Page 21 of Sexting the Silverfox Daddy

Cassie

When I woke, sunlight slipped through the heavy curtains, casting a soft glow across the room.

For a split second, I forgot where I was—until my eyes landed on the fresh red roses on the nightstand.

Then it all came rushing back: last night's terror, Gennady's arms around me, the overwhelming safety of being completely his.

My cheeks flushed. Even after everything, the memory of losing myself in him still made me shy. But more than that, it stirred a deep, unshakable attachment. In his arms, I could let go of every defense.

A soft knock pulled me from my thoughts.

"Cassie?" The maid's polite voice came through the door. "Mr. Sokolov asked me to tell you he's arranged a leave of absence from your school. You're to stay here for now, focus on settling in."

A leave of absence?

I sat up, my brain scrambling to process it. He'd made the call without asking me, but instead of anger, I felt… relieved. Maybe it was the lingering fear from last night, or maybe I just didn't want to leave this place—this sanctuary. Or maybe, deep down, I didn't want to leave him.

When I walked into the dining room, the scene stopped me in my tracks.

Gennady stood in the open kitchen, wearing a blue apron that looked hilariously out of place on his broad frame.

He was focused, flipping eggs in a skillet with a practiced hand, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his strong forearms. The sight was so normal, so domestic, it threw me.

Anya was perched at the table, her little feet swinging, waving at me with a huge grin. "Miss Monroe! You're awake! Daddy's making us breakfast."

It was too perfect, too cozy, like something out of a dream. This man, who could kill without blinking, was frying eggs for us.

I stepped up to Gennady, playfully tugging at his crooked apron. "Morning, Cassie," he said, turning to me with a smile that held none of last night's intensity—just a rare, gentle warmth that made my heart skip. "Sleep okay?"

While Anya was distracted, fiddling with her colored pencils, I rose on my toes and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "Really good," I whispered, surprised at how natural it felt, how intimate. The realization hit me like a wave, and I blushed hard, feeling like we'd been married for years.

His eyes sparked with surprise, then softened, a deeper warmth settling in them. "You sure know how to start a guy's day right," he teased, his voice low.

"You really cook?" I asked, eyeing the spatula in his hand, still trying to wrap my head around it.

"Don't look so shocked," he chuckled. "I'm not just some boss barking orders. When Anya was little, she got sick a lot. Docs said she needed light meals, so I learned to whip up a few things."

He slid the eggs onto a plate with a grace that made it look like an art form. Then he leaned in close, his voice dropping to a husky whisper only I could hear. "Besides, I like taking care of my woman."

My pulse spiked, heat creeping up my face. Even simple words from him carried a magnetic pull, making my knees weak.

"Daddy, Miss Monroe, come see my bunny!" Anya's excited voice cut through the moment, snapping us out of our bubble.

We joined her at the table, where she proudly held up a drawing—a chubby pink cartoon bunny with long ears, childish but bursting with charm. "What's this bunny's name?" I asked, sliding into the seat next to her.

"Pозочка!" Anya declared, beaming. "'Cause Daddy always calls you Pозочка, so the bunny should be that too!"

I glanced at Gennady, catching a flicker of embarrassment before it melted into a fond, helpless smile. Anya had known his nickname for me all along.

"Where does Pозочка Bunny live?" I asked, leaning in.

"With us!" Anya clapped her hands. "Like Miss Monroe lives with us now! We're a family!"

Family. The word hit me like a bolt of lightning, sparking something deep in my chest. I looked at Gennady, and he was watching me, his green eyes carrying a weight I wasn't ready to unpack.

"Yeah," he said softly, his voice steady but heavy with meaning. "We're a family."

That confirmation sent a rush of warmth through me, so strong it almost hurt. I knew this might be temporary, that our future was a tangled mess of uncertainties, but in that moment, I let myself believe it was real.

The table was set with Gennady's handiwork—perfectly fried eggs, golden toast, and fresh fruit smoothies, simple but thoughtful.

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, bathing us in a warm glow.

Anya chattered away, Gennady occasionally chiming in with a gentle "Don't get too wild, kid," and I just sat there, soaking it all in, my heart swelling with a quiet, sweet contentment.

This was the life I'd dreamed of. Simple. Warm. Full of love.

After breakfast, Anya had a big idea. "I wanna plant flowers!" she announced, practically bouncing. "Miss Monroe and Daddy, you gotta help!"

Gennady glanced at his phone, a few unread messages lighting up the screen, but when he saw Anya's hopeful eyes, he pocketed it without a second thought. "Alright, little princess," he said, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "We'll plant flowers."

The back garden was even more stunning than I'd imagined.

Neatly trimmed lawns stretched out, dotted with vibrant flowerbeds, the air sweet with the scent of blooms. Sunlight filtered through sycamore trees, painting the ground in dappled patterns.

It was alive, vibrant, a world away from the danger outside.

Anya raced to the tool shed, dragging out a pile of gardening gear—a tiny shovel, a watering can, and a packet of flower seeds. "Daddy, you take this," she said, shoving a comically small pink shovel into Gennady's hands. "Miss Monroe, you get the watering can."

I couldn't help but laugh at the sight of him holding that toy shovel, his towering, commanding presence reduced to something so absurdly domestic. The contrast—the fearsome mob boss turned gardener—made my heart do a little flip.

"You two are turning me into a damn landscaper," he grumbled, but his eyes were soft, brimming with indulgence. "I've got important meetings, you know."

"What meeting's more important than planting flowers with Anya?" I teased, snatching the shovel from him with a playful smirk.

He looked at me, then let out a low chuckle. "You're right, Cassie. Nothing's more important than this."

We crouched by the flowerbed Anya had picked out, digging into the soft earth.

The sun warmed my skin, lazy and comforting.

Gennady shed his suit jacket, rolling up his sleeves to show those strong forearms again.

Every time our fingers brushed while passing tools, a familiar electric jolt shot through me, stirring memories of last night—his hands on my skin, claiming me.

"Careful, you'll get dirt on your clothes," he said, his voice soft with that familiar care.

"Don't care," I replied, focused on scooping soil. "Clothes wash."

"But your hands…" He grabbed my hand, inspecting my dirt-streaked fingers with a frown. "This rough stuff's not for you."

His sudden tenderness caught me off guard, making my chest tighten. In his eyes, I was always something to protect, to cherish.

"I'm not that delicate," I said with a light laugh, but I didn't pull my hand away.

His thumb grazed my knuckles, the gentle touch sending my nerves into overdrive. Even something so small could spark memories of his hands on me, possessive and reverent.

"Look! A butterfly!" Anya's excited shout broke the moment. She dropped her shovel and tore off after an orange butterfly, her giggles echoing through the garden.

Suddenly, it was just us. Gennady still held my hand, watching Anya chase her butterfly, a soft smile on his face.

"She's always so full of life," I said, smiling too. "Back at school, she was always the one chasing butterflies."

"Yeah," he said, his green eyes warm. "Sometimes I think she's got endless energy. Takes three bedtime stories to get her to settle down."

"Three?" I raised an eyebrow, incredulous. "How late does that keep you up?"

"Usually 'til eight-thirty," he said, shaking his head with a fond smirk. "And they can't be repeats—she demands new ones. I swear, she's gonna drain my imagination dry."

"What kind of stories do you tell her?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Princesses and princes, animal adventures," he said, then hesitated, a touch of embarrassment flickering across his face. "And… stories about violinists."

My heart skipped a beat. "She loves music?"

"Loves it," he nodded. "Whenever she hears something beautiful, she goes still, just listening. I think maybe she got that from…"

His words trailed off, his expression shifting, heavy with something unspoken.

"From who?" I asked softly, though I had a guess.

He was quiet for a moment, staring at Anya running in the distance, his eyes soft but distant. "She's a lot like her mother," he said finally, his voice thick with memory and pain.

My chest tightened. It was the first time he'd opened up about Anya's mother, letting me glimpse the raw wound he carried.

"Isabella loved music too," he went on, his gaze fixed somewhere far away. "Whenever a song came on, she'd grab me and make me dance—living room, garden, even the damn kitchen. She said music made all the good things in the world feel real."

Isabella. The name hit me, heavy and real.

"She sounds beautiful," I said softly, a mix of respect for her memory and ache for his pain swirling in me.

"She was," he said, his voice softer now. "Most beautiful woman I ever saw. Golden hair, blue eyes, like Anya. But it was her heart—her kindness—that made her shine."

His nostalgia was so raw, so deep, it stirred something bittersweet in me. Not jealousy, but a quiet sadness for what he'd lost, and a need to understand him more.

"How did she…" I started, then stopped, unsure if I was crossing a line.

"How'd she die?" he finished for me, his eyes shadowed with bitterness. "My enemies. They took her out."

The words landed like a punch, stealing my breath. I pictured him shattered, Anya too young to understand, and my heart ached for them both.

"Anya was only two," he said, his voice low. "She doesn't even remember what her mom looked like. Sometimes I think that's better—no pain of loss."

"But she deserves to know who her mom was," I said gently.

He turned to me, surprise flickering in his eyes. "You don't think this is too heavy?"

"No," I said honestly. "It's part of you, part of Anya. I want to know you both."

He stared at me, his green eyes swirling with something complex—gratitude, emotion, and something deeper I couldn't name.

"Isabella would've liked you," he said suddenly, and my heart stuttered. "She always said real beauty comes from a kind heart. And you, Cassie, you've got the most beautiful heart I've ever seen."

His words hit me, both warming and unsettling. I wasn't sure I could live up to that, wasn't sure I could fill the void she'd left.

"But I'm not her," I said quietly, as much for him as for myself.

"No, you're not," he said, squeezing my hand. "You're Cassie. My Pозочка. One of a kind."

That assurance wrapped around me like a blanket, giving me a security I hadn't known I needed. I didn't have to be his lost love—I just had to be me.

"Daddy! Miss Monroe! Come look!" Anya's voice rang out, breaking the moment. She ran toward us, clutching a wildflower, her cheeks flushed from running. "I'm giving this to Miss Monroe!" she said, shoving the flower into my hand. "So you know I love you!"

Her pure, unfiltered love brought tears to my eyes. I scooped her up, hugging her tight. "I love you, too, little angel."

Gennady watched us, his eyes so full of tenderness it nearly spilled over. In that moment, we felt like a real family—bound by love, warmth, and the promise of protecting each other.

I knew it might not last, that our world was fragile. But right then, I let myself believe it could be forever.