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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, especiallywhen 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.