Page 27 of Sexting the Silverfox Daddy

Gennady

Over the next few days, I couldn't ignore the changes in Cassie. At breakfast, when the chef set down her favorite fried eggs, her face went pale, and she bolted to the bathroom, hand over her mouth. The sound of her retching twisted my gut.

"Cassie?" I knocked on the bathroom door, worry creeping into my voice. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, her voice weak, barely carrying through the door. "Just a little nauseous."

When she came out, she looked like a ghost—pale, shaky, her eyes dull. I reached to steady her, but she dodged my hand, her expression closed off.

"Maybe you should see a doctor," I said, trying to sound caring instead of pushy.

"No need," she replied, her tone flat, dismissive. "I'm just tired."

Every meal became a slow torture. She'd sit at the table, poke at her food a few times, then mutter something about practicing her violin and leave.

Watching her waste away—cheeks hollow, dark circles deepening under her eyes—made my chest ache with a helpless kind of worry.

But every time I brought up getting a doctor, she'd hit me with that cold stare, like my concern was an intrusion.

"Cassie, you can't keep going like this," I finally snapped at lunch on the fifth day. "You're barely eating."

She set down her fork, her eyes meeting mine, hard and unyielding. "I told you, I'm fine."

"This isn't fine!" My voice rose, frustration spilling over. "You look sick. Let me get a doctor—"

"No." She cut me off, her tone sharp, final, like nothing I'd ever heard from her. "I don't need a doctor, and I don't need your concern."

She stood and walked out, leaving me at the table, anger and helplessness churning in my gut. I wanted to take care of her, make sure she was okay, but she was pushing me away, building a wall between us that grew taller every day. I didn't know how to break through.

Late that night, after a grueling emergency meeting, I dragged myself back to the estate. Dimitri was waiting with worse news.

"We found the traitor," he said, his face grim. "It's Martha, the kitchen maid. Marco's had her in his pocket for three months. We found bugs she planted in the study, living room, and kitchen."

My blood ran cold. Martha—the maid who always smiled at Cassie, who brought her tea with that fake warmth—was a fucking snake.

"What'd she give them?" My voice was a low growl, barely human.

"The estate's daily schedule, Cassie's routines, Anya's room location."

Rage boiled in my veins, hot and unstoppable. This bitch didn't just betray me—she put my daughter and my woman in the crosshairs.

I never touched women or kids, but she'd crossed a line. "Where is she?"

"Basement. Waiting for you."

I didn't say another word. I stormed to the basement.

It was dusk when I stumbled back to the main house, reeking of blood and fury. Martha got what she deserved, but the anger still burned, a restless beast clawing at my insides. I needed an outlet, needed Cassie—her warmth, her touch, something to pull me out of this darkness.

I slipped into her bedroom quietly, careful not to wake her. She was curled up on the bed, asleep, moonlight spilling through the window, casting soft shadows on her pale face. Even in sleep, her brow was furrowed, like she was carrying some heavy pain.

I stripped off my blood-stained coat and eased onto the bed beside her. She looked so fragile, so beautiful, it made my chest ache with the need to protect her, to love her. I pulled her gently into my arms, feeling how much thinner she'd gotten, her ribs sharp under my hands. It hurt to notice.

I kissed her neck, savoring the sweet warmth of her skin, her faint rose scent calming the storm inside me. "Cassie," I murmured, my hands tracing her body.

She stirred under my touch, waking with a soft blink. Her eyes flickered with confusion, then something complicated—recognition, but guarded. "Gennady?" Her voice was hoarse from sleep.

"It's me, розочка," I said, deepening the kiss, my fingers brushing along her waist.

Her body responded—her breath quickened, her skin warmed, her chest rising and falling faster.

It lit a fire in me, knowing she still felt this pull between us.

Her lips parted under mine, a soft sigh escaping, and it was like gasoline on my desire.

My hands moved up her curves, feeling her softness, her heat, driving me to the edge.

"I missed you," I whispered against her ear, my voice rough with need. "These past days have been hell."

Her hands drifted to my chest, her touch sending sparks through me. I kissed her neck again, tasting her, listening to her soft gasps. Her fingers dug into me, leaving faint scratches that pushed me closer to losing control.

This was my Cassie, my rose. In this moment, she wasn't cold or distant—she was mine again, melting into me.

I deepened the kiss, my fingers working the buttons of her nightgown, her skin glowing like porcelain in the moonlight. Her soft moan was better than any music I'd ever heard.

But just as I thought she'd give in, she pushed me away. "No," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "I don't want this."

I froze, confusion hitting me hard. "Cassie?"

"I said no." She turned her face away, sliding to the other side of the bed.

Frustration and hurt exploded in my chest, all the pent-up anger and despair from the past days surging up. "Are you punishing me?" I sat up, my voice tight with barely controlled rage. "Because of our fight, you're gonna freeze me out forever?"

She was quiet for a moment, then said in a flat tone, "I don't want to be touched. Not now."

Those words were a knife to the heart. No touching? We'd been so in love, so desperate for each other, and now she couldn't stand my hands on her?

I stood, yanking my clothes back on, my movements rough enough to tear the fabric. "Fine. If you wanna punish me, just say it. Don't torture us both like this."

"I'm not punishing you," she said, still facing away. "I'm just tired. That's all."

Tired? That's what she called this? Losing her touch, her warmth, her response—it was worse than any punishment I'd ever faced. "You remember what you said when we met?" I said, pulling on my coat, my voice bitter. "You said you hated fearing the mob. Guess you meant it. You're scared of me now."

Her body stiffened, but she didn't turn around.

"Maybe this is better for both of us," I said, heading for the door. "At least you don't have to pretend to love me anymore."

I slammed the door behind me, the sound echoing in the empty hall. Leaning against the wall, I felt the world spin. I'd lost her. Maybe I was always destined to.

In my study, I poured a huge glass of whiskey and downed it in one go. The burn didn't touch the pain in my chest. Was this really over? The woman who trembled in my arms, who looked at me with love in her eyes, couldn't bear my touch now.

I sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. It was gonna be a long night. And I knew there'd be more like it.

Cassie

When the door slammed, I lost it. Tears poured out, and I buried my face in the pillow, sobbing. His scent lingered—cologne mixed with a faint metallic tang of blood, so distinctly Gennady.

I wanted him. When his lips grazed my neck, when his hands roamed my body, every part of me ached for him. My body remembered his touch, the passion, the nights that left my soul shaking. I wanted to melt into him, to lose myself in that heat.

But I couldn't.

My hand trembled as I touched my stomach. A tiny life was growing there, so fragile, so vulnerable. I knew enough about pregnancy to know the first trimester was delicate, especially when I was already feeling so rough. Intense physical stuff was a risk I couldn't take.

But I couldn't tell him the truth.

If I did, what would he do? Lock me down even tighter? See this baby as another chain to bind me to him? The thought made my heart race with fear.

Seeing the pain and anger in his green eyes tonight tore me apart. He thought I was punishing him, thought I didn't love him anymore. But the truth was, I loved him so much it was driving me crazy.

Every time I pushed him away, it was like cutting into my own heart. Every time I saw that hurt in his eyes, I wanted to throw myself into his arms, tell him I loved him more than anything.

But I couldn't.

His last words gutted me: "At least you don't have to pretend to love me anymore."

Pretend? He thought I was pretending?

I'd never pretended. Every kiss, every embrace, every "I love you" came from my soul. But this secret—this baby—was a wall between us, keeping me from showing him how I really felt.

I heard him in the study—glass clinking, footsteps pacing, the occasional muttered curse. He was hurting too, struggling just like me. The pain was mutual, but we couldn't comfort each other.

I touched my stomach, whispering, "Baby, Mommy doesn't know what to do. I love your daddy so much, but I don't know how to tell him about you. I'm scared he'll change, scared he'll lock us up even tighter."

Tears soaked the pillow, disappearing into the fabric, just like my pain went unseen.

This couldn't go on. Our relationship was dying under the weight of my silence, and I was powerless to stop it.

Tomorrow, I'd have to keep up this act—pretending I didn't love him, pushing away his care, watching the hurt in his eyes grow.

It was worse than dying.

Moonlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating my tear-streaked face. This room used to be filled with our love, our passion. Now it was just silence and pain.

I closed my eyes, hoping for sleep, for a dream where I could love him freely again.

But sleep wouldn't come. My heart was too full of fear for the future, despair for the present.

Could our love be saved? When the truth came out, would he forgive me for hiding it?

I didn't know. All I knew was that I couldn't stop loving him.

Even if that love was tearing us both apart.