her see the truth in mine. "You're my rose. My only rose."

Her eyes lit up, a flash of pain giving way to something softer, something reckless. Then, she rose on her toes and kissed me.

That kiss was everything—her conflict, her pain, her surrender. I felt her trembling, her struggle, her choice to let go of the past, even if it broke her. It was a kiss of defeat, of acceptance, of self-destruction.

My heart surged, and I pulled her close, my arms tight around her waist.

When the kiss broke, we were both shaking.

"How far would you go for me?" she asked, her voice soft, her face glistening with tears under the moonlight.

I stared into her eyes, my eyes burning with something raw, primal, unguarded. All my walls were down, leaving only the fierce need to possess and protect her. My voice was calm, too calm, like the quiet before a storm, but my eyes blazed. "To the point I'd kill anyone who threatened you."

Her breath stopped, her pupils dilating with shock.

Then she kissed me again, her arms wrapping around my neck like it was her last chance.

My rose, accepting me—scars, danger, and all.

I kissed her back, giving her everything I had.

Even if it was just for this moment.