Holy Fuck . . . Christian. The submissive.
　　Christian on his knees at my feet, holding me with his
　　steady gray gaze, is the most chilling and sobering sight I
　　have ever seen—more so than Leila and her gun. The
　　vague alcoholic fuzziness I’m suffering from evaporates in
　　an instant and is replaced by a prickling scalp and a
　　creeping sense of doom as the blood drains from my face.
　　I inhale sharply with shock. No. No, this is wrong, so
　　wrong and so disturbing.
　　“Christian, please, don’t do this. I don’t want this.”
　　He continues to regard me passively, not moving,
　　He continues to regard me passively, not moving,
　　saying nothing.
　　Oh fuck. My poor Fifty. My heart squeezes and
　　twists. What the hell have I done to him? Tears prick my
　　eyes.
　　“Why are you doing this? Talk to me,” I whisper.
　　He blinks once.
　　“What would you like me to say?” he says softly,
　　blandly, and for a moment I’m relieved that he’s talking,
　　but not like this—no. No.
　　Tears begin to ooze down my cheeks, and suddenly it
　　is too much to see him in the same prostrate position as the
　　pathetic creature that was Leila. The image of a powerful
　　man who’s really still a little boy, who was horrifically
　　abused and neglected, who feels unworthy of love from his
　　perfect family and his much-less-than perfect girlfriend . . .
　　my lost boy . . . it’s heartbreaking.
　　Compassion, loss, and despair all swell in my heart,
　　and I feel a choking sense of desperation. I am going to
　　have to fight to bring him back, to bring back my Fifty.
　　have to fight to bring him back, to bring back my Fifty.
　　The thought of me dominating anyone is appalling. The
　　thought of dominating Christian is nauseating. It would
　　make me like her—the woman who did this to him.
　　I shudder at that thought, fighting the bile in my throat.
　　No way can I do that. No way do I want that.
　　As my thoughts clear, I can see only one way. Not
　　taking my eyes off his, I sink to my knees in front of him.
　　The wooden floor is hard against my shins, and I dash
　　my tears away roughly with the back of my hand.
　　Like this, we are equals. We’re on a level. This is the
　　only way I’m going to retrieve him.
　　His eyes widen fractionally as I stare up at him, but
　　beyond that his expression and stance don’t change.
　　“Christian, you don’t have to do this,” I plead. “I’m not
　　going to run. I’ve told you and told you and told you, I
　　won’t run.” All that’s happened . . . it’s overwhelming. I
　　just need some time to think . . . some time to myself. Why
　　do you always assume the worst?” My heart clenches
　　again because I know; it’s because he’s so doubting, so
　　full of self-loathing.
　　Elena’s words come back to haunt me. “Does she
　　know how negative you are about yourself? About all
　　your issues?”
　　Oh, Christian. Fear grips my heart once more and I
　　start babbling, “I was going to suggest going back to my
　　apartment this evening. You never give me any time . . .
　　time to just think things through,” I sob, and a ghost of a
　　frown crosses his face. “Just time to think. We barely
　　know each other, and all this baggage that comes with
　　you . . . I need . . . I need time to think it through. And
　　now that Leila is . . . well, whatever she is . . . she’s off the
　　streets and not a threat . . . I thought . . . I thought . . .”
　　My voice trails off and I stare at him. He regards me
　　intently and I think he’s listening
　　“Seeing you with Leila . . .” I close my eyes as the
　　painful memory of his interaction with his ex-sub gnaws at
　　me anew. “It was such a shock. I had a glimpse into how
　　your life has been . . . and . . .” I gaze down at my knotted
　　fingers, tears still trickling down my cheeks. “This is about
　　fingers, tears still trickling down my cheeks. “This is about
　　me not being good enough for you. It was an insight into
　　your life, and I am so scared you’ll get bored with me, and
　　then you’ll go . . . and I’ll end up like Leila . . . a shadow.
　　Because I love you, Christian, and if you leave me, it will
　　be like a world without light. I’ll be in darkness. I don’t
　　want to run. I’m just so frightened you’ll leave me . . .”
　　I realize as I say these words to him—in the hope that
　　he’s listening—what my real problem is. I just don’t get
　　why he likes me. I have never understood why he likes
　　me.
　　“I don’t understand why you find me attractive,” I
　　murmur. “You’re, well, you’re you . . . and I’m . . .” I
　　shrug and gaze up at him. “I just don’t see it. You’re
　　beautiful and sexy and successful and good and kind and
　　caring—all those things—and I’m not. And I can’t do the
　　things you like to do. I can’t give you what you need. How
　　could you be happy with me? How can I possibly hold
　　you?” My voice is a whisper as I express my darkest
　　fears. “I have never understood what you see in me. And
　　fears. “I have never understood what you see in me. And
　　seeing you with her, it brought all that home.” I sniff and
　　wipe my nose with the back of my hand, gazing at his
　　impassive expression.
　　Oh, he’s so exasperating. Talk to me, damn it!
　　“Are you going to kneel here all night? Because I’ll do
　　it, too,” I snap at him.
　　I think his expression softens—maybe he looks
　　vaguely amused. But it’s so hard to tell.
　　I could reach across and touch him, but this would be
　　a gross abuse of the position he’s put me in. I don’t want
　　that, but I don’t know what he wants, or what he’s trying
　　to say to me. I just don’t understand.
　　“Christian, please, please . . . talk to me,” I beseech
　　him, wringing my hands in my lap. I am uncomfortable on
　　my knees, but I continue to kneel, staring into his serious,
　　beautiful, gray eyes, and I wait.
　　And wait.
　　And wait.
　　“Please,” I beg once more.
　　His intense gaze darkens suddenly and he blinks.
　　“I was so scared,” he whispers.
　　Oh, thank the Lord! Inside, my subconscious staggers
　　back into her armchair, sagging with relief, and takes a
　　large swig of gin.
　　He’s talking! Gratitude overwhelms me, and I
　　swallow, trying to contain my emotion and the fresh bout
　　of tears that threatens.
　　His voice is soft and low. “When I saw Ethan arrive
　　outside, I knew someone had let you into your apartment.
　　Both Taylor and I leapt out of the car. We knew and to
　　see her there like that with you—and armed. I think I died
　　a thousand deaths, Ana. Someone threatening you . . . all
　　my worst fears realized. I was so angry, with her, with
　　you, with Taylor, with myself.”
　　He shakes his head revealing his agony. “I didn’t know
　　how volatile she would be. I didn’t know what to do. I
　　didn’t know how she’d react.” He stops and frowns. “And
　　then she gave me a clue; she looked so contrite. And I just
　　knew what I had to do.” He pauses, gazing at me, trying to
　　knew what I had to do.” He pauses, gazing at me, trying to
　　gauge my reaction.
　　“Go on,” I whisper.
　　He swallows. “Seeing her in that state, knowing that I
　　might have something to do with her mental
　　breakdown . . .” He closes his eyes once more. “She was
　　always so mischievous and lively.” He shudders and takes
　　a rasping breath, almost like a sob. This is torture to listen
　　to, but I kneel, attentive, lapping up this insight.
　　“She might have harmed you. And it would have been
　　my fault.” His eyes drift off, filled with uncomprehending
　　horror, and he’s silent once more.
　　“But she didn’t,” I whisper. “And you weren’t
　　responsible for her being in that state, Christian.” I blink up
　　at him, encouraging him to continue.
　　Then it dawns on me afresh that everything he did was
　　to keep me safe, and perhaps Leila, too, because he also
　　cares for her. But how much does he care for her? The
　　question lingers in my head, unwelcome. He says he loves
　　me, but then he was so harsh, throwing me out of my own
　　me, but then he was so harsh, throwing me out of my own
　　apartment.
　　“I just wanted you gone,” he murmurs, with his
　　uncanny ability to read my thoughts. “I wanted you away
　　from the danger, and . . . You. Just. Wouldn’t. Go,” he
　　hisses through clenched teeth and shakes his head. His
　　exasperation is palpable.
　　He gazes at me intently. “Anastasia Steele, you are the
　　most stubborn woman I know.” He closes his eyes and
　　shakes his head once more in disbelief.
　　Oh, he’s back. I breathe a long, cleansing sigh of
　　relief.
　　He opens his eyes again, and his expression is forlorn
　　—sincere. “You weren’t going to run?” he asks.
　　“No!”
　　He closes his eyes again and his whole body relaxes.
　　When he opens his eyes, I can see his pain and anguish.
　　“I thought—” He stops. “This is me, Ana. All of
　　me . . . and I’m all yours. What do I have to do to make
　　you realize that? To make you see that I want you any way
　　I can get you. That I love you.”
　　“I love you, too, Christian, and to see you like this
　　is . . .” I choke and my tears start afresh. “I thought I’d
　　broken you.”
　　“Broken? Me? Oh no, Ana. Just the opposite.” He
　　reaches out and takes my hand. “You’re my lifeline,” he
　　whispers, and he kisses my knuckles before pressing my
　　palm against his.
　　With his eyes wide and full of fear, he gently tugs my
　　hand and places it on his chest over his heart—in the
　　forbidden zone. His breathing quickens. His heart is
　　beating a frantic, pounding tattoo beneath my fingers. He
　　doesn’t take his eyes off mine; his jaw is tense, his teeth
　　clenched.
　　I gasp. Oh my Fifty! He’s letting me touch him. And
　　it’s like all the air in my lungs has vaporized—gone. The
　　blood is pounding in my ears as the rhythm of my heart
　　rises to match his.
　　He releases my hand, leaving it in place over his heart.
　　I flex my fingers slightly, feeling the warmth of his skin
　　I flex my fingers slightly, feeling the warmth of his skin
　　beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. He’s holding his breath.
　　I can’t bear it. I make to move my hand.
　　“No,” he says quickly and places his hand once more
　　over mine, pressing my fingers against him. “Don’t.”
　　Emboldened by these two words, I shuffle closer so
　　our knees are touching and tentatively raise my other hand
　　so that he knows exactly what I intend to do. His eyes
　　grow wider but he doesn’t stop me.
　　Gently I start to undo the buttons on his shirt. It’s
　　tricky with one hand. I flex my fingers beneath his hand
　　and he lets go, allowing me to use both hands to undo his
　　shirt. My eyes don’t leave his as I pull his shirt open,
　　revealing his chest.
　　He swallows, and his lips part as his breathing
　　increases, and I sense his rising panic, but he doesn’t pull
　　away. Is he still in sub mode? I have no idea.
　　Should I do this? I don’t want to hurt him, physically or
　　mentally. The sight of him like this, offering himself to me,
　　has been a wake-up call.
　　has been a wake-up call.
　　I reach up, and my hand hovers over his chest, and I
　　stare at him . . . asking his permission. Very subtly he tilts
　　his head to one side, steeling himself in anticipation of my
　　touch, and the tension radiates from him, but this time it’s
　　not in anger—it’s in fear.
　　I hesitate. Can I really do this to him?
　　“Yes,” he breathes—again with the weird ability to
　　answer my unspoken questions.
　　I extend my fingertips into his chest hair and lightly
　　brush them down his sternum. He closes his eyes, and his
　　face creases as if he’s experiencing intolerable pain. It’s
　　unbearable to witness, so I lift my fingers immediately, but
　　he quickly grabs my hand and replaces it firmly, flat on his
　　bare chest so that the hair tickles my palm.
　　“No,” he says, his voice strained. “I need to.”
　　His eyes are screwed up so tightly. This must be
　　agony. It’s truly tormenting to watch. Carefully I let my
　　fingers stroke across his chest to his heart, marveling at the
　　feel of him, terrified that this is a step too far.
　　He opens his eyes, and they are gray fire, blazing at
　　me.
　　Holy cow. His look is blistering, feral, beyond intense,
　　and his breathing is rapid. It stirs my blood. I squirm under
　　his gaze.
　　He hasn’t stopped me, so I run my fingertips across his
　　chest again, and his mouth goes slack. He’s panting, and I
　　don’t know if it’s from fear, or something else.
　　I’ve wanted to kiss him there for so long that I lean up

　　on my knees and hold his gaze for a moment, making my
　　intention perfectly clear. Then I bend and gently plant a
　　soft kiss above his heart, feeling his warm, sweet-smelling
　　skin beneath my lips.
　　His strangled groan moves me so much that I sit back
　　on my heels, fearful of what I’ll see on his face. His eyes
　　are screwed tightly shut, but he hasn’t moved.
　　“Again,” he whispers, and I lean into his chest once
　　more, this time to kiss one of his scars. He gasps, and I
　　kiss another and another. He groans loudly, and suddenly
　　his arms are around me, and his hand is in my hair, pulling
　　his arms are around me, and his hand is in my hair, pulling
　　my head up painfully so that my lips meet his insistent
　　mouth. And we’re kissing, my fingers knotting into his hair.
　　“Oh, Ana,” he breathes, and he twists and pulls me
　　down on to the floor so that I am underneath him. I bring
　　my hands up to cup his beautiful face, and in that moment,
　　I feel his tears.
　　He’s crying . . . no. No!
　　“Christian, please, don’t cry. I meant it when I said I’d
　　never leave you. I did. If I gave you any other impression,
　　I’m so sorry . . . please, please forgive me. I love you. I
　　will always love you.”
　　He looms over me, gazing down into my face, and his
　　expression is so pained.
　　“What is it?”
　　His eyes grow larger.
　　“What is this secret that makes you think I’ll run for the
　　hills? That makes you so determined to believe I’ll go?” I
　　plead, my voice tremulous. “Tell me, Christian,
　　please . . .”
　　please . . .”
　　He sits up, though this time he crosses his legs and I
　　follow suit, my legs outstretched. Vaguely I wonder if we
　　can get off the floor? But I don’t want to interrupt his train
　　of thought. He’s finally going to confide in me.
　　He gazes down at me, and he looks utterly desolate.
　　Oh shit—it’s bad.
　　“Ana . . .” He pauses, searching for the words, his
　　expression pained . . . Oh? Where the hell is this going?
　　He takes a deep breath and swallows. “I’m a sadist,
　　Ana. I like to whip little brown-haired girls like you
　　because you all look like the crack whore—my birth
　　mother. I’m sure you can guess why.” He says it in a rush
　　as if he’s had the sentence in his head for days and days
　　and is desperate to be rid of it.
　　My world stops. Oh no.
　　This is not what I expected. This is bad. Really bad. I
　　gaze at him, trying to understand the implication of what
　　he’s just said. It does explain why we all look the same.
　　My immediate thought is that Leila was right—“Master
　　is dark.”
　　I recall the first conversation I had with him about his
　　tendencies when we were in the Red Room of Pain.
　　“You said you weren’t a sadist,” I whisper,
　　desperately trying to understand . . . make some excuse
　　for him.
　　“No, I said I was a Dominant. If I lied to you, it was a
　　lie of omission. I’m sorry.” He looks briefly down at his
　　manicured fingernails.
　　I think he’s mortified. Mortified about lying to me? Or
　　about what he is?
　　“When you asked me that question, I had envisioned a
　　very different relationship between us,” he murmurs. I can
　　tell by his gaze that he’s terrified.
　　Then it hits me like a wrecking ball. If he’s a sadist, he
　　really needs all that whipping and caning shit. Oh fuck. I
　　put my head in my hands.
　　“So it’s true,” I whisper, glancing up at him. “I can’t
　　give you what you need.” This is it—this really does mean
　　we are incompatible.
　　we are incompatible.
　　The world starts falling away at my feet, collapsing
　　around me as panic grips my throat. This is it. We can’t do
　　this.
　　He frowns. “No, No, No. Ana. No. You can. You do
　　give me what I need.” He clenches his fists. “Please
　　believe me,” he murmurs, his words an impassioned plea.
　　“I don’t know what to believe, Christian. This is so
　　fucked-up,” I whisper, my throat hoarse and aching as it
　　closes in, choking me with unshed tears.
　　His eyes are wide and luminous when he looks at me
　　again.
　　“Ana, believe me. After I punished you and you left
　　me, my worldview changed. I wasn’t joking when I said I
　　would avoid ever feeling like that again.” He gazes at me
　　with pained entreaty. “When you said you loved me, it was
　　a revelation. No one’s ever said it to me before, and it was
　　as if I’d laid something to rest—or maybe you’d laid it to
　　rest, I don’t know. Dr. Flynn and I are still in deep
　　discussion about it.”
　　discussion about it.”
　　Oh. Hope flares briefly in my heart. Perhaps we’ll be
　　okay. I want us to be okay. Don’t I? “What does that all
　　mean?” I whisper.
　　“It means I don’t need it. Not now.”
　　What? “How do you know? How can you be so
　　sure?”
　　“I just know. The thought of hurting you . . . in any real
　　way . . . it’s abhorrent to me.”
　　“I don’t understand. What about rulers and spanking
　　and all that kinky fuckery?”
　　He runs a hand through his hair and almost smiles but
　　instead sighs ruefully. “I’m talking about the heavy shit,
　　Anastasia. You should see what I can do with a cane or a
　　cat.”
　　My mouth drops open, stunned. “I’d rather not.”
　　“I know. If you wanted to do that, then fine . . . but
　　you don’t and I get it. I can’t do all that shit with you if you
　　don’t want to. I told you once before, you have all the
　　power. And now, since you came back, I don’t feel that
　　compulsion, at all.”
　　I gape at him for a moment trying to take this all in.
　　“When we met, that’s what you wanted, though?”
　　“Yes, undoubtedly.”
　　“How can your compulsion just go, Christian? Like
　　I’m some kind of panacea, and you’re—for want of a
　　better word—cured? I don’t get it.”
　　He sighs once more. “I wouldn’t say cured . . . You
　　don’t believe me?”
　　“I just find it—unbelievable. Which is different.”
　　“If you’d never left me, then I probably wouldn’t feel
　　this way. You walking out on me was the best thing you
　　ever did . . . for us. It made me realize how much I want
　　you, just you, and I mean it when I say I’ll take you any
　　way I can have you.”
　　I gaze at him. Can I believe this? My head hurts just
　　trying to think this all through, and deep down I feel . . .
　　numb.
　　“You’re still here. I thought you would be out of the
　　door by now,” he whispers.
　　door by now,” he whispers.
　　“Why? Because I might think you’re a sicko for
　　whipping and fucking women who look like your mother?
　　Whatever would give you that impression?” I hiss at him,
　　lashing out.
　　He blanches at my harsh words.
　　“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but yes,”
　　he says, his eyes wide and hurt.
　　His expression is sobering and I regret my outburst. I
　　frown, feeling a pang of guilt.
　　Oh, what am I going to do? I gaze at him and he looks
　　contrite, sincere . . . he looks like my Fifty.
　　And unbidden I recall the photograph in his childhood
　　bedroom, and in that moment realize why the woman in it
　　looked so familiar. She looked like him. She must have
　　been his biological mother.
　　His easy dismissal of her comes to mind: No one of
　　consequence . . . She’s responsible for all this . . . and I
　　look like her . . . Fuck!
　　He stares at me, eyes raw, and I know he’s waiting for
　　He stares at me, eyes raw, and I know he’s waiting for
　　my next move. He seems genuine. He’s said he loves me,
　　but I’m really confused.
　　This is all so fucked-up. He’s reassured me about
　　Leila, but now I know with more certainty than ever how
　　she was able to give him his kicks. The thought is wearying
　　and unpalatable. I am so tired of all this.
　　“Christian, I’m exhausted. Can we discuss this
　　tomorrow? I want to go to bed.”
　　He blinks at me in surprise. “You’re not going?”
　　“Do you want me to go?”
　　“No! I thought you would leave once you knew.”
　　All the times he’s alluded to me leaving once I knew
　　his darkest secrets flash through my mind . . . and now I
　　know. Shit. Master is dark.
　　Should I leave? I gaze at him, this crazy man that I
　　love, yes love.
　　Can I leave him? I left him once before, and it nearly
　　broke me . . . and him. I love him. I know that in spite of
　　this revelation.
　　“Don’t leave me,” he whispers.
　　“Oh, for crying out loud—no! I am not doing to go!” I
　　shout and it’s cathartic. There, I’ve said it. I am not
　　leaving.
　　“Really?” His eyes widen.
　　“What can I do to make you understand I will not run?
　　What can I say?”
　　He gazes at me, revealing his fear and anguish again.
　　He swallows. “There is one thing you can do.”
　　“What?” I snap.
　　“Marry me,” he whispers.
　　What? Did he really just—
　　For the second time in less than half an hour my world
　　stops.
　　Holy fuck. I stare at the deeply fucked-up man I love.
　　I can’t believe what he’s just said.
　　Marriage? He’s proposing marriage? Is he kidding? I
　　can’t help it—a small, nervous, disbelieving giggle erupts
　　from deep inside. I bite my lip to stop it from turning into
　　full-scale hysterical laughter and fail miserably. I lie back
　　full-scale hysterical laughter and fail miserably. I lie back
　　flat on the floor and surrender myself to the laughter,
　　laughing as I’ve never laughed before, huge healing
　　cathartic howls of laughter.
　　And for a moment I am on my own, looking down at
　　this absurd situation, a giggling, overwhelmed girl beside a
　　beautiful fucked-up boy. I drape my arm across my eyes,
　　as my laughter turns to scalding tears. No, no . . . this is
　　too much.
　　As the hysteria subsides, Christian gently lifts my arm
　　off my face. I turn and gaze up at him.
　　He’s leaning over me. His mouth is twisted with wry
　　amusement, but his eyes are a burning gray, maybe
　　wounded. Oh no.
　　He gently wipes away a stray tear with the back of his
　　knuckles. “You find my proposal amusing, Miss Steele?”
　　Oh, Fifty! Reaching up, I caress his cheek tenderly,
　　enjoying the feel of the stubble beneath my fingers. Lord, I
　　love this man.
　　“Mr. Grey . . . Christian. Your sense of timing is
　　“Mr. Grey . . . Christian. Your sense of timing is
　　without doubt . . .” I gaze up at him as words fail me.
　　He smirks at me, but the crinkling around his eyes
　　shows me that he’s hurt. It’s sobering.
　　“You’re cutting me to the quick here, Ana. Will you
　　marry me?”
　　I sit up and lean over him, placing my hands on his
　　knees. I stare into his lovely face. “Christian, I’ve met your
　　psycho ex with a gun, been thrown out of my apartment,
　　had you go thermonuclear Fifty on me—”
　　He opens his mouth to speak, but I hold up my hand.
　　He obediently shuts his mouth.
　　“You’ve just revealed some, quite frankly, shocking
　　information about yourself, and now you’ve asked me to
　　marry you.”
　　He moves his head from side to side as if considering
　　the facts. He’s amused. Thank heavens.
　　“Yes, I think that’s a fair and accurate summary of the
　　situation,” he says dryly.
　　I shake my head at him. “Whatever happened to
　　delayed gratification?”
　　“I got over it, and I’m now a firm advocate of instant
　　gratification. Carpe diem, Ana,” he whispers.
　　“Look Christian, I’ve known you for about three
　　minutes, and there’s so much more I need to know. I’ve
　　had too much to drink, I’m hungry, I’m tired, and I want
　　to go to bed. I need to consider your proposal just as I
　　considered that contract you gave me. And”—I press my
　　lips together to show my displeasure but also to lighten the
　　mood between us—“that wasn’t the most romantic
　　proposal.”
　　He tilts his head to one side and his lips quirk up in a
　　smile. “Fair point well made, as ever, Miss Steele,” he
　　breathes, his voice laced with relief. “So that’s not a no?”
　　I sigh. “No, Mr. Grey, it’s not a no, but it’s not a yes
　　either. You’re only doing this because you’re scared, and
　　you don’t trust me.”
　　“No, I’m doing this because I’ve finally met someone I
　　want to spend the rest of my life with.”
　　Oh. My heart skips a beat and inside I melt. How is it
　　Oh. My heart skips a beat and inside I melt. How is it
　　that in the middle of the most fucked-up situations he can

　　say the most romantic things? My mouth pops open in
　　shock.
　　“I never thought that would happen to me,” he
　　continues, his expression radiating pure undiluted sincerity.
　　I gape at him, searching for the right words.
　　“Can I think about it . . . please? And think about
　　everything else that’s happened today? What you’ve just
　　told me? You asked for patience and faith. Well, back at
　　you, Grey. I need those now.”
　　His eyes search mine and after a beat, he leans
　　forward and tucks my hair behind my ear.
　　“I can live with that.” He kisses me quickly on the lips.
　　“Not very romantic, eh?” He raises his eyebrows, and I
　　give him an admonishing shake of my head. “Hearts and
　　flowers?” he asks softly.
　　I nod and he gives me a slight smile.
　　“You’re hungry?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“Yes.”
　　“You didn’t eat.” His eyes frost and his jaw hardens.
　　“No, I didn’t eat.” I sit back on my heels and regard
　　him passively. “Being thrown out of my apartment after
　　witnessing my boyfriend interacting intimately with his exsubmissive
　　considerably suppressed my appetite.” I glare
　　at him and fist my hands on my hips.
　　Christian shakes his head and rises gracefully to his
　　feet. Oh, finally we can get off the floor. He holds his
　　hand out to me.
　　“Let me fix you something to eat,” he says.
　　“Can’t I just go to bed?” I mutter wearily as I place my
　　hand in his.
　　He pulls me up. I am stiff. He gazes down at me, his
　　expression soft.
　　“No, you need to eat. Come.” Bossy Christian is back,
　　and it’s a relief.
　　He leads me to the kitchen area and ushers me toward
　　a bar stool as he heads to the fridge. I glance at my watch.
　　Jeez, nearly eleven thirty and I have to get up for work in
　　the morning.
　　“Christian, I’m really not hungry.”
　　He studiously ignores me as he ferrets through the
　　enormous fridge. “Cheese?” he asks.
　　“Not at this hour.”
　　“Pretzels?”
　　“In the fridge? No,” I snap.
　　He turns and grins at me. “You don’t like pretzels?”
　　“Not at eleven thirty. Christian, I’m going to bed. You
　　can rummage around in your refrigerator for the rest of the
　　night if you want. I’m tired, and I’ve had far too interesting
　　a day. A day I’d like to forget.” I slide off the stool and he
　　scowls at me, but right now I don’t care. I want to go to
　　bed—I’m exhausted.
　　“Macaroni and cheese?” He holds up a white bowl
　　lidded with foil. He looks so hopeful and endearing.
　　“You like macaroni and cheese?” I ask.
　　He nods enthusiastically, and my heart melts. He looks
　　so young all of a sudden. Who would have thought?
　　Christian Grey likes nursery food.
　　Christian Grey likes nursery food.
　　“You want some?” he asks, sounding hopeful. I can’t
　　resist him and I’m hungry.
　　I nod and give him a weak smile. His answering grin is
　　breathtaking. He takes the foil off the bowl and pops it into
　　the microwave. I perch back on the stool and watch the
　　beauty that is Mr. Christian Grey—the man who wants to
　　marry me—move gracefully and with ease around his
　　kitchen.
　　“So you know how to use the microwave then?” I
　　tease softly.
　　“If it’s in a packet, I can usually do something with it.
　　It’s real food I have a problem with.”
　　I cannot believe this is the same man who was on his
　　knees in front of me not half an hour before. He’s his usual
　　mercurial self. He sets out plates, cutlery, and placemats
　　on the breakfast bar.
　　“It’s very late,” I mutter.
　　“Don’t go to work tomorrow.”
　　“I have to go to work tomorrow. My boss is leaving
　　“I have to go to work tomorrow. My boss is leaving
　　for New York.”
　　Christian frowns. “Do you want to go there this
　　weekend?”
　　“I checked the weather forecast, and it looks like rain,”
　　I say, shaking my head.
　　“Oh, so what do you want to do?”
　　The microwave’s ping announces that our supper is
　　warmed through.
　　“I just want to get through one day at a time at the
　　moment. All this excitement is . . . tiring.” I raise an
　　eyebrow at him, which he judiciously ignores.
　　Christian places the white bowl in between our place
　　settings and takes his seat beside me. He looks deep in
　　thought, distracted. I dish the macaroni onto our plates. It
　　smells divine, and my mouth waters in anticipation. I am
　　famished.
　　“Sorry about Leila,” he murmurs.
　　“Why are you sorry?” Mmm, the macaroni tastes as
　　good as it smells. My stomach grumbles gratefully.
　　“It must have been a terrible shock for you, finding her
　　in your apartment. Taylor swept it earlier himself. He’s
　　very upset.”
　　“I don’t blame Taylor.”
　　“Neither do I. He’s been out looking for you.”
　　“Really? Why?”
　　“I didn’t know where you were. You left your purse,
　　your phone. I couldn’t even track you. Where did you
　　go?” he asks. His voice is soft, but there’s an ominous
　　undercurrent to his words.
　　“Ethan and I just went to a bar across the street. So I
　　could watch what was happening.”
　　“I see.” The atmosphere between us has changed
　　subtly. It’s no longer light.
　　Okay, well . . . two can play that game. Let’s just
　　bring this back to you, Fifty. Trying to sound nonchalant,
　　wanting to assuage my burning curiosity but dreading the
　　answer, I ask, “So what did you do with Leila in the
　　apartment?”
　　I glance up at him, and he freezes with his forkful of
　　I glance up at him, and he freezes with his forkful of
　　macaroni suspended in midair. Oh no, that’s not good.
　　“You really want to know?”
　　A knot tightens in my gut and my appetite vanishes.
　　“Yes,” I whisper. Do you? Do you really? My
　　subconscious has thrown her empty bottle of gin on the
　　floor and is sitting up in her armchair, glaring at me in
　　horror.
　　Christian’s mouth flattens into a line, and he hesitates.
　　“We talked, and I gave her a bath.” His voice is hoarse,
　　and he continues quickly when I make no response. “And
　　I dressed her in some of your clothes. I hope you don’t
　　mind. But she was filthy.”
　　Holy fuck. He bathed her?
　　What an inappropriate thing to do. I’m reeling, staring
　　down at my uneaten macaroni. The sight of it now makes
　　me nauseous.
　　Try to rationalize this, my subconscious coaches. That
　　cool, intellectual part of my brain knows that he just did
　　that because she was dirty, but it’s too hard. My fragile
　　that because she was dirty, but it’s too hard. My fragile
　　jealous self can’t bear it.
　　Suddenly I want to cry—not succumb to ladylike tears
　　that trickle decorously down my cheeks, but howling at the
　　moon crying. I take a deep breath to suppress the urge,
　　but my throat is arid and uncomfortable from my unshed
　　tears and sobs.
　　“It was all I could do, Ana,” he says softly.
　　“You still have feelings for her?”
　　“No!” he says, appalled, and closes his eyes, his
　　expression one of anguish. I turn away, staring once more
　　at my nauseating food. I can’t bear to look at him.
　　“To see her like that—so different, so broken. I care
　　about her, one human being to another.” He shrugs as if to
　　shake off an unpleasant memory. Jeez, is he expecting my
　　sympathy?
　　“Ana, look at me.”
　　I can’t. I know that if I do, I will burst into tears. This
　　is just too much to absorb. I’m like an overflowing tank of
　　gasoline—full, beyond capacity. There is no room for any
　　more. I simply cannot cope with any more crap. I will
　　combust and explode, and it will be ugly if I try. Jeez!
　　Christian caring for his ex-sub in such an intimate
　　fashion—the image flashes through my brain. Bathing her,
　　for fuck’s sake—naked. A harsh, painful shudder wracks
　　my body.
　　“Ana.”
　　“What?”
　　“Don’t. It doesn’t mean anything. It was like caring for
　　a child, a broken, shattered child,” he mutters.
　　What the hell would he know about caring for a child?
　　This was a woman he had a very full-on, deviant sexual
　　relationship with.
　　Oh, this hurts. I take a deep, steadying breath. Or
　　perhaps he’s referring to himself. He’s the broken child.
　　That makes more sense . . . or maybe it makes no sense at
　　all. Oh, this is so fucked-up, and suddenly I’m bone
　　crushingly tired. I need sleep.
　　“Ana?”
　　I stand, take my plate to the sink, and scrape the
　　I stand, take my plate to the sink, and scrape the
　　contents into the trash.
　　“Ana, please.”
　　I whirl around and face him. “Just stop, Christian! Just
　　stop with the ‘Ana, please’!” I shout at him, and my tears
　　start to trickle down my face. “I’ve had enough of all this
　　shit today. I am going to bed. I am tired and emotional.
　　Now let me be.”
　　I turn on my heel and practically run to the bedroom,
　　taking with me the memory of his wide-eyed, shocked
　　stare. Nice to know I can shock him, too. I strip out of my
　　clothes in double-quick time, and after rifling through his
　　chest of drawers, drag on one of his T-shirts and head for
　　the bathroom.
　　I gaze at myself in the mirror, hardly recognizing the
　　gaunt, pink-eyed, blotchy-cheeked harridan staring back
　　at me, and it’s too much. I sink to the floor and surrender
　　to the overwhelming emotion I can no longer contain,
　　sobbing huge chest-wrenching sobs, finally letting my tears
　　flow unrestrained.
　　flow unrestrained.
　　“Hey,” Christian’s says gently as he pulls me into his arms,
　　“please don’t cry, Ana, please,” he begs. He’s on the
　　bathroom floor, and I am in his lap. I put my arms around
　　him and weep into his neck. Cooing softly into my hair, he
　　gently strokes my back, my head.
　　“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers, and that makes me cry
　　harder and hug him tighter.
　　We sit like this forever. Eventually, when I’m all cried
　　out, Christian staggers to his feet, holding me, and carries
　　me into his room where he lays me down in the bed. In a
　　few moments, he’s beside me and the lights are off. He
　　pulls me into his arms, hugging me tightly, and I finally drift
　　off into a dark and troubled sleep.
　　I awake with a jolt. My head is fuzzy and I’m too
　　warm. Christian is wrapped around me like a vine. He
　　grumbles in his sleep as I slip out of his arms, but he
　　doesn’t wake. Sitting up I glance at the alarm clock. It’s
　　three in the morning. I need an Advil and a drink. I swing
　　three in the morning. I need an Advil and a drink. I swing
　　my legs out of bed and make my way to the kitchen in the
　　great room.
　　In the fridge, I find a carton of orange juice and pour
　　myself a glass. Hmm . . . it’s delicious, and my fuzzy head
　　eases immediately. I hunt through the cupboards looking
　　for some painkillers and eventually come across a plastic
　　box full of meds. I sink two Advil and pour myself another
　　orange juice.
　　Wandering to the great wall of glass, I look out on a
　　sleeping Seattle. The lights twinkle and wink beneath
　　Christian’s castle in the sky, or should I say fortress? I
　　press my forehead against the cool window—it’s a relief. I
　　have so much to think about after all the revelations of
　　yesterday. I place my back against the glass and slide
　　down onto the floor. The great room is cavernous in the
　　dark, the only light coming from the three lamps above the
　　kitchen island.
　　Could I live here, married to Christian? After all that
　　he’s done here? All the history this place holds for him?
　　Marriage. It’s almost unbelievable and completely
　　unexpected. But then everything about Christian is
　　unexpected. My lips quirk up with irony. Christian Grey,
　　expect the unexpected—Fifty Shades of Fucked-Up.
　　My smile fades. I look like his mother. This wounds
　　me, deeply, and the air leaves my lungs in a rush. We all
　　look like his mom.
　　How the hell do I move on from the disclosure of that
　　little secret? No wonder he didn’t want to tell me. But
　　surely he can’t remember much of his mother. I wonder
　　surely he can’t remember much of his mother. I wonder
　　once more, if I should talk to Dr. Flynn. Would Christian
　　let me? Perhaps he could fill in the gaps.
　　I shake my head. I feel world weary, but I’m enjoying
　　the calm serenity of the great room and its beautiful works
　　of art—cold and austere, but in their own way, still
　　beautiful in the shadows and surely worth a fortune. Could

　　I live here? For better, for worse? In sickness and in
　　health? I close my eyes, lean my head back against the
　　glass, and take a deep, cleansing breath.
　　The peaceful tranquility is shattered by a visceral,
　　primeval cry that makes every single hair on my body
　　stand to attention. Christian! Holy fuck—what’s
　　happened? I am on my feet, running back to the bedroom
　　before the echoes of that horrible sound have died away,
　　my heart thumping with fear.
　　I flip one of the light switches, and Christian’s bedside
　　light comes to life. He’s tossing and turning, writhing in
　　agony. No! He cries out again, and the eerie, devastating
　　sound lances through me anew.
　　Shit—a nightmare!
　　“Christian!” I lean over him, grab his shoulders, and
　　shake him awake. He opens his eyes, and they are wild
　　and vacant, scanning quickly round the empty room before
　　coming back to rest on me.
　　“You left, you left, you must have left,” he mumbles—
　　his wide-eyed stare becoming accusatory—and he looks
　　so lost, it wrenches at my heart. Poor Fifty.
　　“I’m here.” I sit down on the bed beside him. “I’m
　　here,” I murmur softly in an effort to reassure him. I reach
　　here,” I murmur softly in an effort to reassure him. I reach
　　out to place my palm on the side of his face, trying to
　　soothe him.
　　“You were gone,” he whispers rapidly. His eyes are
　　still wild and frightened, but he seems to be calming.
　　“I went to get a drink. I was thirsty.”
　　He closes his eyes and rubs his face. When he opens
　　them again, he looks so desolate.
　　“You’re here. Oh, thank God.” He reaches for me,
　　and grabbing me tightly, he pulls me down on the bed
　　beside him.
　　“I just went for a drink,” I murmur.
　　Oh, the intensity of his fear . . . I can feel it. His Tshirt
　　is drenched in sweat, and his heartbeat is pounding as
　　he hugs me close. He’s gazing at me as if reassuring
　　himself that I am really here. I gently stroke his hair and
　　then his cheek.
　　“Christian, please. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,”
　　I say soothingly.
　　“Oh, Ana,” he breathes. He grasps my chin to hold me
　　in place, and then his mouth is on mine. Desire sweeps
　　through him, and unbidden my body responds—it’s so tied
　　and attuned to him. His lips are at my ear, my throat, then
　　back at my mouth, his teeth gently pulling at my lower lip,
　　his hand traveling up my body from my hip to my breast,
　　dragging my T-shirt up. Caressing me, feeling his way
　　through the dips and shallows of my skin, he elicits the
　　same familiar reaction, his touch sending shivers through
　　me. I moan as his hand cups my breast and his fingers
　　tighten over my nipple.
　　tighten over my nipple.
　　“I want you,” he murmurs.
　　“I’m here for you. Only you, Christian.”
　　He groans and kisses me once more, passionately,
　　with a fervor and desperation I’ve not felt from him before.
　　Grabbing the hem of his T-shirt, I tug and he helps me pull
　　it off over his head. Kneeling between my legs, he hastily
　　pulls me upright and drags my T-shirt off.
　　His eyes are serious, wanting, full of dark secrets—
　　exposed. He folds his hands around my face and kisses
　　me, and we sink down into the bed once more, his thigh
　　between both of mine so that he’s half-lying on top of me.
　　His erection is rigid against my hip through his boxer briefs.
　　He wants me, but his words from earlier choose this
　　moment to come back and haunt me, what he said about
　　his mother. And it’s like a bucket of cold water on my
　　libido. Fuck. I can’t do this. Not now.
　　“Christian . . . Stop. I can’t do this,” I whisper urgently
　　against his mouth, my hands pushing on his upper arms.
　　“What? What’s wrong?” he murmurs and starts kissing
　　my neck, running the tip of his tongue lightly down my
　　throat. Oh . . .
　　“No, please. I can’t do this, not now. I need some
　　time, please.”
　　“Oh, Ana, don’t overthink this,” he whispers as he nips
　　my earlobe.
　　“Ah!” I gasp, feeling it in my groin, and my body bows,
　　betraying me. This is so confusing.
　　“I am just the same, Ana. I love you and I need you.
　　Touch me. Please.” He rubs his nose against mine, and his
　　Touch me. Please.” He rubs his nose against mine, and his
　　quiet heartfelt plea moves me and I melt.
　　Touch him. Touch him while we make love. Oh my.
　　He rears up over me, gazing down, and in the half-light
　　from the dimmed bedside light, I can tell that he’s waiting,
　　waiting for my decision, and he’s caught in my spell.
　　I reach up and tentatively place my hand on the soft
　　patch of hair over his sternum. He gasps and scrunches his
　　eyes closed as if in pain, but I don’t take my hand away
　　this time. I move it up to his shoulders, feeling the tremor
　　run through him. He groans, and I pull him down to me
　　and place both my hands on his back, where I’ve never
　　touched him before, on his shoulder blades, holding him to
　　me. His strangled moan arouses me like nothing else.
　　He buries his head in my neck, kissing and sucking and
　　biting me, before trailing his nose up my chin and kissing
　　me, his tongue possessing my mouth, his hands moving
　　over my body once more. His lips move down . . .
　　down . . . down to my breasts, worshipping as they go,
　　and my hands stay on his shoulders and his back, enjoying
　　the flex and ripple of his finely honed muscles, his skin still
　　damp from his nightmare. His lips close over my nipple,
　　pulling and tugging, so that it rises to greet his glorious
　　skilled mouth.
　　I groan and run my fingernails across his back. And he
　　gasps, a strangled moan.
　　“Oh, fuck, Ana,” he chokes, and it’s half cry, half
　　groan. It tears at my heart, but also deep inside me,
　　tightening all the muscles below my waist. Oh, what I can
　　do to him! My inner goddess is writhing with want and I’m
　　do to him! My inner goddess is writhing with want and I’m
　　panting now, matching his tortured breaths with my own.
　　His hand travels south, over my belly, down to my sex
　　—and his fingers are on me, then in me. I groan as he
　　moves his fingers around inside me, in that way, and I push
　　my pelvis up to welcome his touch.
　　“Ana,” he breathes. He suddenly releases me and sits
　　up; he removes his boxer briefs and leans over to the
　　bedside table to grab a foil packet. His eyes are a blazing
　　gray as he passes me the condom. “You want to do this?
　　You can still say no. You can always say no,” he murmurs.
　　“Don’t give me a chance to think, Christian. I want
　　you, too.” I rip the packet open with my teeth as he kneels
　　between my legs, and with trembling fingers I slide it on to
　　him.
　　“Steady,” he says. “You are going to unman me, Ana.”
　　I marvel at what I can do to this man with my touch.
　　He stretches out over me, and for now my doubts are
　　pushed down and locked away in the dark, scary depths
　　at the back of my mind. I’m intoxicated with this man, my
　　man, my Fifty Shades. He shifts suddenly, completely
　　taking me by surprise, so I am on top. Whoa.
　　“You—take me,” he murmurs, his eyes glowing with a
　　feral intensity.
　　Oh my, and slowly, oh-so-slowly, I sink down on to
　　him. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes as he
　　groans. I grab his hands and start to move, reveling in the
　　fullness of my possession, reveling in his reaction, watching
　　him unravel beneath me. I feel like a goddess. I lean down
　　and kiss his chin, running my teeth along his stubbled jaw.
　　He tastes delicious. He clasps my hips and steadies my
　　rhythm, slow and easy.
　　“Ana, touch me . . . please.”
　　Oh. I lean forward and steady myself with my hands
　　on his chest. And he calls out, his cry almost a sob, and he
　　thrusts deep inside me.
　　“Ahh,” I whimper and run my fingernails gently over his
　　chest, through the hair there, and he groans loudly and
　　twists abruptly so I am once more beneath him.
　　“Enough.” He moans. “No more, please.” And it’s a
　　heartfelt plea.
　　Reaching up, I clasp his face in my hands, feeling the
　　dampness on his cheeks, and pull him down to my lips so
　　that I can kiss him. I curl my hands around his back.
　　He groans deep and low in his throat as he moves
　　inside me, pushing me onward and upward, but I can’t find
　　my release. My head is too cloudy, cloudy with issues. I
　　am too wrapped up in him.
　　“Let go, Ana,” he urges me.
　　“No.”
　　“Yes,” he snarls. He shifts slightly and gyrates his hips,
　　again and again.
　　Jeez . . . argh!
　　“Come on baby, I need this. Give it to me.”
　　And I explode, my body a slave to his, and wrap
　　myself around him, clinging to him like a vine as he cries
　　out my name, and climaxes with me, then collapses, his full
　　weight pressing me into the mattress.
　　I cradle Christian in my arms, his head on my chest, as we
　　lie in the afterglow of our lovemaking. I run my fingers
　　through his hair as I listen to his breathing return to normal.
　　“Don’t ever leave me,” he whispers, and I roll my eyes
　　in the full knowledge that he can’t see me.
　　“I know you’re rolling your eyes at me,” he murmurs,
　　and I hear the trace of humor in his voice.
　　“You know me well,” I murmur.
　　“I’d like to know you better.”
　　“Back at you, Grey. What was your nightmare about?”
　　“The usual.”
　　“Tell me.”
　　He swallows and tenses before he sighs, a long drawnout
　　sigh. “I must be about three, and the crack whore’s
　　pimp is mad as hell again. He smokes and smokes, one
　　cigarette after another, and he can’t find an ashtray.” He
　　stops, and I freeze as a creeping chill grips my heart.
　　“It hurt,” he says, “It’s the pain I remember. That’s
　　what gives me nightmares. That and the fact that she did
　　nothing to stop him.”
　　Oh no. This is unbearable. I tighten my grip around
　　him, my legs and arms holding him to me, and I try not to
　　let my despair choke me. How could anyone treat a child
　　like that? He raises his head and pins me with his intense
　　gray gaze.
　　“You’re not like her. Don’t ever think that. Please.”
　　I blink back at him. It’s very reassuring to hear. He
　　I blink back at him. It’s very reassuring to hear. He
　　puts his head on my chest again, and I think he’s finished,
　　but he surprises me by continuing.
　　“Sometimes in the dreams she’s just lying on the floor.
　　And I think she’s asleep. But she doesn’t move. She never
　　moves. And I’m hungry. Really hungry.”
　　Oh fuck.
　　“There’s a loud noise and he’s back, and he hits me so
　　hard, cursing the crack whore. His first reaction was
　　always to use his fists or his belt.”
　　“Is that why you don’t like to be touched?”
　　He closes his eyes and hugs me tighter. “That’s
　　complicated,” he murmurs. He nuzzles me between my
　　breasts, inhaling deeply, trying to distract me.
　　“Tell me,” I prompt.
　　He sighs. “She didn’t love me. I didn’t love me. The
　　only touch I knew was . . . harsh. It stemmed from there.
　　Flynn explains it better than I can.”
　　“Can I see Flynn?”
　　He raises his head to look at me. “Fifty Shades rubbing
　　off on you?”
　　“And then some. I like how it’s rubbing off at the
　　moment.” I wriggle provocatively underneath him and he
　　smiles.
　　“Yes, Miss Steele, I like that, too.” He leans up and
　　kisses me. He gazes at me for a moment.
　　“You are so precious to me, Ana. I was serious about
　　marrying you. We can get to know each other then. I can
　　look after you. You can look after me. We can have kids
　　if you want. I will lay my world at your feet, Anastasia. I
　　if you want. I will lay my world at your feet, Anastasia. I
　　want you, body and soul, forever. Please think about it.”
　　“I will think about it, Christian. I will,” I reassure him,
　　reeling once more. Kids? Jeez. “I’d really like to talk to
　　Dr. Flynn, though, if you don’t mind.”
　　“Anything for you, baby. Anything. When would you
　　like to see him?”
　　“Sooner rather than later.”
　　“Okay. I’ll make the arrangements in the morning.” He
　　glances at the clock. “It’s late. We should sleep.” He shifts
　　to switch off his bedside light and pulls me against him.
　　I glance at the alarm clock. Crap, it’s three forty-five.
　　He curls his arms around me, his front to my back, and
　　nuzzles my neck. “I love you, Ana Steele, and I want you
　　by my side, always,” he murmurs as he kisses my neck.
　　“Now go to sleep.”