(Fifty Shades #3) Fifty Shades Freed by E.L. James

Chapter Twenty-One

I gape at the text then look up at the sleeping form of my husband. He's been out until one thirty in the morning drinking—with her! He snores softly, sleeping the sleep of a seemingly innocent, oblivious drunk. He looks so serene.

Oh no, no, no. My legs turn to jelly, and I sink slowly to the chair beside the bed in disbelief. Raw, bitter, humiliating betrayal lances through me. How could he? How could he go to her? Scalding, angry tears ooze down my cheeks. His wrath and fear, his need to lash out at me I can understand, and forgive—just. But this . . . this treachery is too much. I pull my knees up against my chest and wrap my arms around them, protecting me and protecting my Little Blip. I rock to and fro, weeping softly.

What did I expect? I married this man too quickly. I knew it—I knew it would come to this. Why. Why. Why? How could he do this to me? He knows how I feel about that woman. How could he turn to her? How? The knife twists slowly and painfully deep in my heart, lacerating me. Will it always be this way?

Through my tears, his prostrate figure blurs and shimmers. Oh, Christian. I married him because I love him, and deep down I know that he loves me. I know he does. His achingly sweet birthday present comes to mind.

For all our firsts on your first birthday as my beloved wife. I love you. C x No, no, no—I can't believe that it will always be this way, two steps forward and three steps back. But that's how it's always been with him. After each set-back, we move forward, inch by inch. He will come around . . . he will. But will I? Will I recover from this . . . from this treachery? I think about how he's been this last, horrible, wonderful weekend. His quiet strength while my stepdad lay broken and comatose in the ICU . . . my surprise party, bringing my family and friends together . . . dipping me down low outside the Heathman and kissing me in full public view. Oh, Christian, you strain all my trust, all my faith . . . and I love you.

But it's not just me now. I place my hand on my belly. No, I will not let him do this to me and our Blip. Dr. Flynn said I should give him the benefit of the doubt—well, not this time. I dash the tears from my eyes and wipe my nose with the back of my hand.

Christian stirs and rolls over, pulling his legs up from the side of the bed, and curls up beneath the duvet. He stretches out a hand as if searching for something, then grumbles and frowns but settles back to sleep, his arm outstretched.

Oh, Fifty. What am I going to do with you? And what the hell were you doing with the Bitch Troll? I need to know.

I glance once more at the offending text and quickly hatch a plan. Taking a deep breath, I forward the text to my BlackBerry. Step one complete. I quickly check the other recent texts, but can only see messages from Elliot, Andrea, Taylor, Ros, and me. None from Elena. Good, I think. I exit the text screen, relieved that he hasn't been texting her, and my heart lurches into my throat. Oh my.

The wallpaper on his phone is photograph upon photograph of me, a patchwork of tiny Anastasias in various poses—our honeymoon, our recent weekend sailing and soaring, and a few of José's photos, too. When did he do this? It must have been recently.

I notice his e-mail icon, and an idea slithers enticingly into my mind . . . I could read Christian's e-mails. See if he's been talking to her. Should I? Sheathed in jade-green silk, my inner goddess nods emphatically, her mouth set in a scowl.

Before I can stop myself, I invade his privacy.

There are hundreds and hundreds of e-mails. I spin down through them, and they look dull as ditchwater . . . mostly from Ros, Andrea and me, and various executives in his company. None from Bitch Troll. While I'm at it, I'm relieved to see there are none from Leila either.

One e-mail catches my eye. It's from Barney Sullivan, Christian's IT guy, and the subject line is: Jack Hyde. I glance guiltily at Christian, but he's still snoring gently. I've never heard him snore. I open the e-mail.

From: Barney Sullivan

Subject: Jack Hyde

Date: September 13, 2011 14:09

To: Christian Grey

CCTV around Seattle tracks the white van from South Irving Street. Before that I can find no trace, so Hyde must have been based in that area.

As Welch has told you the unsub car was rented with a false license by an unknown female, though nothing that ties it to the South Irving Street area.

Details of known GEH and SIP employees who live in the area are in the attached file, which I have forwarded to Welch, too.

There was nothing on Hyde's SIP computer about his former PAs.

As a reminder, here is a list of what was retrieved from Hyde's SIP computer.

Greys' Home Addresses:

Five properties in Seattle

Two properties in Detroit

Detailed Resumés for:

Carrick Grey

Elliot Grey

Christian Grey

Dr. Grace Trevelyan

Anastasia Steele

Mia Grey

Newspaper and online articles relating to:

Dr. Grace Trevelyan

Carrick Grey

Christian Grey

Elliot Grey

Photographs:

Carrick Grey

Dr. Grace Trevelyan

Christian Grey

Elliot Grey

Mia Grey

I'll continue my investigation, see what else I can find.

B Sullivan

Head of IT, GEH

This odd e-mail momentarily sidetracks me from my night of woe. I click on the attachment to check through the names on the list, but it's obviously huge, too big to open on the BlackBerry.

What am I doing? It's late. I've had a tiring day. There are no e-mails from the Bitch Troll or Leila Williams, and I take some cold comfort from that. I glance quickly at the alarm clock: it's just after two in the morning. Today has been a day of revelations. I am to be a mother, and my husband has been fraternizing with the enemy. Well, let him stew. I am not sleeping here with him. He can wake up alone tomorrow. After placing his BlackBerry on the bedside table, I retrieve my purse from beside the bed and, after one last look at my angelic, sleeping Judas, I leave the bedroom.

The spare playroom key is in its usual place in the cabinet in the utility room.

I grab it and scoot upstairs. From the linen closet, I retrieve a pillow, duvet and sheet, then unlock the playroom door and enter, switching the lights to dim. Odd that I find the smell and ambience of this room so comforting, considering I safe worded the last time we were in here. I lock the door behind me, leaving the key in the lock. I know that tomorrow morning Christian will be frantic to find me, and I don't think he'll look in here if the door's locked. Well, it will serve him right.

I curl up on the Chesterfield couch, wrap myself in the duvet and drag my BlackBerry from my purse. Checking my texts, I find the one from the evil Bitch Troll that I forwarded from Christian's phone. I press FORWARD and type:

*WOULD YOU LIKE MRS. LINCOLN TO JOIN US WHEN WE

EVENTUALLY DISCUSS THIS TEXT SHE SENT TO YOU? IT WILL

SAVE YOU RUNNING TO HER AFTERWARD. YOUR WIFE*

I press SEND and switch the volume to mute. I huddle under my duvet. For all my bravado, I'm overwhelmed by the enormity of Christian's deceit. This should be a happy time. Jeez, we're going to be parents. Briefly, I relive telling Christian that I'm pregnant and fantasize that he falls to his knees with joy in front of me, pulling me into his arms and telling me how much he loves me and our Little Blip.

Yet here I am, alone and cold in a BDSM fantasy playroom. Suddenly I feel old, older than my years. Taking on Christian was always going to be a challenge, but he really has surpassed himself this time. What was he thinking? Well, if he wants a fight, I'll give him a fight. No way am I going to let him get away with running off to see that monstrous woman whenever we have a problem. He's going to have to choose—her or me and our Little Blip. I sniffle softly, but because I'm so exhausted, I soon fall asleep.

I wake with a start, momentarily disorientated . . . Oh yes—I'm in the playroom.

Because there are no windows, I have no idea what time it is. The door handle rattles.

"Ana!" Christian shouts from outside the door. I freeze, but he doesn't come in. I hear muffled voices, but they move away. I exhale and check the time on my BlackBerry. It's seven fifty, and I have four missed calls and two voice messages.

The missed calls are mostly from Christian, but there's also one from Kate. Oh, no. He must have called her. I don't have time to listen to them. I don't want to be late for work.

I wrap the duvet around me and pick up my purse before making my way to the door. Unlocking it slowly, I peek outside. No sign of anyone. Oh shit . . . Perhaps this is a bit melodramatic. I roll my eyes at myself, take a deep breath, and head downstairs.

Taylor, Sawyer, Ryan, Mrs. Jones, and Christian are all standing in the entrance to the great room, and Christian is issuing rapid-fire instructions. As one they all turn and gape at me. Christian is still wearing the clothes he slept in last night. He looks disheveled, pale, and heart-stoppingly beautiful. His large gray eyes are wide, and I don't know if he's fearful or angry. It's difficult to tell.

"Sawyer, I'll be ready to leave in about twenty minutes," I mutter, wrapping the duvet tighter around me for protection.

He nods, and all eyes turn to Christian, who is still staring intensely at me.

"Would you like some breakfast, Mrs. Grey?" Mrs. Jones asks. I shake my head.

"I'm not hungry, thank you." She purses her lips but says nothing.

"Where were you?" Christian asks, his voice low and husky. Suddenly Sawyer, Taylor, Ryan and Mrs. Jones scatter, scurrying into Taylor's office, into the foyer, and into the kitchen like terrified rats from a sinking ship.

I ignore Christian and march toward our bedroom.

"Ana," he calls after me, "answer me." I hear his footsteps behind me as I walk into the bedroom and continue into our bathroom. Quickly, I lock the door.

"Ana!" Christian pounds on the door. I turn on the shower. The door rattles.

"Ana, open the damned door."

"Go away!"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Suit yourself."

"Ana, please."

I climb into the shower, effectively blocking him out. Oh, it's warm. The healing water cascades over me, cleansing the exhaustion of the night off my skin.

Oh my. This feels so good. For a moment, for one short moment, I can pretend all is well. I wash my hair and by the time I've finished, I feel better, stronger, ready to face the freight train that is Christian Grey. I wrap my hair in a towel, briskly dry myself with another towel, and wrap it around me.

I unlock the door and open it and find Christian is leaning against the wall opposite, his hands behind his back. His expression is wary, that of a hunted predator. I stride past him and into our walk-in closet.

"Are you ignoring me?" Christian asks in disbelief as he stands on the threshold of the closet.

"Perceptive, aren't you?" I murmur absentmindedly as I search for something to wear. Ah, yes—my plum dress. I slide it off the hanger, choose my high black stiletto boots, and head for the bedroom. I pause for Christian to step out of my way, which he does, eventually—his intrinsic good manners taking over. I sense his eyes boring into me as I walk over to my chest of drawers, and I peek at him in the mirror, standing motionless in the doorway, watching me. In an act worthy of an Oscar winner, I let my towel fall to the floor and pretend that I am oblivious to my naked body. I hear his restrained gasp and ignore it.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks. His voice is low.

"Why do you think?" My voice is velvet soft as I pull out a pretty pair of black lace La Perla panties.

"Ana—" He stops as I shimmy into them.

"Go ask your Mrs. Robinson. I'm sure she'll have an explanation for you," I mutter as I search for the matching bra.

"Ana, I've told you before, she's not my—"

"I don't want to hear it, Christian." I wave my hand dismissively. "The time for talking was yesterday, but instead you decided to rant and get drunk with the woman who abused you for years. Give her a call. I am sure she'll be more than willing to listen to you now." I find the matching bra and slowly pull it on and fasten it. Christian walks further into the bedroom and places his hands on his hips.

"Why were you snooping on me?" he says.

In spite of my resolve I flush. "That's not the point, Christian," I snap at him.

"Fact is, going gets tough and you run to her."

His mouth settles into a grim line. "It wasn't like that."

"I'm not interested." Picking a pair of black thigh-highs with lacey tops, I retreat to the bed. I sit, point my toe, and gently ease the gossamer material up to my thigh.

"Where were you?" he asks, his eyes following my hands up my legs, but I continue to ignore him as I slowly roll on the other stocking. Standing, I bend to towel-dry my hair. Through my parted thighs, I can see his bare feet, and I sense his intense gaze. When I've finished, I stand and step back to the chest of drawers where I grab my hairdryer.

"Answer me." Christian's voice is low and husky.

I switch on the hairdryer so I can no longer hear him and watch him through my lashes in the mirror as I finger dry my hair. He glares at me, eyes narrow and cool, chilling even. I look away, focusing on the task at hand and trying to suppress the shiver that runs through me. I swallow hard and concentrate on drying my hair. He's still mad. He goes out with that damned woman, and he's mad at me? How dare he! When my hair looks wild and untamed, I stop. Yes . . . I like it.

I switch off the hairdryer.

"Where were you?" he whispers, his tone arctic.

"What do you care?"

"Ana, stop this. Now."

I shrug, and Christian moves quickly across the room toward me. I whirl around, stepping back as he reaches out.

"Don't touch me," I hiss and he freezes.

"Where were you?" he demands. His hands fist at his side.

"I wasn't out getting drunk with my ex," I seethe. "Did you sleep with her?"

He gasps. "What? No!" He gapes at me and has the gall to look wounded and angry at the same time. My subconscious breathes a small, welcome sigh of relief.

"You think I'd cheat on you?" His tone is one of moral outrage.

"You did," I snarl. "By taking our very private life and spilling your spineless guts to that woman."

His mouth drops open. "Spineless. That's what you think?" His eyes blaze.

"Christian, I saw the text. That's what I know."

"That text was not meant for you," he growls.

"Well, fact is I saw it when your BlackBerry fell out of your jacket while I was undressing you because you were too drunk to undress yourself. Do you have any idea how much you've hurt me by going to see that woman?"

He pales momentarily, but I'm on a roll, my inner bitch unleashed.

"Do you remember last night when you came home? Remember what you said?"

He stares at me blankly, his face frozen.

"Well, you were right. I do choose this defenseless baby over you. That's what any loving parent does. That's what your mother should have done for you.

And I am sorry that she didn't—because we wouldn't be having this conversation right now if she had. But you're an adult now—you need to grow up and smell the fucking coffee and stop behaving like a petulant adolescent.

"You may not be happy about this baby. I'm not ecstatic, given the timing and your less-than-lukewarm reception to this new life, this flesh of your flesh.

But you can either do this with me, or I'll do it on my own. The decision is yours.

"While you wallow in your pit of self-pity and self-loathing, I'm going to work. And when I return I'll be moving my belongings to the room upstairs."

He blinks at me, shocked.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to finish getting dressed." I am breathing hard.

Very slowly, Christian retreats one step, his demeanor hardening. "Is that what you want?" he whispers.

"I don't know what I want any more." My tone mirrors his, and it takes a monumental effort to feign disinterest while I casually dip the tips of my fingers into my moisturizer and smooth it gently over my face. I peer at myself in the mirror.

Blue eyes wide, face pale, but cheeks flushed. You're doing great. Don't back down now. Don't back down now.

"You don't want me?" he whispers.

Oh—no . . . oh no you don't, Grey.

"I'm still here aren't I?" I snap. Taking my mascara, I apply some first to my right eye.

"You've thought about leaving?" His words are barely audible.

"When one's husband prefers the company of his ex-mistress, it's usually not a good sign." I pitch the disdain at just the right level, evading his question. Lip gloss now. I pout my shiny lips at the image in the mirror. Stay strong, Steele . . . um—Grey. Holy fuck, I can't even remember my name. I pick up my boots, stride over to the bed once more, and quickly put them on, tugging them up over my knees. Yep. I look hot just in underwear and boots. I know. Standing, I gaze dis-passionately at him. He blinks at me, and his eyes travel swiftly and greedily down my body.

"I know what you're doing here," he murmurs, and his voice has acquired a warm, seductive edge.

"Do you?" And my voice cracks . No, Ana . . . hold on.

He swallows and takes a step forward. I step back and hold my hands up.

"Don't even think about it, Grey," I whisper menacingly.

"You're my wife," he says softly, threateningly.

"I'm the pregnant woman you abandoned yesterday, and if you touch me I will scream the place down."

His eyebrows rise in disbelief. "You'd scream?"

"Bloody murder." I narrow my eyes.

"No one would hear you," he murmurs, his gaze intense, and briefly I'm reminded of our morning in Aspen. No. No. No.

"Are you trying to frighten me?" I mutter breathless, deliberately trying to derail him.

It works. He stills and swallows. "That wasn't my intention." He frowns.

I can barely breathe. If he touches me, I will succumb. I know the power he wields over me and over my traitorous body. I know. I hang on to my anger.

"I had a drink with someone I used to be close to. We cleared the air. I am not going to see her again."

"You sought her out?"

"Not at first. I tried to see Flynn. But I found myself at the salon."

"And you expect me to believe you're not going to see her again?" I cannot contain my fury as I hiss at him. "What about the next time I step across some imaginary line? This is the same argument we have over and over again. Like we're on some Ixion's wheel. If I fuck up again, are you going to run back to her?"

"I am not going to see her again," he says with a chilling finality. "She finally understands how I feel."

I blink at him. "What does that mean?"

He straightens and runs a hand through his hair, exasperated and angry and mute. I try a different tack.

"Why can you talk to her and not to me?"

"I was mad at you. Like I am now."

"You don't say!" I snap. "Well I am mad at you right now. Mad at you for being so cold and callous yesterday when I needed you. Mad at you for saying I got knocked up deliberately, when I didn't. Mad at you for betraying me." I manage to suppress a sob. His mouth drops open in shock, and he closes his eyes briefly as if I'd slapped him. I swallow. Calm down, Anastasia.

"I should have kept better track of my shots. But I didn't do it on purpose.

This pregnancy is a shock to me, too." I mutter, trying for a modicum of civility.

"It could be that the shot failed."

He glares at me, silent.

"You really fucked up yesterday," I whisper, my anger boiling over. "I've had a lot to deal with over the last few weeks."

"You really fucked up three or four weeks ago. Or whenever you forgot your shot."

"Well, God forbid I should be perfect like you!"

Oh stop, stop, stop. We stand glowering at each other.

"This is quite a performance, Mrs. Grey," he whispers.

"Well, I'm glad that even knocked up I'm entertaining."

He stares at me blankly. "I need a shower," he murmurs.

"And I've provided enough of a floor show."

"It's a mighty fine floor show," he whispers. He steps forward, and I step back again.

"Don't."

"I hate that you won't let me touch you."

"Ironic, huh?"

His eyes narrow once more. "We haven't resolved much, have we?"

"I'd say not. Except that I'm moving out of this bedroom."

His eyes flare and widen briefly. "She doesn't mean anything to me."

"Except when you need her."

"I don't need her. I need you."

"You didn't yesterday. That woman is a hard limit for me, Christian."

"She's out of my life."

"I wish I could believe you."

"For fuck's sake, Ana."

"Please let me get dressed."

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair once more. "I'll see you this evening," he says, his voice bleak and devoid of feeling. And for a brief moment I want to take him in my arms and soothe him . . . but I resist because I'm just too mad. He turns and heads for the bathroom. I stand frozen until I hear the door close.

I stagger to the bed and flop down on to it. My inner goddess and my subconscious are both giving me a standing ovation. I did not resort to tears, shouting, or murder, nor did I succumb to his sexpertise. I deserve a Congressional Medal of Honor, but I feel so low. Shit. We resolved nothing. We're on the edge of a pre-cipice. Is our marriage is at stake here? Why can't he see what a complete and utter ass he's been running to that woman? And what does he mean when he says he'll never see her again? How on earth am I supposed to believe that? I glance at the radio alarm—eight thirty. Shit! I'll don't want to be late. I take a deep breath.

"Round Two was a stalemate, Little Blip," I whisper, patting my belly.

"Daddy may be a lost cause, but I hope not. Why, oh why, did you come so early, Little Blip? Things were just getting good." My lip trembles, but I take a deep cleansing breath and bring my rolling emotions under control.

"Come on. Let's go kick ass at work."

I don't say good-bye to Christian. He's still in the shower when Sawyer and I leave. As I gaze out of the darkened windows of the SUV, my composure slips and my eyes water. My mood is reflected in the gray, dreary sky, and I feel a strange sense of foreboding. We didn't actually discuss the baby. I have had less than twenty-four hours to assimilate the news of Little Blip. Christian has had even less time. "He doesn't even know your name." I caress my belly and wipe tears from my face.

"Mrs. Grey." Sawyer interrupts my reverie. "We're here."

"Oh. Thanks, Sawyer."

"I'm going to make a run to the deli, ma'am. Can I get you anything?"

"No. Thank you, no. I'm not hungry."

Hannah has my latte waiting for me. I take one sniff of it and my stomach roils.

"Um . . .can I have tea, please?" I mutter, embarrassed. I knew there was a reason I never really liked coffee. Jeez, it smells foul.

"You okay, Ana?"

I nod and scurry into the safety of my office. My BlackBerry buzzes. It's Kate.

"Why was Christian looking for you?" she asks with no preamble at all.

"Good morning, Kate. How are you?"

"Cut the crap, Steele. What gives?" The Katherine Kavanagh Inquisition begins.

"Christian and I had a fight, that's all."

"Did he hurt you?"

I roll my eyes. "Yes, but not the way you're thinking." I cannot deal with Kate at the moment. I know I will cry, and right now I am so proud of myself for not breaking down this morning. "Kate, I have a meeting. I'll call you back."

"Good. You're all right?"

"Yes." No. "I'll call you later, okay?"

"Okay, Ana, have it your own way. I'm here for you."

"I know," I whisper and fight the backlash of emotion at her kind words. I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry.

"Ray okay?"

"Yes," I whisper the word.

"Oh, Ana," she whispers.

"Don't."

"Okay. Talk later."

"Yes."

During the course of the morning, I sporadically check my e-mails, hoping for word from Christian. But there's nothing. As the day wears on, I realize that he's not going to contact me at all and that he's still mad. Well, I'm still mad, too. I throw myself into my work, pausing only at lunchtime for a cream cheese and salmon bagel. It's extraordinary how much better I feel once I've eaten something.

At five o'clock Sawyer and I set off for the hospital to see Ray. Sawyer is extra vigilant, and even oversolicitous. It's irritating. As we approach Ray's room, he hovers over me.

"Shall I get you some tea while you visit with your father?" he asks.

"No thanks, Sawyer. I'll be fine."

"I'll wait outside." He opens the door for me, and I'm grateful to get away from him for a moment. Ray is sitting up in bed reading a magazine. He's shaved, wearing a pajama top—he looks like his old self.

"Hey, Annie." He grins. And his face falls.

"Oh, Daddy . . ." I rush to his side, and in a very uncharacteristic move, he opens his arms wide and hugs me.

"Annie?" he whispers. "What is it?" He holds me tight and kisses my hair. As I'm in his arms, I realize how rare these moments between us have been. Why is that? Is that why I like to crawl into Christian's lap? After a moment, I pull away from him and sit down in the chair beside the bed. Ray's brow is furrowed with concern.

"Tell your old man."

I shake my head. He doesn't need my problems right now.

"It's nothing, Dad. You look well." I clasp his hand.

"Feeling more like myself, though this leg in a cast is bitchin'."

"Bitchin'?" His word prompts my smile.

He smiles back. "Bitchin' sounds better than itchin'."

"Oh, Dad, I am so glad you're okay."

"Me, too, Annie. I'd like to bounce some grandchildren on this bitchin' knee one day. Wouldn't want to miss that for the world."

I blink at him. Shit. Does he know? And I fight the tears that prick the corners of my eyes.

"You and Christian getting along?"

"We had a fight," I whisper, trying to speak past the knot in my throat.

"We'll work it out."

He nods. "He's a fine man, your husband," Ray says reassuringly.

"He has his moments. What did the doctors say?" I don't want to talk about my husband right now; he's a painful topic of conversation.

Back at Escala, Christian is not home.

"Christian called and said that he'd be working late," Mrs. Jones informs me apologetically.

"Oh. Thanks for letting me know." Why couldn't he tell me? Jeez, he really is taking his sulk to a whole new level. I am briefly reminded of the fight over our wedding vows and the major tantrum he had then. But I'm the aggrieved one here.

"What would you like to eat?" Mrs. Jones has a determined, steely glint in her eye.

"Pasta."

She smiles. "Spaghetti, penne, fusilli?"

"Spaghetti, your Bolognese."

"Coming up. And Ana . . . you should know Mr. Grey was frantic this morning when he thought you'd left. He was beside himself." She smiles fondly.

Oh . . .

He's still not home by nine. I am sitting at my desk in the library, wondering where he is. I call him.

"Ana," he says, his voice cool.

"Hi."

He inhales softly. "Hi," he says, his voice lower.

"Are you coming home?"

"Later."

"Are you in the office?"

"Yes. Where did you expect me to be?"

With her. "I'll let you go."

We both hang on the line, the silence stretching and tightening between us.

"Goodnight, Ana," he says eventually.

"Goodnight, Christian."

He hangs up.

Oh shit. I gaze at my BlackBerry. I don't know what he expects me to do. I'm not going to let him walk all over me. Yes, he's mad, fair enough. I'm mad. But we are where we are. I haven't run off loose-lipped to my ex-paedo lover. I want him to acknowledge that that is not an acceptable way to behave.

I sit back in my chair, gazing at the billiard table in the library, and recall fun times playing snooker. I place my hand on my belly. Maybe it's just too early.

Maybe this is not meant to be . . . And even as I think that, my subconscious is screaming no! If I terminate this pregnancy, I will never forgive myself—or Christian. "Oh, Blip, what have you done to us?" I can't face talking to Kate. I can't face talking to anyone. I text her, promising to call soon.

By eleven, I can no longer keep my eyelids open. Resigned, I head up to my old room. Curling up beneath the duvet, I finally let myself go, sobbing into my pillow, great heaving unladylike sobs of grief . . .

My head is heavy when I wake. Crisp fall light shines through the great windows of my room. Glancing at my alarm I see it's seven thirty. My immediate thought is where's Christian? I sit up and swing my legs out of bed. On the floor beside the bed is Christian's silver-gray tie, my favorite. It wasn't there when I went to bed last night. I pick it up and stare at it, caressing the silky material between my thumbs and forefingers, then hug it against my cheek. He was here, watching me sleep. And a glimmer of hope sparks deep inside me.

Mrs. Jones is busy in the kitchen when I arrive downstairs.

"Good morning," she says brightly.

"Morning. Christian?" I ask.

Her face falls. "He's already left."

"So he did come home?" I need to check, even though I have his tie as evidence.

"He did," she pauses, "Ana, please forgive me for speaking out of turn, but don't give up on him. He's a stubborn man."

I nod and she stops. I'm sure my expression tells her I do not want to discuss my errant husband right now.

When I arrive at work, I check my e-mails. My heart leaps into overdrive when I see there's one from Christian.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Portland

Date: September 15, 2011 06:45

To: Anastasia Grey

Ana,

I am flying down to Portland today.

I have some business to conclude with WSU.

I thought you would want to know.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Oh. Tears prick my eyes. That's it? My stomach flips. Shit! I am going to be sick. I race to the powder room and make it just in time, depositing my breakfast into the toilet. I sink to the floor of the cubicle and put my head in my hands.

Could I be any more miserable? After a while, there's a gentle knock on the door.

"Ana?" It's Hannah.

Fuck. "Yes?"

"Are you okay?"

"I'll be out in a moment."

"Boyce Fox is here to see you."

Shit. "Show him into the meeting room. I'll be there in a minute."

"Do you want some tea?"

"Please."

After my lunch—another cream cheese and salmon bagel, which I manage to keep down—I sit staring listlessly at my computer, looking for inspiration and wondering how Christian and I are going to resolve this huge problem.

My BlackBerry buzzes, making me jump. I glance at the screen—it's Mia.

Jeez, that's all I need, her gushing and enthusiasm. I hesitate, wondering if I could just ignore it, but courtesy wins out.

"Mia," I answer brightly.

"Well, hello there, Ana—long time no speak." The male voice is familiar .

Fuck!

My scalp prickles and all the hair on my body stands to attention as adrenaline floods through my system and my world stops spinning.

It's Jack Hyde.

Chapter Twenty-two

"Jack." My voice has disappeared, choked by fear. How is he out of jail? Why does he have Mia's phone? The blood drains from my face, and I feel dizzy.

"You do remember me," he says, his tone soft. I sense his bitter smile.

"Yes. Of course." My answer is automatic as my mind races.

"You're probably wondering why I called you."

"Yes."

Hang up.

"Don't hang up. I've been having a chat with your little sister-in-law."

What? Mia! No! "What have you done?" I whisper, trying to quell my fear.

"Listen here, you prick-teasing, gold-digging whore. You fucked up my life.

Grey fucked up my life. You owe me. I have the little bitch with me now. And you, that cock-sucker you married, and his whole fucking family are going to pay."

Hyde's contempt and bile shock me. His family? What the hell?

"What do you want?"

"I want his money. I really want his fucking money. If things had been different, it could have been me. So you're going to get it for me. I want five million dollars, today."

"Jack, I don't have access to that kind of money."

He snorts his derision. "You have two hours to get it. That's it—two hours.

Tell no one or this little bitch gets it. Not the cops. Not your prick of a husband.

Not his security team. I will know if you do. Understand?" He pauses and I try to respond, but panic and fear seal my throat.

"You understand!" he shouts.

"Yes," I whisper.

"Or I will kill her."

I gasp.

"Keep your phone with you. Tell no one or I'll fuck her up before I kill her.

You have two hours."

"Jack, I need longer. Three hours. How do I know that you have her?"

The line goes dead. I gape in horror at the phone, my mouth parched with fear, leaving the nasty metallic taste of terror. Mia, he has Mia. Or does he? My mind whirrs at the obscene possibility, and my stomach roils again. I think I'm going to be sick, but I inhale deeply, trying to steady my panic, and the nausea passes. My mind rockets through the possibilities. Tell Christian? Tell Taylor?

Call the police? How will Jack know? Does he actually have Mia? I need time, time to think—but I can only accomplish that by following his instructions. I grab my purse and head for the door.

"Hannah, I have to go out. I am not sure how long I'll be. Cancel my appointments this afternoon. Let Elizabeth know I have to deal with an emergency."

"Sure, Ana. Everything okay?" Hannah frowns, concern etched on her face as she watches me flee.

"Yes," I call back distractedly, hurrying toward reception where Sawyer is waiting.

"Sawyer." He leaps up from the armchair at the sound of my voice, and frowns when he sees my face.

"I'm not feeling well. Please take me home."

"Sure, ma'am. Do you want to wait here while I get the car?"

"No, I'll come with you. I'm in a hurry to get home."

I gaze out the window in stark terror as I go over my plan. Get home. Change.

Find checkbook. Escape from Ryan and Sawyer somehow. Go to bank. Hell, how much room does five million dollars take up? What will it weigh? Will I need a suitcase? Should I telephone the bank in advance? Mia. Mia. What if he doesn't have Mia? How can I check? If I call Grace it will raise her suspicions, and possibly endanger Mia. He said he would know. I glance out the back window of the SUV. Am I being followed? My heart races as I examine the cars following us.

They look innocuous enough. Oh, Sawyer, drive faster. Please. My eyes flicker to meet his in the rearview mirror and his brow creases.

Sawyer presses a button on his Bluetooth headset to answer a call. "T . . . I wanted to let you know Mrs. Grey is with me." Sawyer's eyes meet mine once more before he looks back at the road and continues. "She's unwell. I'm taking her back to Escala . . . I see . . . Sir." Sawyer's eyes flick from the road to mine in the rearview mirror again. "Yes," he agrees and hangs up.

"Taylor?" I whisper.

He nods.

"He's with Mr. Grey?"

"Yes, ma'am." Sawyer's look softens in sympathy.

"Are they still in Portland?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Good. I have to keep Christian safe. My hand strays down to my belly, and I rub it consciously. And you, Little Blip. Keep you both safe.

"Can we hurry please? I'm not feeling well."

"Yes, ma'am." Sawyer presses the accelerator and our car glides through the traffic.

Mrs. Jones is nowhere to be seen when Sawyer and I arrive at the apartment.

Since her car is missing from the garage, I assume she's running errands with Ry-an. Sawyer heads for Taylor's office while I bolt to Christian's study. Stumbling in panic around his desk, I wrench open the drawer to find the checkbooks.

Leila's gun slides forward into view. I feel an incongruous twinge of annoyance that Christian has not secured this weapon. He knows nothing about guns. Jeez, he could get hurt.

After a moment's hesitation, I grab the pistol, check to ensure it's loaded, and tuck it into the waistband of my black slacks. I may need it. I swallow hard. I've only ever practiced on targets. I've never fired a gun at anyone; I hope Ray will forgive me . I turn my attention to tracking down the right checkbook. There are five, and only one is in the names of C. Grey and Mrs. A. Grey. I have about fifty-four thousand dollars in my own account. I have no idea how much money is in this one. But Christian must be good for five million dollars, surely. Perhaps there's money in the safe? Crap. I have no idea of the number. Didn't he mention the combination was it his filing cabinet? I try the cabinet, but it's locked. Shit.

I'll have to stick to plan A.

I take a deep breath and, in a more composed but determined manner, stride to our bedroom. The bed has been made, and for a moment, I feel a pang. Perhaps I should have slept here last night. What is the point of arguing with someone who, by their own admission, is Fifty Shades? He's not even talking to me now.

No—I do not have time to think about this.

Quickly, I change out of my slacks, pulling on jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of sneakers and put the gun in the waistband of my jeans, at my back.

From the closet I fish out a large soft duffle bag. Will five million dollars fit into this? Christian's gym bag is lying there on the floor. I open it, expecting to find it full of dirty laundry, but no—his gym kit is clean and fresh. Mrs. Jones does indeed get everywhere. I dump the contents onto the floor and stuff his gym bag in-to my duffle. There, that should do it. I check that I have my driver's license as identification for the bank and check the time. It's been thirty-one minutes since Jack called. Now I just have to get out of Escala without Sawyer seeing me.

I make my way slowly and quietly to the foyer, aware of the CCTV camera which is trained on the elevator. I think Sawyer's still in Taylor's office. Cautiously, I open the foyer door, making as little noise as possible. Shutting it quietly behind me, I stand on the very threshold, up against the door, out of the view of the CCTV lens. I fish my cell phone out of my purse and call Sawyer.

"Mrs. Grey."

"Sawyer, I'm in the room upstairs, will you give me a hand with something?"

I keep my voice low, knowing he's just down the hallway on the other side of this door.

"I'll be right with you, ma'am," he says, and I hear his confusion. I've never telephoned him for help before. My heart is in my throat, pounding in a jarring, frenetic rhythm. Will this work? I hang up and listen as his footsteps cross the hallway and go up the stairs. I take another deep steadying breath and briefly contemplate the irony of escaping from my own home like a felon.

Once Sawyer's reached the upstairs landing, I race to the elevator and punch the call button. The doors slide open with the too-loud ping that announces the elevator is ready. I dash inside and frantically stab the button for the basement garage. After an agonizing pause, the doors slowly start to slide shut, and as they do I hear Sawyer's cries.

"Mrs. Grey!" Just as the elevator doors close, I see him skid into the foyer.

"Ana!" he shouts in disbelief. But he's too late, and he disappears from view.

The elevator sinks smoothly down to the garage level. I have a couple of minutes' start on Sawyer, and I know he'll try to stop me. I glance longingly at my R8 as I rush to the Saab, open the door, toss the duffel bag onto the passenger seat, and slide into the driver's seat.

I start the car, and the tires squeal as I race to the entrance and wait eleven agonizing seconds for the barrier to lift. The instant it's clear I drive out, catching sight of Sawyer in my rearview mirror as he dashes out of service elevator into the garage. His bewildered, injured expression haunts me as I turn off the ramp onto Fourth Avenue.

I let out my long held breath. I know Sawyer will call Christian or Taylor, but I'll deal with that when I have to—I don't have time to dwell on it now. I squirm uncomfortably in my seat, knowing in my heart of hearts that Sawyer's probably lost his job. Don't dwell. I have to save Mia. I have to get to the bank and collect five million dollars. I glance in the rearview mirror, nervously anticipating the sight of the SUV bursting forth from the garage, but as I drive away, there's no sign of Sawyer.

The bank is sleek, modern, and understated. There are hushed tones, echoing floors, and pale green etched glass everywhere. I stride to the information desk.

"May I help you, ma'am?" The young woman gives me a bright, insincere smile, and for a moment I regret changing into jeans.

"I'd like to withdraw a large sum of money."

Ms. Insincere Smile arches an even more insincere eyebrow.

"You have an account with us?" She fails to hide her sarcasm.

"Yes," I snap. "My husband and I have several accounts here. His name is Christian Grey."

Her eyes widen fractionally and insincerity gives way to shock. Her eyes sweep up and down me once more, this time with a combination of disbelief and awe.

"This way, ma'am," she whispers, and leads me to a small, sparsely furnished office walled with more green-etched glass.

"Please take a seat." She gestures to a black leather chair by a glass desk bearing a state-of-the-art computer and phone. "How much will you be withdrawing today, Mrs. Grey?" she asks pleasantly.

"Five million dollars." I look her straight in the eye as if I ask for this amount of cash every day.

She blanches. "I see. I'll fetch the manager. Oh, forgive me for asking, but do you have ID?"

"I do. But I'd like to speak to the manager."

"Of course, Mrs. Grey." She scurries out. I sink into the seat, and a wave of nausea washes over me as the gun presses uncomfortably into the small of my back . Not now. I can't be sick now. I take a deep cleansing breath, and the wave passes. Nervously, I check my watch. Twenty-five past two.

A middle-aged man enters the room. He has a receding hairline, but wears a sharp, expensive charcoal suit and matching tie. He holds out his hand.

"Mrs. Grey. I'm Troy Whelan." He smiles, we shake, and he sits down at the desk opposite me.

"My colleague tells me you'd like to withdraw a large amount of money."

"That's correct. Five million dollars."

He turns to his sleek computer and taps in a few numbers.

"We normally ask for some notice for large amounts of money." He pauses, and flashes me a reassuring but supercilious smile. "Fortunately, however, we hold the cash reserve for the entire Pacific Northwest," he boasts. Jeez, is he trying to impress me?

"Mr. Whelan, I'm in a hurry. What do I need to do? I have my driver's license, and our joint account checkbook. Do I just write a check?"

"First things first, Mrs. Grey. May I see the ID?" He switches from jovial show-off to serious banker.

"Here." I hand over my license.

"Mrs. Grey . . . this says Anastasia Steele."

Oh shit.

"Oh . . . yes. Um."

"I'll call Mr. Grey."

"Oh no, that won't be necessary." Shit! "I must have something with my married name." I rifle through my purse. What do I have with my name on it? I pull out my wallet, open it and find a photograph of Christian and me, on the bed in Fair Lady's cabin. I can't show him that! I dig out my black Amex.

"Here."

"Mrs. Anastasia Grey," Whelan reads. "Yes, that should do." He frowns.

"This is highly irregular, Mrs. Grey.

"Do you want me to let my husband know that your bank has been less than cooperative?" I square my shoulders and give him my most forbidding stare.

He pauses, momentarily reassessing me, I think. "You'll need to write a check, Mrs. Grey."

"Sure. This account?" I show him my checkbook, trying to quell my pounding heart

"That'll be fine. I'll also need you to complete some additional paperwork. If you'll excuse me for a moment?"

I nod, and he rises and stalks out of the office. Again, I release my held breath. I had no idea this would be so difficult. Clumsily, I open my checkbook and pull a pen out of my purse. Do I just make it out to cash? I have no idea. With shaking fingers I write: Five million dollars. $5,000,000.

Oh God, I hope I'm doing the right thing. Mia, think of Mia. I can't tell anyone.

Jack's chilling, repugnant words haunt me. "Tell no one or I'll fuck her up before I kill her."

Mr. Whelan returns, pale-faced and sheepish.

"Mrs. Grey? Your husband wants to speak with you," he murmurs and points to the phone on the glass table between us.

What? No.

"He's on line one. Just press the button. I'll be outside." He has the grace to look embarrassed. Benedict Arnold has nothing on Whelan. I scowl at him, feeling the blood drain from my face again as he shuffles out of the office.

Shit! Shit! Shit! What am I going to say to Christian? He'll know. He'll inter-vene. He's a danger to his sister. My hand trembles as I reach for the phone. I hold it against my ear, trying to calm my erratic breathing, and press the button for line one.

"Hi," I murmur, trying in vain to steady my nerves.

"You're leaving me?" Christian's words are an agonized, breathless whisper.

What?

"No!" My voice mirrors his. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no—how can he think that?

The money? He thinks I'm going because of the money? And in moment of hor-rific clarity, I realize the only way I'm going to keep Christian at arm's length, out of harm's way, and to save his sister . . . is to lie.

"Yes," I whisper. And searing pain lances through me, tears springing to my eyes.

He gasps, almost a sob. "Ana, I—" He chokes.

No! My hand clutches my mouth as I stifle my warring emotions. "Christian, please. Don't." I fight back tears.

"You're going?" he says.

"Yes."

"But why the cash? Was it always the money?" His tortured voice is barely audible.

No! Tears roll down my face. "No," I whisper.

"Is five million enough?"

Oh please, stop!

"Yes."

"And the baby?" His voice is a breathless echo.

What? My hand moves from my mouth to my belly. "I'll take care of the baby," I murmur. My Little Blip . . . our Little Blip.

"This is what you want?"

No!

"Yes."

He inhales sharply. "Take it all," he hisses.

"Christian," I sob. "It's for you. For your family. Please. Don't."

"Take it all, Anastasia."

"Christian—" And I nearly cave. Nearly tell him—about Jack, about Mia, about the ransom. Just trust me, please! I silently beg him.

"I'll always love you." His voice is hoarse. He hangs up.

"Christian! No . . . I love you, too." And all the stupid shit that we put each other through over the last few days fades into insignificance. I promised I'd never leave him. I am not leaving you. I am saving your sister. I slump into the chair, weeping copiously into my hands.

I am interrupted by a timid knock on the door. Whelan enters, though I haven't acknowledged him. He looks everywhere but at me. He's mortified.

You called him, you bastard! I glare at him.

"You have carte blanche, Mrs. Grey," he says. "Mr. Grey has agreed to liquefy some of his assets. He says you can have whatever you need."

"I just need five million dollars," I mutter through gritted teeth.

"Yes ma'am. Are you all right?"

"Do I look all right?" I snap.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. Some water?"

I nod, sullenly. I have just left my husband. Well, Christian thinks I have. My subconscious purses her lips. Because you told him so.

"I'll have my colleague bring you some while I prepare the money. If you could just sign here, ma'am . . . and make the check out to cash and sign that, too."

He places a form on the table. I scrawl my signature along the dotted line of the check, then the form. Anastasia Grey. Teardrops fall on the desk, narrowly missing the paperwork.

"I'll take those, ma'am. It will take us about half an hour to prepare the money."

I quickly check my watch. Jack said two hours—that should take us to two hours. I nod to Whelan, and he tiptoes out of the office, leaving me to my misery.

A few moments, minutes, hours later—I don't know—Miss Insincere Smile reenters with a carafe of water and a glass.

"Mrs. Grey," she says softly as she places the glass on the desk and fills it.

"Thank you." I take the glass and drink gratefully. She exits, leaving me with my jumbled, frightened thoughts. I will fix things with Christian somehow . . . if it's not too late. At least he's out of the picture. Right now I have to concentrate on Mia. Suppose Jack is lying? Suppose he doesn't have her? Surely I should call the police.

"Tell no one or I'll fuck her up before I kill her." I can't. I sit back in the chair, feeling the reassuring presence of Leila's pistol at my waist, digging into my back. Who would have thought I'd ever feel grateful that Leila once pulled a gun on me? Oh, Ray, I'm so glad you taught me how to shoot.

Ray! I gasp. He'll be expecting me to visit this evening. Perhaps I can simply dump the money with Jack. He can run while I take Mia home. Oh, this sounds absurd!

My BlackBerry jumps to life, "Your Love is King" filling the room. Oh no!

What does Christian want? To twist the knife in my wounds?

"Was it always the money?"

Oh, Christian—how could you think that? Anger flares in my gut. Yes, anger.

It helps. I send the call to voice mail. I'll deal with my husband later.

There's a knock on the door.

"Mrs. Grey." It's Whelan. "The money is ready."

"Thank you." I stand up and the room spins momentarily. I clutch the chair.

"Mrs. Grey, are you feeling okay?"

I nod and give him a back-off-now-mister stare. I take another deep calming breath. I have to do this. I have to do this. I must save Mia. I pull the hem of my hooded sweatshirt down, concealing the butt of the pistol in the back of my jeans.

Mr. Whelan frowns but holds open the door, and I propel myself forward on my shaking limbs.

Sawyer is waiting at the entrance, scanning the public area. Shit! Our eyes meet, and he frowns at me, gauging my reaction. Oh, he's mad. I hold up my index finger in a with-you-in-a-minute gesture. He nods and answers a call on his cell phone. Shit! I bet that's Christian. I turn abruptly, almost colliding with Whelan right behind me, and bolt back into the little office.

"Mrs. Grey?" Whelan sounds confused as he follows me back in.

Sawyer could blow this whole plan. I gaze up at Whelan.

"There's someone out there I don't want to see. Someone following me."

Whelan's eyes widen.

"Do you want me to call the police?"

"No!" Holy fuck, no. What am I going to do? I glance at my watch. It's nearly three fifteen. Jack will call any moment. Think, Ana, think! Whelan gazes at me in growing desperation and bewilderment. He must think I'm crazy. You are crazy, my subconscious snaps.

"I need to make a call. Could you give me some privacy, please?"

"Certainly," Whelan answers—grateful, I think, to leave the room. When he's closed the door, I call Mia's cell phone with trembling fingers.

"Well, if it isn't my paycheck," Jack answers scornfully.

I don't have time for his bullshit. "I have a problem."

"I know. Your security followed you to the bank."

What? How the hell does he know?

"You'll have to lose him. I have a car waiting at the back of the bank. Black SUV, a Dodge. You have three minutes to get there." The Dodge!

"It may take longer than three minutes." My heart leaps into my throat once more.

"You're bright for a gold-digging whore, Grey. You figure it out. And dump your cell phone once you reach the vehicle. Got it, bitch?"

"Yes.""Say it!" he snaps.

"I've got it."

He hangs up.

Shit! I open the door to find Whelan waiting patiently outside.

"Mr. Whelan, I'll need some help taking the bags to my car. It's parked outside, at the back of the bank. Do you have an exit at the rear?"

He frowns.

"We do, yes. For staff."

"Can we leave that way? I can avoid the unwelcome attention at the door."

"As you wish, Mrs. Grey. I'll have two clerks help with the bags and two security guards to supervise. If you could follow me?"

"I have one more favor to ask you."

"By all means, Mrs. Grey."

Two minutes later my entourage and I are out on the street, heading over to the Dodge. Its windows are blacked out, and I can't tell who's at the wheel. But as we approach, the driver's door swings open, and a woman clad in black with a black cap pulled low over her face climbs gracefully out of the car. Elizabeth! She moves to the rear of the SUV and opens the trunk. The two young bank clerks carrying the money sling the heavy bags into the back.

"Mrs. Grey." She has the nerve to smile as if we are off on a friendly jaunt.

"Elizabeth." My greeting is arctic. "Nice to see you outside work."

Mr. Whelan clears this throat.

"Well, it's been an interesting afternoon, Mrs. Grey," he says. And I am forced to observe the social niceties of shaking his hand and thanking him while my mind reels. Elizabeth? What the hell? Why is she mixed up with Jack?

Whelan and his team disappear back into the bank, leaving me alone with the head of personnel at SIP who's involved in kidnapping, extortion, and very possibly other felonies. Why?

Elizabeth opens the rear passenger door and ushers me in.

"Your phone, Mrs. Grey?" she asks, watching me warily. I hand it to her, and she tosses it into a nearby trashcan.

"That will throw the dogs off the scent," she says smugly.

Who is this woman? Elizabeth slams my door shut and climbs into the driver's seat. I glance anxiously behind me as she pulls out into the traffic, going east. Sawyer is nowhere to be seen.

"Elizabeth, you have the money. Call Jack. Tell him to let Mia go."

"I think he wants to thank you in person."

Shit! I glare at her stonily in the rearview mirror.

She pales and an anxious scowl mars her otherwise lovely face.

"Why are you doing this, Elizabeth? I thought you didn't like Jack."

She glances at me again briefly in the mirror, and I see a fleeting look of pain in her eyes.

"Ana, we'll get along just fine if you keep your mouth shut."

"But you can't do this. This is so wrong."

"Quiet," she says, but I sense her unease.

"Does he have some kind of hold on you?" I ask. Her eyes shoot to mine and she slams on the brakes, throwing me forward so hard I hit my face against the headrest of the front seat.

"I said be quiet," she snarls. "And I suggest you put on your seatbelt."

And in that moment I know that he does. Something so awful that she's prepared to do this for him. I wonder briefly what that could be. Theft from the company? Something from her private life? Something sexual? I shudder at the thought. Christian said that none of Jack's PAs would talk. Perhaps it's the same story with all of them. That's why he wanted to fuck me, too. Bile rises in my throat with revulsion at the thought.

Elizabeth heads away from downtown Seattle and up into the hills to the east.

Before long we're driving through residential streets. I catch sight of one of the street signs: SOUTH IRVING STREET. She takes a sharp left onto a deserted street with a dilapidated children's playground on one side and a large concrete parking lot flanked by a row of squat, empty brick buildings on the other. Elizabeth pulls into the parking lot and stops outside the last of the brick units.

She turns to me. "Showtime," she murmurs.

My scalp prickles as fear and adrenaline course through my body.

"You don't have to do this," I whisper back. Her mouth flattens into a grim line, and she climbs out of the car .

This is for Mia. This is for Mia. I quickly pray, Please let her be okay, please let her be okay.

"Get out," Elizabeth snaps, yanking the rear passenger door open.

Shit. As I clamber out, my legs are shaking so hard I wonder if I can stand.

The cool late-afternoon breeze carries the scent of the coming fall and the chalky, dusty smell of derelict buildings.

"Well, lookee here." Jack emerges from a small, boarded-up doorway on the left of the building. His hair is short. He's removed his earrings and he's wearing a suit. A suit? He ambles toward me, oozing arrogance and hate. My heart rate spikes.

"Where's Mia?" I stammer, my mouth so dry I can hardly form the words.

"First things first, bitch," Jack sneers, coming to a halt in front of me. I can practically taste his contempt. "The money?"

Elizabeth is checking the bags in the trunk. "There's a hell of a lot of cash here," she says in awe, zipping and unzipping each bag.

"And her cell?"

"In the trash."

"Good," Jack snarls, and from nowhere he lashes out, backhanding me hard across the face. The ferocious, unprovoked blow knocks me to the ground, and my head bounces with a sickening thud off the concrete. Pain explodes in my head, my eyes fill with tears, and my vision blurs as the shock of the impact resonates, unleashing agony that pulses through my skull.

I scream a silent cry of suffering and shocked terror. Oh no— Little Blip. Jack follows through with a swift, vicious kick to my ribs, and my breath is blasted from my lungs by the force of the blow. Scrunching my eyes tightly, I try to fight the nausea and pain, to fight for a precious breath. Little Blip, Little Blip, oh my Little Blip—

"That's for SIP, you fucking bitch!" Jack screams.

I pull my legs up, huddling into a ball and anticipating the next blow. No. No.

No.

"Jack!" Elizabeth screeches. "Not here. Not in broad daylight for fuck's sake!"

He pauses.

"The bitch deserves it!" he gloats to Elizabeth. And it gives me one precious second to reach around and pull the gun from the waistband of my jeans. Shakily, I aim at him, squeeze the trigger, and fire. The bullet hits him just above the knee, and he collapses in front of me, crying out in agony, clutching his thigh as his fingers redden with his blood.

"Fuck! " Jack bellows. I turn to face Elizabeth, and she's gaping at me in horror and raising her hands above her head. She blurs . . . darkness closes in. Shit . . .

She's at the end of a tunnel. Darkness consuming her. Consuming me. From far away, all hell breaks loose. Cars screeching . . . brakes . . . doors . . . shouting . . .

running . . . footsteps. The gun drops from my hand.

"Ana!" Christian's voice . . . Christian's voice . . . Christian's agonized voice.

Mia . . . save Mia.

"ANA!"

Darkness . . . peace.

Chapter Twenty-three

There is only pain. My head, my chest . . . burning pain. My side, my arm. Pain.

Pain and hushed words in the gloom. Where am I? Though I try, I cannot open my eyes. The whispered words become clearer . . . a beacon in the darkness.

"Her ribs are bruised, Mr. Grey, and she has a hairline fracture to her skull, but her vital signs are stable and strong."

"Why is she still unconscious?"

"Mrs. Grey has had a major contusion to her head. But her brain activity is normal, and she has no cerebral swelling. She'll wake when she's ready. Just give her some time."

"And the baby?" The words are anguished, breathless.

"The baby's fine, Mr. Grey."

"Oh, thank God." The words are a litany . . . a prayer. "Oh, thank God."

Oh my. He's worried about the baby . . . the baby? . . . Little Blip. Of course.

My Little Blip. I try in vain to move my hand to my belly. Nothing moves, nothing responds.

"And the baby? . . . Oh, thank God."

Little Blip is safe.

"And the baby? . . . Oh, thank God."

He cares about the baby.

"And the baby? . . . Oh, thank God."

He wants the baby. Oh thank God. I relax, and unconsciousness claims me once more, stealing me away from the pain.

Everything is heavy and aching: limbs, head, eyelids, nothing will move. My eyes and mouth are resolutely shut, unwilling to open, leaving me blind and mute and aching. As I surface from the fog, consciousness hovers, a seductive siren just out of reach. Sounds become voices.

"I'm not leaving her."

Christian! He's here . . . I will myself to wake—his voice is strained, an agonized whisper.

"Christian, you should sleep."

"No, Dad. I want to be here when she wakes up."

"I'll sit with her. It's the least I can do after she saved my daughter."

Mia!

"How's Mia?"

"She's groggy . . . scared and angry. It'll be a few hours before the Rohypnol is completely out of her system."

"Christ."

"I know. I'm feeling seven kinds of foolish for relenting on her security. You warned me, but Mia is so stubborn. If it wasn't for Ana here . . ."

"We all thought Hyde was out of the picture. And my crazy, stupid wife—Why didn't she tell me?" Christian's voice is full of anguish.

"Christian, calm down. Ana's a remarkable young woman. She was incredibly brave."

"Brave and headstrong and stubborn and stupid." His voice cracks.

"Hey," Carrick murmurs, "don't be so hard on her, or yourself, son . . . I'd better get back to your mom. It's after three in the morning, Christian. You really should try to sleep."

The fog closes in.

The fog lifts but I have no sense of time.

"If you don't take her across your knee, I sure as hell will. What the hell was she thinking?"

"Trust me, Ray, I just might do that."

Dad! He's here. I fight the fog . . . fight . . . But I spiral down once more into oblivion. No . . .

"Detective, as you can see, my wife is no state to answer any of your questions."

Christian is angry.

"She's a headstrong young woman, Mr. Grey."

"I wish she'd killed the fucker."

"That would have meant more paperwork for me, Mr. Grey . . ."

"Miss Morgan is singing like the proverbial canary. Hyde's a real twisted son of a bitch. He has a serious grudge against your father and you . . ."

The fog surrounds me once more, and I'm dragged down . . . down . No!

"What do you mean you weren't talking?" It's Grace. She sounds angry. I try to move my head, but I'm met with a resounding, listless silence from my body.

"What did you do?"

"Mom—"

"Christian! What did you do?"

"I was so angry." It's almost a sob . . . No.

"Hey . . ."

The world dips and blurs and I'm gone.

I hear soft garbled voices.

"You told me you'd cut all ties." Grace is talking. Her voice is quiet, admonishing.

"I know." Christian sounds resigned. "But seeing her finally put it all in perspective for me. You know . . . with the child. For the first time I felt . . . What we did . . . it was wrong."

"What she did darling . . . Children will do that to you. Make you look at the world in a different light."

"She finally got the message . . . and so did I . . . I hurt Ana," he whispers.

"We always hurt the ones we love, darling. You'll have to tell her you're sorry. And mean it and give her time."

"She said she was leaving me."

No. No. No!

"Did you believe her?"

"At first, yes."

"Darling, you always believe the worst of everyone, including yourself. You always have. Ana loves you very much, and it's obvious you love her."

"She was mad at me."

"I'm sure she was. I'm pretty mad at you right now. I think you can only be truly mad at someone you really love."

"I thought about it, and she's shown me over and over how much she loves me . . . to the point of putting her own life in danger."

"Yes, she has, darling."

"Oh, Mom, why won't she wake up?" His voice cracks. "I nearly lost her."

Christian! There are muffled sobs. No . . .

Oh . . . the darkness closes in. No—

"It's taken twenty-four years for you to let me hold you like this . . ."

"I know, Mom . . . I'm glad we talked."

"Me too, darling. I'm always here. I can't believe I'm going to be a grandmother."

Grandma!

Sweet oblivion beckons.

Hmm. His stubble softly scrapes the back of my hand as he squeezes my fingers.

"Oh, baby, please come back to me. I'm sorry. Sorry for everything. Just wake up. I miss you. I love you . . ."

I try. I try. I want to see him. But my body disobeys me, and I fall asleep once more.

I have a pressing need to pee. I open my eyes. I'm in the clean, sterile environment of a hospital room. It's dark except for a sidelight, and all is quiet. My head and my chest ache, but more than that, my bladder is bursting. I need to pee. I test my limbs. My right arm smarts, and I notice the IV attached to it on the inside of my elbow. I shut my eyes quickly. Turning my head—I'm pleased that it responds to my will—I open my eyes again. Christian is asleep, sitting beside me and leaning on my bed with his head on his folded arms. I reach out, grateful once more that my body responds, and run my fingers through his soft hair.

He startles awake, raising his head so suddenly my hand falls weakly back onto the bed.

"Hi," I croak.

"Oh, Ana." His voice is choked and relieved. He grasps my hand, squeezing it tightly and holding it up against his rough, stubbled cheek.

"I need to use the bathroom," I whisper.

He gapes then frowns at me for a moment. "Okay."

I struggle to sit up.

"Ana, stay still. I'll call a nurse." He quickly stands, alarmed, and reaches for a buzzer on the bedside.

"Please," I whisper. Why do I ache everywhere? "I need to get up." Jeez, I feel so weak.

"Will you do as you're told for once?" he snaps, exasperated.

"I really need to pee," I rasp. My throat and mouth are so dry.

A nurse bustles into the room. She must be in her fifties, though her hair is jet black. She wears overlarge pearl earrings.

"Mrs. Grey welcome back. I'll let Dr. Bartley know you're awake." She makes her way to my bedside. "My name is Nora. Do you know where you are?"

"Yes. Hospital. I need to pee."

"You have a catheter."

What? Oh this is gross. I glance anxiously at Christian then back to the nurse.

"Please. I want to get up."

"Mrs. Grey."

"Please."

"Ana," Christian warns. I struggle to sit up once more.

"Let me remove your catheter. Mr. Grey I am sure Mrs. Grey would like some privacy." She looks pointedly at Christian, dismissing him.

"I'm not going anywhere." He glares back at her.

"Christian, please," I whisper, reaching out and grasping his hand. Briefly he squeezes my hand then gives me an exasperated look. "Please," I beg.

"Fine!" he snaps and runs his hand through his hair. "You have two minutes," he hisses at the nurse, and he leans down and kisses my forehead before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

Christian bursts back into the room two minutes later as Nurse Nora is helping me out of bed. I'm dressed in a thin hospital gown. I don't remember being stripped.

"Let me take her," he says and strides toward us.

"Mr. Grey, I can manage." Nurse Nora scolds him.

He gives her a hostile glare. "Dammit, she's my wife. I'll take her." He says through gritted teeth as he moves the IV stand out of his way.

"Mr. Grey!" she protests.

He ignores her, leans down, and gently lifts me off the bed. I wrap my arms around his neck, my body complaining. Jeez, I ache everywhere. He carries me to the en suite bathroom while Nurse Nora follows us, pushing the IV stand.

"Mrs. Grey, you're too light," he mutters disapprovingly as he sets me gently on my feet. I sway. My legs feel like Jell-O. Christian flips the light switch, and I'm momentarily blinded by the fluorescent lamp that pings and flickers to life.

"Sit before you fall," he snaps, still holding me.

Tentatively, I sit down on the toilet.

"Go." I try to wave him out.

"No. Just pee, Ana."

Could this be any more embarrassing? "I can't, not with you here."

"You might fall."

"Mr. Grey!"

We both ignore the nurse.

"Please," I beg.

He raises his hands in defeat. "I'll stand outside, door open." He takes a couple of paces back until he's standing just outside the door with the angry nurse.

"Turn around, please," I ask. Why do I feel so ridiculously shy with this man? He rolls his eyes but complies. And when his back is turned . . . I let go, and savor the relief.

I take stock of my injuries. My head hurts, my chest aches where Jack kicked me, and my side throbs where he pushed me to the ground. Plus I'm thirsty and hungry. Jeez, really hungry. I finish up, thankful that I don't have to get up to wash my hands, as the sink is close. I just don't have the strength to stand.

"I'm done," I call, drying my hands on the towel.

Christian turns and comes back in and before I know it, I'm in his arms again.

I have missed these arms. He pauses and buries his nose in my hair.

"Oh, I've missed you, Mrs. Grey," he whispers, and with Nurse Nora fussing behind him, he lays me back on the bed and releases me—reluctantly, I think.

"If you've quite finished, Mr. Grey, I'd like to check over Mrs. Grey now."

Nurse Nora is mad.

He stands back. "She's all yours," he says in a more measured tone.

She huffs at him then turns her attention back to me.

Exasperating isn't he?

"How do you feel?" she asks me her voice laced with sympathy and a trace of irritation, which I suspect is for Christian's benefit.

"Sore and thirsty. Very thirsty," I whisper.

"I'll fetch you some water once I've checked your vitals and Dr. Bartley has examined you."

She reaches for a blood pressure cuff and wraps it around my upper arm. I glance anxiously up at Christian. He looks dreadful—haunted, even—as if he hasn't slept for days. His hair is a mess, he hasn't shaved for a long time, and his shirt is badly wrinkled. I frown.

"How are you feeling?" Ignoring the nurse, he sits down on the bed out of arm's reach.

"Confused. Achy. Hungry."

"Hungry?" He blinks in surprise.

I nod.

"What do you want to eat?"

"Anything. Soup."

"Mr. Grey, you'll need the doctor's approval before Mrs. Grey can eat."

He gazes at her impassively for a moment then takes his BlackBerry out of his pants pocket and presses a number.

"Ana wants chicken soup . . . Good . . . Thank you." He hangs up.

I glance at Nora whose eyes narrow at Christian.

"Taylor?" I ask quickly.

Christian nods.

"Your blood pressure is normal, Mrs. Grey. I'll fetch the doctor." She removes the cuff and, without so much as another word, stalks out of the room, radiating disapproval.

"I think you made Nurse Nora mad."

"I have that effect on women." He smirks.

I laugh, then stop suddenly as pain radiates through my chest. "Yes, you do."

"Oh, Ana, I love to hear you laugh."

Nora returns with a pitcher of water. We both fall silent, gazing at each other as she pours out a glass and hands it to me.

"Small sips now," she warns.

"Yes, ma'am," I mutter and take a welcome sip of cool water. Oh my. It tastes perfect. I take another, and Christian watches me intently.

"Mia?" I ask.

"She's safe. Thanks to you."

"They did have her?"

"Yes."

All the madness was for a reason. Relief spirals through my body . Thank God, thank God, thank God she's okay. I frown.

"How did they get her?"

"Elizabeth Morgan," he says simply.

"No!"

He nods. "She picked her up at Mia's gym."

I frown, still not understanding.

"Ana, I'll fill you in on the details later. Mia is fine, all things considered.

She was drugged. She's groggy now and shaken up, but by some miracle she wasn't harmed." Christian's jaw clenches. "What you did"—he runs his hand through his hair—"was incredibly brave and incredibly stupid. You could have been killed." His eyes blaze a bleak, chilling gray, and I know he's restraining his anger.

"I didn't know what else to do," I whisper.

"You could have told me!" he says vehemently, fisting his hands in his lap.

"He said he'd kill her if I told anyone. I couldn't take that risk."

Christian closes his eyes, dread etched in his face.

"I have died a thousand deaths since Thursday."

Thursday?

"What day is it?"

"It's almost Saturday," he says, checking his watch. "You've been unconscious for over twenty-four hours."

Oh.

"And Jack and Elizabeth?"

"In police custody. Although Hyde is here under guard. They had to remove the bullet you left in him," Christian says bitterly. "I don't know where in this hospital he is, fortunately, or I'd probably kill him myself." His face darkens.

Oh shit. Jack is here?

"That's for SIP you fucking bitch!" I pale. My empty stomach convulses, tears prick my eyes, and a deep shudder runs through me.

"Hey." Christian scoots forward, his voice filled with concern. Taking the glass from my hand, he tenderly folds me into his arms. "You're safe now," he murmurs against my hair, his voice hoarse.

"Christian, I'm so sorry." My tears start to fall.

"Hush." He strokes my hair, and I weep into his neck.

"What I said. I was never going to leave you."

"Hush, baby, I know."

"You do?" His admission halts my tears.

"I worked it out. Eventually. Honestly, Ana, what were you thinking?" His tone is strained.

"You took me by surprise," I mutter into his shirt collar. "When we spoke at the bank. Thinking I was leaving you. I thought you knew me better. I've said to you over and over I would never leave."

"But after the appalling way I've behaved—" His voice is barely audible, and his arms tighten around me. "I thought for a short time that I'd lost you."

"No, Christian. Never. I didn't want you to interfere, and put Mia's life in danger."

He sighs, and I don't know if it's from anger, exasperation, or hurt.

"How did you work it out?" I ask quickly to distract him from his line of thought.

He tucks my hair behind my ear. "I'd just touched down in Seattle when the bank called. Last I'd heard, you were ill and going home."

"So you were in Portland when Sawyer called you from the car?"

"We were just about to take off. I was worried about you," he says softly.

"You were?"

He frowns. "Of course I was." He skirts his thumb over my bottom lip. "I spend my life worrying about you. You know that."

Oh, Christian!

"Jack called me at the office," I murmur. "He gave me two hours to get the money." I shrug. "I had to leave, and it just seemed the best excuse."

Christian's mouth presses into a hard line. "And you gave Sawyer the slip.

He's mad at you, as well."

"As well?"

"As well as me."

I tentatively touch his face, running my fingers over his stubble. He closes his eyes, leaning into my fingers.

"Don't be mad at me. Please," I whisper.

"I am so mad at you. What you did was monumentally stupid. Bordering on insane."

"I told you, I didn't know what else to do."

"You don't seem to have any regard for your personal safety. And it's not just you now," he adds angrily.

My lip trembles. He's thinking about our Little Blip.

The door opens, startling us both, and a young African-American woman in a white coat over gray scrubs strides in.

"Good evening, Mrs. Grey. I'm Dr. Bartley."

She starts to examine me thoroughly, shining a light in my eyes, making me touch her fingers, then my nose while closing first one eye and then the other, and checking all my reflexes. But her voice is soft and her touch gentle; she has a warm bedside manner. Nurse Nora joins her, and Christian wanders to the corner of the room and makes some calls while the two of them tend to me. It's hard to concentrate on Dr. Bartley, Nurse Nora, and Christian at the same time, but I hear him call his father, my mother, and Kate to say I'm awake. Finally, he leaves a message for Ray.

Ray. Oh shit . . . A vague memory of his voice comes back to me. He was here—yes, while I was still unconscious.

Dr. Bartley checks my ribs, her fingers probing gently but firmly.

I wince.

"These are bruised, not cracked or broken. You were very lucky, Mrs. Grey."

I scowl. Lucky? Not the word I would have chosen. Christian glowers at her, too. He mouths something at me. I think it's foolhardy, but I'm not sure.

"I'll prescribe some painkillers. You'll need them for this and for the headache you must have. But all's looking as it should, Mrs. Grey. I suggest you get some sleep. Depending on how you feel in the morning, we may let you go home.

My colleague Dr. Singh will be attending you then."

"Thank you."

There's a knock on the door, and Taylor enters bearing a black cardboard box with Fairmont Olympic emblazoned in cream on the side.

Holy cow!

"Food?" Dr. Bartley says surprised.

"Mrs. Grey is hungry," Christian says. "This is chicken soup."

Dr. Bartley smiles. "Soup will be fine, just the broth. Nothing heavy." She looks pointedly at both of us then exits the room with Nurse Nora.

Christian pulls the wheeled tray over to me, and Taylor places the box on it.

"Welcome back, Mrs. Grey."

"Hello, Taylor. Thank you."

"You're most welcome, ma'am." I think he wants to say more, but he holds off.

Christian is unpacking the box, producing a thermos, soup bowl, side plate, linen napkin, soupspoon, a small basket of bread rolls, silver salt and pepper shakers . . . The Olympic has gone all-out.

"This is great, Taylor." My stomach is rumbling. I am famished.

"Will that be all?" he asks.

"Yes, thanks," Christian says, dismissing him.

Taylor nods.

"Taylor, thank you."

"Anything else I can get you, Mrs. Grey?"

I glance at Christian. "Just some clean clothes for Christian."

Taylor smiles. "Yes, ma'am."

Christian glances down at his shirt, bemused.

"How long have you been wearing that shirt?" I ask.

"Since Thursday morning." He gives me a crooked smile.

Taylor exits.

"Taylor's real pissed at you, too," Christian adds grumpily, unscrewing the lid of the thermos and pouring creamy chicken soup into the bowl.

Taylor, too! But I don't dwell on that as my chicken soup distracts me. It smells delicious, and steam curls invitingly from its surface. I take a taste and it's everything it promised to be.

"Good?" Christian asks, perching on the bed again.

I nod enthusiastically and don't stop. My hunger is primal. I pause only to wipe my mouth with the linen napkin.

"Tell me what happened—after you realized what was going on."

Christian runs his hand through his hair and shakes his head. "Oh, Ana, it's good to see you eat."

"I'm hungry. Tell me."

He frowns. "Well, after the bank called and I thought my world had completely fallen apart—" He can't hide the pain in his voice.

I stop eating . Oh shit.

"Don't stop eating, or I'll stop talking," he whispers, his tone adamant as he glares at me. I continue with my soup. Okay, okay . . . Damn, it tastes good.

Christian's gaze softens and after a beat, he resumes.

"Anyway, shortly after you and I had finished our conversation, Taylor informed me that Hyde had been granted bail. How, I don't know, I thought we'd managed to thwart any attempts at bail. But that gave me a moment to think about what you'd said . . . and I knew something was seriously wrong."

"It was never about the money," I snap suddenly, an unexpected surge of anger flaring in my belly. My voice rises. "How could you even think that? It's never been about your fucking money!" My head starts to pound and I wince. Christian gapes at me for a split second, surprised by my vehemence. He narrows his eyes.

"Mind your language," he growls. "Calm down and eat."I glare mutinously at him.

"Ana," he warns.

"That hurt me more than anything, Christian," I whisper. "Almost as much as you seeing that woman."

He inhales sharply as if I've slapped him and all of a sudden, he looks exhausted. Closing his eyes briefly, he shakes his head, resigned.

"I know." He sighs. "And I'm sorry. More than you know." His eyes are luminous with contrition. "Please, eat. While your soup is still hot." His voice is soft and compelling, and I do as he asks. He breathes a sigh of relief.

"Go on," I whisper, between bites of the illicit fresh white bread roll.

"We didn't know Mia was missing. I thought maybe he was blackmailing you or something. I called you back, but you didn't answer." He scowls. "I left you a message then called Sawyer. Taylor started tracking your cell. I knew you were at the bank, so we headed straight there."

"I don't know how Sawyer found me. Was he tracking my cell, too?"

"The Saab is fitted with a tracking device. All our cars are. By the time we got near the bank, you were already on the move, and we followed. Why are you smiling?"

"On some level I knew you'd be stalking me."

"And that is amusing because?" he asks.

"Jack had instructed me to get rid of my cell. So I borrowed Whelan's cell, and that's the one I threw away. I put mine into one of the duffle bags so you could track your money."

Christian sighs. "Our money, Ana," he says quietly. "Eat."

I wipe my soup bowl with the last of my bread and pop it into my mouth. For the first time in a long while, I feel replete in spite of our conversation.

"Finished."

"Good girl."

There's a knock on the door and Nurse Nora enters once more, carrying a small paper cup. Christian clears away my plate, and starts putting all the items back into the box.

"Pain relief." Nora smiles, showing me the white pill in the paper cup.

"Is this okay to take? You know—with the baby?"

"Yes, Mrs. Grey. It's Lortab—it's fine; it won't affect the baby."

I nod gratefully. My head is pounding. I swallow it down with a sip of water.

"You ought to rest, Mrs. Grey." Nurse Nora looks pointedly at Christian.

He nods.

No! "You're going?" I exclaim, panic setting in. Don't go—we've just started talking!

Christian snorts. "If you think for one moment I'm going to let you out of my sight, Mrs. Grey, you are very much mistaken."

Nora huffs but hovers over me and readjusts my pillows so that I have to lie down.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Grey," she says, and with one last censorious glance at Christian, she leaves.

He raises an eyebrow as she closes the door.

"I don't think Nurse Nora approves of me."

He stands by the bed, looking tired, and despite the fact that I want him to stay, I know I should try to persuade him to go home.

"You need rest, too, Christian. Go home. You look exhausted."

"I'm not leaving you. I'll doze in this armchair."

I scowl at him then shift onto my side.

"Sleep with me."

He frowns. "No. I can't."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't hurt me. Please, Christian."

"You have an IV."

"Christian. Please."

He gazes at me, and I can tell he's tempted.

"Please." I lift up the blankets, inviting him into the bed.

"Fuck it." He slips off his shoes and socks, and gingerly climbs in beside me.

Gently, he wraps his arm around me, and I lay my head on his chest. He kisses my hair.

"I don't think Nurse Nora will be very happy with this arrangement," he whispers conspiratorially.

I giggle, then stop as pain lances through my chest. "Don't make me laugh. It hurts."

"Oh, but I love that sound," he says a little sadly, his voice low. "I'm sorry, baby, so, so sorry." He kisses my hair again and inhales deeply, and I don't know what he's apologizing for . . . making me laugh? Or the mess we're in? I rest my hand over his heart, and he gently places his hand on mine. We are both silent for a moment.

"Why did you go see that woman?"

"Oh, Ana." He groans. "You want to discuss that now? Can't we drop this? I regret it, okay?"

"I need to know."

"I'll tell you tomorrow," he mutters, irritated. "Oh, and Detective Clark wants to talk to you. Just routine. Now go to sleep."

He kisses my hair. I sigh heavily. I need to know why. At least he says he regrets it. That's something, my subconscious agrees. She's in an agreeable mood today, it seems. Ugh, Detective Clark. I shudder at the thought of reliving Thursday's events for him.

"Do we know why Jack was doing all this?"

"Hmm," Christian murmurs. I'm soothed by the slow rise and fall of his chest, gently rocking my head, lulling me to sleep as his breathing slows. And while I drift I try to make sense of the fragments of conversations I heard while I was on the edge of consciousness, but they slither through my mind, remaining steadfastly elusive, taunting me from the edges of my memory. Oh, it's frustrating and exhausting . . . and . . .

Nurse Nora's mouth is pursed and her arms folded in hostility. I hold my finger up to my lips.

"Please let him sleep," I whisper, squinting in the early morning light.

"This is your bed. Not his," she hisses sternly.

"I slept better because he was here." I insist, rushing to my husband's defense. Besides, it's true. Christian stirs, and Nurse Nora and I freeze.

He mumbles in his sleep, "Don't touch me. No more. Only Ana."

I frown. I have rarely heard Christian talk in his sleep. Admittedly, that might be because he sleeps less than I do. I've only ever heard his nightmares. His arms tighten around me, squeezing me, and I wince.

"Mrs. Grey—" Nurse Nora glowers.

"Please," I beg.

She shakes her head, turns on her heel and leaves, and I snuggle up against Christian again.

When I wake, Christian is nowhere to be seen. The sun is blazing through the windows, and I can now really appreciate the room. I have flowers! I didn't notice them the night before. Several bouquets. I wonder idly who they're from.

A soft knock distracts me, and Carrick peeks around the door. He beams when he sees that I'm awake.

"May I come in?" he asks.

"Of course."

He strides into the room and over to me, his soft, gentle blue eyes assessing me shrewdly. He's wearing a dark suit—he must be working. He surprises me by leaning down and kissing my forehead.

"May I sit?"

I nod, and he perches on the edge of the bed and takes my hand.

"I don't know how to thank you for my daughter, you crazy, brave, darling girl. What you did probably saved her life. I will be forever in your debt." His voice wavers, filled with gratitude and compassion.

Oh . . . I don't know what to say. I squeeze his hand but remain mute.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better. Sore." I say, for honesty's sake.

"Have they given you meds for the pain?"

"Lor . . . something."

"Good. Where's Christian?"

"I don't know. When I woke up, he was gone."

"He won't be far away, I'm sure. He wouldn't leave you while you were unconscious."

"I know."

"He's a little mad at you, as he should be." Carrick smirks. Ah, this is where Christian gets it from.

"Christian is always mad at me."

"Is he?" Carrick smiles, pleased—as if this is a good thing. His smile is infectious.

"How's Mia?"

His eyes cloud and his smile vanishes. "She's better. Mad as hell. I think anger is a healthy reaction to what happened to her."

"Is she here?"

"No, she's back at home. I don't think Grace will let her out of her sight."

"I know how that feels."

"You need watching, too," he admonishes. "I don't want you taking anymore silly risks with your life or the life of my grandchild."

I flush. He knows!

"Grace read your chart. She told me. Congratulations."

"Um . . . thank you."

He gazes down at me, and his eyes soften, though he frowns at my expression.

"Christian will come around," he says gently. "This will be the best thing for him. Just . . . give him some time."

I nod . Oh . . . They've spoken.

"I'd better go. I'm due in court." He smiles and rises. "I'll check in on you later. Grace speaks highly of Dr. Singh and Dr. Bartley. They know what they're doing."

He leans down and kisses me once more. "I mean it, Ana. I can never repay what you've done for us. Thank you."

I look up at him, blinking back tears, suddenly overwhelmed, and he strokes my cheek affectionately. Then he turns on his heel and leaves.

Oh my. I'm reeling from his gratitude. Perhaps now I can let the prenup de-bacle go. My subconscious nods sagely in agreement with me yet again. I shake my head and gingerly get out of bed. I'm relieved to find that I am much steadier on my feet than yesterday. In spite of Christian sharing the bed, I have slept well and feel refreshed. My head still aches, but it's a dull nagging pain, nothing like the pounding yesterday. I'm stiff and sore, but I just need a bath. I feel grimy. I head into the en suite.

"Ana!" Christian shouts.

"I'm in the bathroom," I call as I finish brushing my teeth. That feels better. I ignore my reflection in the mirror. Jeez, I look a mess. When I open the door, Christian is by the bed, holding a tray of food. He's transformed. Dressed entirely in black, he's shaved, showered, and looks well rested.

"Good morning, Mrs. Grey," he says brightly. "I have your breakfast." He looks so boyish and much happier.

Wow. I smile broadly as I climb back into bed. He pulls over the tray on wheels and lifts the cover to reveal my breakfast: oatmeal with dried fruits, pancakes with maple syrup, bacon, orange juice, and Twinings English breakfast tea.

My mouth waters; I'm so hungry. I down the orange juice in a few gulps and dig into the oatmeal. Christian sits down on the edge of the bed to watch. He smirks.

"What?" I ask with my mouth full.

"I like to watch you eat," he says. But I don't think that's what he's smirking about. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," I mutter between mouthfuls.

"I've never seen you eat like this."

I glance up at him, and my heart sinks. We have to address the very tiny ele-phant in the room. "It's because I'm pregnant, Christian."

He snorts, and his mouth twists into an ironic smile. "If I knew getting you knocked up was going to make you eat, I might have done it earlier."

"Christian Grey!" I gasp and set the oatmeal down.

"Don't stop eating," he warns.

"Christian, we need to talk about this."

He stills. "What's there to say? We're going to be parents." He shrugs, desperately trying to look nonchalant, but all I can see is his fear. Pushing the tray aside, I crawl down the bed to him and take his hands in mine.

"You're scared," I whisper. "I get it."

He gazes at me, impassive, his eyes wide and all his earlier boyishness stripped away.

"I am, too. That's normal," I whisper.

"What kind of father could I possibly be?" His voice is hoarse, barely audible.

"Oh, Christian." I stifle a sob. "One that tries his best. That's all any of us can do."

"Ana—I don't know if I can . . ."

"Of course you can. You're loving, you're fun, you're strong, you'll set boundaries. Our child will want for nothing."

He's frozen, staring at me, doubt etched on his beautiful face.

"Yes, it would have been ideal to have waited. To have longer, just the two of us. But we'll be three of us, and we'll all grow up together. We'll be a family. Our own family. And your child will love you unconditionally, like I do." Tears spring to my eyes.

"Oh, Ana," Christian whispers, his voice anguished and pained. "I thought I'd lost you. Then I thought I'd lost you again. Seeing you lying on the ground, pale and cold and unconscious—it was all my worst fears realized. And now here you are—brave and strong . . . giving me hope. Loving me after all that I've done."

"Yes, I do love you, Christian, desperately. I always will."

Gently taking my head between his hands, he wipes my tears away with his thumbs. He gazes into my eyes, gray to blue, and all I see is his fear and wonder and love.

"I love you, too," he breathes. And he kisses me sweetly, tenderly like a man who adores his wife. "I'll try to be a good father," he whispers against my lips.

"You'll try, and you'll succeed. And let's face it; you don't have much choice in the matter, because Blip and I are not going anywhere."

"Blip?"

"Blip."

He raises his eyebrows. "I had the name Junior in my head."

"Junior it is, then."

"But I like Blip." He smiles his shy smile and kisses me once more.

Chapter Twenty-four

"Much as I'd like to kiss you all day, your breakfast is getting cold," Christian murmurs against my lips. He gazes down at me, now amused, except his eyes are darker, sensual. Holy cow, he's switched again. My Mr. Mercurial.

"Eat," he orders, his voice soft. I swallow, a reaction to his smoldering look, and crawl back into bed, avoiding snagging my IV line. He pushes the tray in front of me. The oatmeal is cold, but the pancakes under the cover are fine—in fact, they're mouthwatering.

"You know," I mutter between mouthfuls, "Blip might be a girl."

Christian runs his hand through his hair. "Two women, eh?" Alarm flashes across his face, and his dark look vanishes.

Oh crap. "Do you have a preference?"

"Preference?"

"Boy or girl."

He frowns. "Healthy will do," he says quietly clearly disconcerted by the question. "Eat," he snaps, and I know he's trying to avoid the subject.

"I'm eating, I'm eating . . . Jeez, keep your hair on, Grey." I watch him carefully. The corners of his eyes are crinkled with worry. He's said he'll try, but I know he's still freaked out by the baby. Oh, Christian, so am I. He sits down in the armchair beside me, picking up the Seattle Times.

"You made the papers again, Mrs. Grey." His is tone bitter.

"Again?"

"The hacks are just rehashing yesterday's story, but it seems factually accur-ate. You want to read it?"

I shake my head. "Read it to me. I'm eating."

He smirks and proceeds to read the article aloud. It's a report on Jack and Elizabeth, depicting them as a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde. It briefly covers Mia's kidnapping, my involvement in Mia's rescue, and the fact that both Jack and I are in the same hospital. How does the press get all this information? I must ask Kate.

When Christian finishes, I say, "Please read something else. I like listening to you."

He obliges and reads me a report about a booming bagel business and the fact that Boeing has had to cancel the launch of some plane. Christian frowns as he reads. But listening to his soothing voice as I eat, secure in the knowledge that I am fine, Mia is safe and my Little Blip is safe, I feel a precious moment of peace despite all that has happened over the last few days.

I understand that Christian is scared about the baby, but I don't understand the depth of his fear. I resolve to talk to him some more about this. See if I can put his mind at ease. What puzzles me is that he hasn't lacked for positive role models as parents. Both Grace and Carrick are exemplary parents, or so they seem.

Maybe it was the Bitch Troll's interference that damaged him so badly. I'd like to think so. But in truth I think it goes back to his birth mom, though I'm sure Mrs.

Robinson didn't help. I halt my thoughts as I nearly recall a whispered conversation. Damn! It hovers on the edge of my memory from when I was unconscious. Christian talking with Grace. It melts away into the shadows of my mind. Oh, it's so frustrating.

I wonder if Christian will ever volunteer the reason he went to see her or if I'll have to push him. I'm about to ask when there's a knock on the door.

Detective Clark makes an apologetic entry into the room. He's right to be apologetic—my heart sinks when I see him.

"Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey. Am I interrupting?"

"Yes," snaps Christian.

Clark ignores him. "Glad to see you're awake, Mrs. Grey. I need to ask you a few questions about Thursday afternoon. Just routine. Is now a convenient time?"

"Sure," I mumble, but I do not want to relive Thursday's events.

"My wife should be resting." Christian bristles.

"I'll be brief, Mr. Grey. And it means I'll be out of your hair sooner rather than later."

Christian stands and offers Clark his chair, then sits down beside me on the bed, takes my hand, and squeezes it reassuringly.

Half an hour later, Clark is done. I've learned nothing new, but I have recounted the events of Thursday to him in a halting, quiet voice, watching Christian go pale and grimace at some parts.

"I wish you'd aimed higher," Christian mutters.

"Might have done womankind a service if Mrs. Grey had." Clark agrees.

What?

"Thank you, Mrs. Grey. That's all for now."

"You won't let him out again, will you?"

"I don't think he'll make bail this time, ma'am."

"Do we know who posted his bail?" Christian asks.

"No sir. It was confidential."

Christian frowns, but I think he has his suspicions. Clark rises to leave just as Dr. Singh and two interns enter the room.

After a thorough examination, Dr. Singh declares me fit to go home. Christian sags with relief.

"Mrs. Grey, you'll have to watch for worsening headaches and blurry vision.

If that occurs you must return to the hospital immediately."

I nod, trying to contain my delight at going home.

As Dr. Singh leaves, Christian asks her for a quick word in the corridor. He keeps the door ajar as he asks her a question. She smiles.

"Yes, Mr. Grey, that's fine."

He grins and returns to the room a happier man.

"What was all that about?"

"Sex," he says, flashing a wicked grin.

Oh. I blush. "And?"

"You're good to go." He smirks.

Oh, Christian!

"I have a headache." I smirk right back.

"I know. You'll be off limits for a while. I was just checking."

Off limits? I frown at the momentary stab of disappointment I feel. I'm not sure I want to be off limits.

Nurse Nora joins us to remove my IV. She glares at Christian. I think she's one of the few women I've met who is oblivious to his charms. I thank her when she leaves with my IV stand.

"Shall I take you home?" Christian asks.

"I'd like to see Ray first."

"Sure."

"Does he know about the baby?"

"I thought you'd want to be the one to tell him. I haven't told your mom either."

"Thank you." I smile, grateful that he hasn't stolen my thunder.

"My mom knows," Christian adds. "She saw your chart. I told my dad but no one else. Mom said couples normally wait for twelve weeks or so . . . to be sure."

He shrugs.

"I'm not sure I'm ready to tell Ray."

"I should warn you, he's mad as hell. Said I should spank you."

What? Christian laughs at my appalled expression. "I told him I'd be only too willing to oblige."

"You didn't!" I gasp, though an echo of a whispered conversation tantalizes my memory. Yes, Ray was here while I was unconscious . . .

He winks at me. "Here, Taylor brought you some clean clothes. I'll help you dress."

As Christian predicted, Ray is furious. I don't ever remember him being this mad.

Christian has wisely decided to leave us alone. For such a taciturn man, Ray fills his hospital room with his invective, berating me for my irresponsible behavior. I am twelve years old again.

Oh, Dad, please calm down. Your blood pressure is not up to this.

"And I've had to deal with your mother," he grumbles, waving both of his hands in exasperation.

"Dad, I'm sorry."

"And poor Christian! I've never seen him like that. He's aged. We've both aged years over the last couple of days."

"Ray, I'm sorry."

"Your mother is waiting for your call," he says in a more measured tone.

I kiss his cheek, and finally he relents from his tirade.

"I'll call her. I really am sorry. But thank you for teaching me to shoot."

For a moment, he regards me with ill-concealed paternal pride. "I'm glad you can shoot straight," he says, his voice gruff. "Now go on home and get some rest."

"You look well, Dad." I try to change the subject.

"You look pale." His fear is suddenly evident. His look mirrors Christian's from last night, and I grasp his hand.

"I'm okay. I promise I won't do anything like that again."

He squeezes my hand and pulls me into a hug. "If anything happened to you," he whispers, his voice hoarse and low. Tears prick my eyes. I am not used to displays of emotion from my stepfather.

"Dad, I'm good. Nothing that a hot shower won't cure."

We leave through the rear exit of the hospital to avoid the paparazzi gathered at the entrance. Taylor leads us to the waiting in the SUV.

Christian is quiet as Sawyer drives us home. I avoid Sawyer's gaze in the rearview mirror, embarrassed that the last time I saw him was at the bank when I gave him the slip. I call my mom, who sobs and sobs. It takes most of the journey home to calm her down, but I succeed by promising that we'll visit soon.

Throughout my conversation with her, Christian holds my hand, brushing his thumb across my knuckles. He's nervous . . . something's happened.

"What's wrong?" I ask when I'm finally free from my mother.

"Welch wants to see me."

"Welch? Why?"

"He's found something out about that fucker Hyde." Christian's lip curls into a snarl, and a frisson of fear passes through me. "He didn't want to tell me on the phone."

"Oh."

"He's coming here this afternoon from Detroit."

"You think he's found a connection?"

Christian nods.

"What do you think it is?"

"I have no idea." Christian's brow furrows, perplexed.

Taylor pulls into the garage at Escala and stops by the elevator to let us out before he parks. In the garage, we can avoid the attention of the waiting photographers. Christian ushers me out of the car. Keeping his arm around my waist, he leads me to the waiting elevator.

"Glad to be home?" he asks.

"Yes," I whisper. But as I stand in the familiar surroundings of the elevator, the enormity of what I've been through crashes over me, and I start to shake.

"Hey—" Christian wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. "You're home. You're safe," he says, kissing my hair.

"Oh, Christian." A dam I didn't even know was in place bursts, and I start to sob.

"Hush now," Christian whispers, cradling my head against his chest.

But it's too late. I weep, overwhelmed, into his T-shirt, recalling Jack's vicious attack— "That's for SIP, you fucking bitch!"— telling Christian I was leaving— "You're leaving me?"— and my fear, my gut-wrenching fear for Mia, for myself, and for Little Blip.

When the doors of the elevator slide open, Christian picks me up like a child and carries me into the foyer. I wrap my arms around his neck and cling to him, keening quietly.

He carries me through to our bathroom and gently settles me on the chair.

"Bath?" he asks.

I shake my head. No . . . no . . . not like Leila.

"Shower?" His voice is choked with concern.

Through my tears, I nod. I want to wash away the grime of the last few days, wash away the memory of Jack's attack. "You gold digging whore." I sob into my hands as the sound of the water cascading from the shower echoes off the walls.

"Hey," Christian croons. Kneeling in front of me, he pulls my hands away from my tearstained cheeks and cups my face in his hands. I gaze at him, blinking away my tears.

"You're safe. You both are," he whispers.

Blip and me. My eyes brim with tears again.

"Stop, now. I can't bear it when you cry." His voice is hoarse. His thumbs wipe my cheeks, but my tears still flow.

"I'm sorry, Christian. Just sorry for everything. For making you worry, for risking everything—for the things I said."

"Hush, baby, please." He kisses my forehead. "I'm sorry. It takes two to tango, Ana." He gives me a crooked smile. "Well, that's what my mom always says. I said things and did things I'm not proud of." His gray eyes are bleak but penitent. "Let's get you undressed." His voice is soft. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand, and he kisses my forehead once more.

Briskly he strips me, taking particular care as he pulls my T-shirt over my head. But my head is not too sore. Leading me to the shower, he peels off his own clothing in record time before stepping into the welcome hot water with me. He pulls me into his arms and holds me, holds me for the longest time, as the water gushes over us, soothing us both.

He lets me cry into his chest. Occasionally he kisses my hair, but he doesn't let go, he just rocks me gently beneath the warm water. To feel his skin against mine, his chest hair against my cheek . . . this man I love, this self-doubting, beautiful man, the man I could have lost through my own recklessness. I feel empty and aching at the thought but grateful that he's here, still here—despite everything that's happened.

He has some explaining to do, but right now I want to revel in the feel of his comforting, protective arms around me. And in that moment it occurs to me; any explanations on his part have to come from him. I can't force him—he's got to want to tell me. I won't be cast as the nagging wife, constantly trying to wheedle information out of her husband. It's just exhausting. I know he loves me. I know he loves me more than he's ever loved anyone, and for now, that's enough. The realization is liberating. I stop crying and step back.

"Better?" he asks.

I nod.

"Good. Let me look at you," he says, and for a moment I don't know what he means. But he takes my hand and examines the arm I fell on when Jack hit me.

There are bruises on my shoulder and scrapes at my elbow and wrist. He kisses each of them. He grabs a washcloth and shower gel from the rack, and the sweet familiar scent of jasmine fills my nostrils.

"Turn around." Gently, he proceeds to wash my injured arm, then my neck, my shoulders, my back, and my other arm. He turns me sideways, and traces his long fingers down my side. I wince as they skate over the large bruise at my hip.

Christian's eyes harden and his lips thin. His anger is palpable as he whistles through his teeth.

"It doesn't hurt," I murmur to reassure him.

Blazing gray eyes meet mine. "I want to kill him. I nearly did," he whispers cryptically. I frown then shiver at his bleak expression. He squirts more shower gel on the washcloth and with tender, aching gentleness, he washes my side and my behind, then, kneeling, moves down my legs. He pauses to examine my knee.

He lips brush over the bruise before he returns to washing my legs and my feet.

Reaching down, I caress his head, running my fingers through his wet hair. He stands, and his fingers trace the outline of the bruise on my ribs where Jack kicked me.

"Oh, baby," he groans, his voice filled with anguish, his eyes dark with fury.

"I'm okay." I pull his head down to mine and kiss his lips. He's hesitant to reciprocate, but as my tongue meets his, his body stirs against me.

"No," he whispers against my lips, and he pulls back. "Let's get you clean."

His face is serious. Damn . . . He means it. I pout, and the atmosphere between us lightens in an instant. He grins and kisses me briefly.

"Clean," he emphasizes. "Not dirty."

"I like dirty."

"Me, too, Mrs. Grey. But not now, not here." He grabs the shampoo, and before I can persuade him otherwise, he's washing my hair.

I love clean, too. I feel refreshed and reinvigorated, and I don't know if it's from the shower, the crying, or my decision to stop hassling Christian about everything.

He wraps me in a large towel and drapes one around his hips while I gingerly dry my hair. My head aches, but it's a dull persistent pain that is more than manage-able. I have some painkillers from Dr. Singh, but she's asked me not to use them unless I have to.

As I dry my hair, I think about Elizabeth.

"I still don't understand why Elizabeth was involved with Jack."

"I do," Christian mutters darkly.

This is news. I frown up at him, but I'm distracted. He's drying his hair with a towel, his chest and shoulders still wet with beads of water that glint beneath the halogens. He pauses and smirks.

"Enjoying the view?"

"How do you know?" I ask, trying to ignore that I've been caught staring at my own husband.

"That you're enjoying the view?" he teases.

"No," I scold. "About Elizabeth."

"Detective Clark hinted at it."

I give him my tell-me-more expression, and another nagging memory from when I was unconscious resurfaces. Clark was in my room. I wish I could remember what he said.

"Hyde had videos. Videos of all of them. On several USB flash drives."

What? I frown, my skin tightening across my forehead.

"Videos of him fucking her and fucking all his PAs."

Oh!

"Exactly. Blackmail material. He likes it rough." Christian frowns, and I watch confusion followed by disgust cross his face. He pales as his disgust turns to self-loathing. Of course—Christian likes it rough, too.

"Don't." The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

His frown deepens. "Don't what?" He stills and regards me with apprehension.

"You aren't anything like him."

Christian's eyes harden, but he says nothing, confirming that's exactly what he's thinking.

"You're not." My voice is adamant.

"We're cut from the same cloth."

"No, you're not," I snap, though I understand why he might think so. "His dad died in a brawl in a bar. His mother drank herself into oblivion. He was in and out of foster homes as a kid, in and out of trouble, too—mainly boosting cars.

Spent time in juvie." I recall the information Christian revealed on the plane to Aspen.

"You both have troubled pasts, and you were both born in Detroit. That's it, Christian." I fist my hands on my hips.

"Ana, your faith in me is touching, especially in light of the last few days.

We'll know more when Welch is here." He's dismissing the subject.

"Christian—"

He stops me with a kiss. "Enough," he breathes, and I remember the promise I made to myself not to hound him for information.

"And don't pout," he adds. "Come. Let me dry your hair."

And I know the subject is closed.

After dressing in sweatpants and a T-shirt, I sit between Christian's legs as he dries my hair.

"So did Clark tell you anything else while I was unconscious?"

"Not that I recall."

"I heard a few of your conversations."

The hairbrush stills in my hair.

"Did you?" he asks, his tone nonchalant.

"Yes. My dad, your dad, Detective Clark . . . your mom."

"And Kate?"

"Kate was there?"

"Briefly, yes. She's mad at you, too."

I turn in his lap. "Stop with the everyone is mad at Ana crap, okay?"

"Just telling you the truth," Christian says, bemused by my outburst.

"Yes, it was reckless, but you know, your sister was in danger."

His face falls. "Yes. She was." Switching off the hairdryer, he puts it down on the bed beside him. He grasps my chin.

"Thank you," he says, surprising me. "But no more recklessness. Because next time, I will spank the living shit out of you."

I gasp.

"You wouldn't!"

"I would." He's serious. Holy cow. Deadly serious. "I have your stepfather's permission." He smirks. He's teasing me! Or is he? I launch myself at him, and he twists so that I fall onto the bed and into his arms. As I land, pain from my ribs shoots through me and I wince.

Christian pales. "Behave!" he admonishes, and for a moment he's angry.

"Sorry," I mumble, caressing his cheek.

He nuzzles my hand and kisses it gently. "Honestly, Ana, you really have no regard for your own safety." He tugs up the hem of my T-shirt then rests his fingers on my belly. I stop breathing. "It's not just you anymore," he whispers, trailing his fingertips along the waistband of my sweats, caressing my skin. Desire explodes unexpected, hot, and heavy in my blood. I gasp and Christian tenses, halting his fingers and gazing down at me. He moves his hand up and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

"No," he whispers.

What?

"Don't look at me like that. I've seen the bruises. And the answer's no." His voice is firm, and he kisses my forehead.

I squirm. "Christian," I whine.

"No. Get into bed." He sits up.

"Bed?"

"You need rest."

"I need you."

He closes his eyes and shakes his head as if it's a great effort of will. When he opens them again, his eyes are bright with his resolve. "Just do as you're told, Ana."

I'm tempted to take off all my clothes, but then I remember the bruises and know I won't win that way.

Reluctantly, I nod. "Okay." I deliberately give him an exaggerated pout.

He grins, amused. "I'll bring you some lunch."

"You're going to cook?" I nearly expire.

He has the grace to laugh. "I'm going to heat something up. Mrs. Jones has been busy."

"Christian, I'll do it. I'm fine. Jeez, I want sex—I can certainly cook." I sit up awkwardly, trying to hide my flinch from my smarting ribs.

"Bed!" Christian's eyes flash, and he points to the pillow.

"Join me," I murmur, wishing I were wearing something a little more alluring than sweatpants and a T-shirt.

"Ana, get into bed. Now."I scowl, stand up, and let my pants drop unceremo-niously to the floor, glaring at him the whole time. His mouth twitches with humor as he pulls the duvet back.

"You heard Dr. Singh. She said rest." His voice is gentler. I slip into bed and fold my arms in frustration. "Stay," he says clearly enjoying himself.

My scowl deepens.

Mrs. Jones's chicken stew is, without doubt, one of my favorite dishes. Christian eats with me, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed.

"That was very well heated." I smirk and he grins. I'm replete and sleepy.

Was this his plan?

"You look tired." He picks up my tray.

"I am."

"Good. Sleep." He kisses me. "I have some work I need to do. I'll do it in here if that's okay with you."

I nod . . . fighting a losing battle with my eyelids. I had no idea chicken stew could be so exhausting.

It's dusk when I wake. Pale pink light floods the room. Christian is sitting in the armchair, watching me, gray eyes luminous in the ambient light. He's clutching some papers. His face is ashen.

Holy cow! "What's wrong?" I ask immediately, sitting up and ignoring my protesting ribs.

"Welch has just left."

Oh shit. "And?"

"I lived with the fucker," he whispers.

"Lived? With Jack?"

He nods, eyes wide.

"You're related?"

"No. Good God, no."

I shuffle over and pull the duvet back, inviting him into bed beside me, and to my surprise he doesn't hesitate. He kicks off his shoes and slides in alongside me.

Wrapping one arm around me, he curls up, resting his head in my lap. I'm stunned. What's this?

"I don't understand," I murmur, running my fingers through his hair and gazing down at him. Christian closes his eyes and furrows his brow as if he's straining to remember.

"After I was found with the crack whore, before I went to live with Carrick and Grace, I was in the care of Michigan State. I lived in a foster home. But I can't remember anything about that time."

My mind reels. A foster home? This is news to both of us.

"For how long?" I whisper.

"Two months or so. I have no recollection."

"Have you spoken to your mom and dad about it?"

"No."

"Perhaps you should. Maybe they could fill in the blanks."

He hugs me tightly. "Here." He hands me the papers, which turn out to be two photographs. I reach over and switch on the bedside light so I can examine them in detail. The first photo is of a shabby house with a yellow front door and a large gabled window in the roof. It has a porch and a small front yard. It's an un-remarkable house.

The second photo is of a family—at first glance, an ordinary blue-collar family—a man and his wife, I think, and their children. The adults are both dressed in dowdy, overwashed blue T-shirts. They must be in their forties. The woman has scraped-back blond hair, and the man a severe buzz-cut, but they are both smiling warmly at the camera. The man has his hand draped over the shoulders of a sullen teenage girl. I gaze at each of the children: two boys—identical twins, about twelve—both with sandy blond hair, grinning broadly at the camera; there's another boy, who's smaller, with reddish blond hair, scowling; and hiding behind him, a copper-haired gray-eyed little boy. Wide-eyed and scared, dressed in mismatched clothes, and clutching a child's dirty blanket.

Fuck. "This is you," I whisper, my heart lurching into my throat. I know Christian was four when his mother died. But this child looks much younger. He must have been severely malnourished. I stifle a sob as tears spring to my eyes.

Oh, my sweet Fifty.

Christian nods. "That's me."

"Welch brought these photos?"

"Yes. I don't remember any of this." His voice is flat and lifeless.

"Remember being with foster parents? Why should you? Christian, it was a long time ago. Is this what's worrying you?"

"I remember other things, from before and after. When I met my mom and dad. But this . . . It's like there's a huge chasm."

My heart twists and understanding dawns. My darling control freak likes everything in its place, and now he's learned he's missing part of the jigsaw.

"Is Jack in this picture?"

"Yes, he's the older kid." Christian's eyes are still screwed shut, and he's clinging to me as if I'm a life raft. I run my fingers through his hair while I gaze at the older boy who is glaring, defiant and arrogant, at the camera. I can see it's Jack. But he's just a kid, a sad eight- or nine-year-old, hiding his fear behind his hostility. A thought occurs to me.

"When Jack called to tell me he had Mia, he said if things had been different, it could have been him."

Christian closes his eyes and shudders. "That fucker!"

"You think he did all this because the Greys adopted you instead of him?"

"Who knows?" Christian's tone is bitter. "I don't give a fuck about him."

"Perhaps he knew we were seeing each other when I went for that job interview. Perhaps he planned to seduce me all along." Bile rises in my throat.


"I don't think so," Christian mutters, his eyes now open. "The searches he did on my family didn't start until a week or so after you began your job at SIP. Barney knows the exact dates. And, Ana, he fucked all his assistants and taped them."

Christian closes his eyes and tightens his grip on me once more.

Suppressing the tremor that runs through me, I try to recall my various conversations with Jack when I first started at SIP. I knew deep down he was bad news, yet I ignored all my instincts. Christian's right—I have no regard for my own safety. I remember the fight we had about me going to New York with Jack.

Jeez—I could have ended up on some sordid sex tape. The thought is nauseating.

And in that moment I recall the photographs Christian kept of his submissives.

Oh shit. "We're cut from the same cloth." No, Christian, you're not, you're nothing like him. He's still curled around me like a small boy.

"Christian, I think you should talk to your mom and dad." I am reluctant to move him, so I shift and slide back into the bed until we are eye to eye.

A bewildered gray gaze meets mine, reminding me of the child in the photograph.

"Let me call them," I whisper. He shakes his head. "Please." I beg. Christian stares at me, pain and self-doubt reflected in his eyes as he considers my request.

Oh, Christian, please!

"I'll call them," he whispers.

"Good. We can go and see them together, or you can go. Whichever you prefer."

"No. They can come here."

"Why?"

"I don't want you going anywhere."

"Christian, I'm up for a car journey."

"No." His voice is firm, but he gives me an ironic smile. "Anyway, it's Saturday night, they're probably at some function."

"Call them. This news has obviously upset you. They might be able to shed some light." I glance at the radio alarm. It's almost seven in the evening. He regards me impassively for a moment.

"Okay," he says as if I've issued him with a challenge. Sitting up, he picks up the bedside phone.

I wrap my arm around him and rest my head on his chest as he makes the call.

"Dad?" I register his surprise that Carrick has answered the phone. "Ana's good. We're home. Welch has just left. He found out the connection . . . the foster home in Detroit . . . I don't remember any of that." Christian's voice is almost inaudible as he mutters the last sentence. My heart constricts once more. I hug him, and he squeezes my shoulder.

"Yeah . . . You will? . . . Great." He hangs up. "They're on their way." He sounds surprised, and I realize that he's probably never asked them for help.

"Good. I should get dressed."

Christian's arm tightens around me. "Don't go."

"Okay." I snuggle into his side again, stunned by the fact that he's just told me a great deal about himself—entirely voluntarily.

As we stand at the threshold to the great room, Grace wraps me gently in her arms.

"Ana, Ana, darling Ana," she whispers. "Saving two of my children. How can I ever thank you?"

I blush, touched and embarrassed in equal measure by her words. Carrick hugs me, too, kissing my forehead.

Then Mia grabs me, squashing my ribs. I wince and gasp, but she doesn't notice. "Thank you for saving me from those assholes."

Christian scowls at her. "Mia! Careful! She's in pain."

"Oh! Sorry."

"I'm good," I mutter, relieved when she releases me.

She looks fine. Impeccably dressed in tight black jeans and a pale pink frilly blouse. I'm glad I'm wearing my comfortable wrap dress and flats. At least I look reasonably presentable.

Racing over to Christian, Mia curls her arm around his waist.

Wordlessly, he hands Grace the photo. She gasps, her hand flying to her mouth to contain her emotion as she instantly recognizes Christian. Carrick wraps his arm around her shoulder as he, too, examines it.

"Oh, darling." Grace caresses Christian's cheek.

Taylor appears. "Mr. Grey? Miss Kavanagh, her brother, and your brother are coming up, sir."

Christian frowns. "Thank you, Taylor," he mutters, bemused.

"I called Elliot and told him we were coming over." Mia grins. "It's a welcome-home party."

I sneak a sympathetic glance at my poor husband as both Grace and Carrick glare at Mia in exasperation.

"We'd better get some food together," I declare. "Mia, will you give me a hand?"

"Oh, I'd love to."

I usher her toward the kitchen area as Christian leads his parents into his study.

Kate is apoplectic with righteous indignation that's aimed at me, Christian, but most of all Jack and Elizabeth.

"What were you thinking, Ana?" she shouts as she confronts me in the kitchen, causing all eyes in the room to turn and stare.

"Kate, please. I've had the same lecture from everyone!" I snap back. She glares at me, and for one minute I think I'm going to be subjected to a Katherine Kavanagh how-not-to-succumb-to-kidnappers lecture, but instead she folds me in her arms.

"Jeez—sometimes you don't have the brains you were born with, Steele," she whispers. As she kisses my cheek, there are tears in her eyes . Kate! "I've been so worried about you."

"Don't cry. You'll set me off."

She stands back and wipes her eyes, embarrassed, then takes a deep breath and composes herself. "On a more positive note, we've set a date for our wedding.

We thought next May? And of course I want you to be my matron of honor."

"Oh . . . Kate . . . Wow. Congratulations!" Crap—Little Blip . . . Junior!

"What is it?" she asks, misinterpreting my alarm.

"Um . . . I'm just so happy for you. Some good news for a change." I wrap my arms around her and pull her into a hug. Shit, shit, shit. When is Blip due?

Mentally I calculate my due date. Dr. Greene said I was four or five weeks.

So—sometime in May? Shit.

Elliot hands me a glass of champagne.

Oh. Shit.

Christian emerges from his study, looking ashen, and follows his parents into the great room. His eyes widen when he sees the glass in my hand.

"Kate," he greets her coolly.

"Christian." She is equally cool. I sigh.

"Your meds, Mrs. Grey." He eyes the glass in my hand.

I narrow my eyes. Dammit. I want a drink. Grace smiles as she joins me in the kitchen, collecting a glass from Elliot on the way.

"A sip will be fine," she whispers with a conspiratorial wink at me, and lifts her glass to clink mine. Christian scowls at both of us, until Elliot distracts him with news of the latest match between the Mariners and the Rangers.

Carrick joins us, putting his arms around us both, and Grace kisses his cheek before joining Mia on the sofa.

"How is he?" I whisper to Carrick as he and I stand in the kitchen watching the family lounge on the sofa. I note with surprise that Mia and Ethan are holding hands.

"Shaken," Carrick murmurs to me, his brow furrowing, his face serious. "He remembers so much of his life with his birth mother; many things I wish he didn't. But this—" He stops. "I hope we've helped. I'm glad he called us. He said you told him to." Carrick's gaze softens. I shrug and take a hasty sip of champagne.

"You're very good for him. He doesn't listen to anyone else."

I frown. I don't think that's true. The unwelcome specter of the Bitch Troll looms large in my mind. I know Christian talks to Grace, too. I heard him. Again I feel a moment's frustration as I try to fathom their conversation in the hospital, but it still eludes me.

"Come and sit down, Ana. You look tired. I'm sure you weren't expecting all of us here this evening."

"It's great to see everyone." I smile. Because it's true, it is great. I'm an only child who has married into a large and gregarious family, and I love it. I snuggle up next to Christian.

"One sip," he hisses at me and takes my glass from my hand.

"Yes, Sir." I bat my lashes, disarming him completely. He puts his arm around my shoulders and returns to his baseball conversation with Elliot and Ethan.

"My parents think you walk on water," Christian mutters as he drags off his Tshirt.

I'm curled up in bed watching the floorshow. "Good thing you know differently." I snort.

"Oh, I don't know." He slips out of his jeans.

"Did they fill in the gaps for you?"

"Some. I lived with the Colliers for two months while Mom and Dad waited for the paperwork. They were already approved for adoption because of Elliot, but the wait's required by law to see if I had any living relatives who wanted to claim me."

"How do you feel about that?" I whisper.

He frowns. "About having no living relatives? Fuck that. If they were anything like the crack whore . . ." He shakes his head in disgust.

Oh, Christian! You were a child, and you loved your mom.

He slides on his pajamas, climbs into bed, and gently pulls me into his arms.

"It's coming back to me. I remember the food. Mrs. Collier could cook. And at least we know now why that fucker is so hung up on my family." He runs his free hand through his hair. "Fuck!" he says suddenly turning to gape at me.

"What?"

"It makes sense now!" His eyes are full of recognizance.

"What?"

"Baby Bird. Mrs. Collier used to call me Baby Bird."

I frown. "That makes sense?"

"The note," he says gazing at me. "The ransom note that fucker left. It went something like ‘Do you know who I am? Because I know who you are, Baby Bird.' "

This makes no sense to me at all.

"It's from a kid's book. Christ. The Colliers had it. It was called . . . ‘Are You My Mother?' Shit." His eyes widen. "I loved that book."

Oh. I know that book. My heart lurches— Fifty!

"Mrs. Collier used to read it to me."

I am at a loss what to say.

"Christ. He knew . . . that fucker knew."

"Will you tell the police?"

"Yes. I will. Christ knows what Clark will do with that information." Christian shakes his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. "Anyway, thank you for this evening."

Whoa. Gear change. "For what?"

"Catering for my family at a moment's notice."

"Don't thank me, thank Mia and Mrs. Jones. She keeps the pantry well stocked."

He shakes his head as if in exasperation. At me? Why?

"How are you feeling, Mrs. Grey?"

"Good. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine." He frowns . . . not understanding my concern.

Oh . . . in that case. I trail my fingers down his stomach to his oh-so-happy trail.

He laughs and grabs my hand. "Oh no. Don't get any ideas."

I pout, and he sighs. "Ana, Ana, Ana, what am I going to do with you?" He kisses my hair.

"I have some ideas." I squirm beside him and wince as pain radiates through my upper body from my bruised ribs.

"Baby, you've been through enough. Besides, I have a bedtime story for you."

Oh?

"You wanted to know . . ." He trails off, closes his eyes and swallows.

All of the hair on my body stands on end . Shit.

He begins in a soft voice. "Picture this, an adolescent boy looking to earn some extra money so he can continue his secret drinking habit." He shifts onto his side so that we're lying facing each other and he's gazing into my eyes.

"So I was in the backyard at the Lincolns', clearing some rubble and trash from the extension Mr. Lincoln had just added to their place . . ."

Holy fuck . . . he's talking.

Chapter Twenty-five

I can barely breathe. Do I want to hear this? Christian closes his eyes and swallows. When he opens them again, they are bright but diffident, full of disquieting memories.

"It was a hot summer day. I was working hard." He snorts and shakes his head, suddenly amused. "It was backbreaking work shifting that rubble. I was on my own, and Ele—Mrs. Lincoln appeared out of nowhere and brought me some lemonade. We exchanged small talk, and I made some smart-ass remark . . . and she slapped me. She slapped me so hard." Unconsciously, his hand moves to his face and he caresses his cheek, his eyes clouding at the memory. Holy shit!

"But then she kissed me. And when she finished, she slapped me again." He blinks, seemingly still confounded even after all this time.

"I'd never been kissed before or hit like that."

Oh. She pounced. On a kid.

"Do you want to hear this?" Christians asks.

Yes . . . No . . .

"Only if you want to tell me." My voice is small as I lie facing him, my mind reeling.

"I'm trying to give you some context."

I nod in what I hope is an encouraging manner. But I suspect I may look like a statue, frozen and wide-eyed with shock.

He frowns, his eyes searching mine, trying to gauge my reaction. Then he turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling.

"Well, naturally, I was confused and angry and horny as hell. I mean, a hot older woman comes on to you like that—" He shakes his head as if he still can't believe it.

Hot? I feel queasy.

"She went back into the house, leaving me in the backyard. She acted as if nothing had happened. I was at a total loss. So I went back to work, loading the rubble into the dumpster. When I left that evening, she asked me to come back the next day. She didn't mention what had happened. So the next day I went back. I couldn't wait to see her again," he whispers as if it's a dark confession . . . because frankly it is.

"She didn't touch me when she kissed me," he murmurs and turns his head to gaze at me. "You have to understand . . . my life was hell on earth. I was a walking hard-on, fifteen years old, tall for my age, hormones raging. The girls at school—" He stops, but I've got the picture: a scared, lonely, but attractive adolescent. My heart twists.

"I was angry, so fucking angry at everyone, at myself, my folks. I had no friends. My therapist at the time was a total asshole. My folks, they kept me on a tight leash; they didn't understand." He stares back up at the ceiling and runs a hand through his hair. I itch to run my fingers through his hair, too, but I stay still.

"I just couldn't bear anyone to touch me. I couldn't. Couldn't bear anyone near me. I used to fight . . . fuck, did I fight. I got into some god-awful brawls. I was expelled from a couple of schools. But it was a way to let off steam. To tolerate some kind of physical contact." He stops again. "Well, you get the idea.

And when she kissed me, she only grabbed my face. She didn't touch me." His voice is barely audible.

She must have known. Perhaps Grace had told her. Oh, my poor Fifty. I have to fold my hands beneath my pillow and rest my head on it in order to resist the urge to hold him.

"Well, the next day I went back to the house, not knowing what to expect.

And I'll spare you the gory details, but there was more of the same. And that's how our relationship started."

Oh, fuck, this is painful to hear.

He shifts again onto his side so he's facing me.

"And you know something, Ana? My world came into focus. Sharp and clear.

Everything. It was exactly what I needed. She was a breath of fresh air. Making the decisions, taking all that shit away from me, letting me breathe."

Holy shit.

"And even when it was over, my world stayed in focus because of her. And it stayed that way until I met you."

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Tentatively, he smoothes a stray lock of my hair behind my ear.

"You turned my world on its head." He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they are raw. "My world was ordered, calm and controlled, then you came into my life with your smart mouth, your innocence, your beauty, and your quiet temerity . . . and everything before you was just dull, empty, mediocre . . . it was nothing."

Oh, my.

"I fell in love," he whispers.

I stop breathing. He caresses my cheek.

"So did I," I murmur with the little breath I have left.

His eyes soften. "I know," he mouths.

"You do?"

"Yes."

Hallelujah! I smile shyly at him. "Finally," I whisper.

He nods. "And it's put everything into perspective for me. When I was younger, Elena was the center of my world. There was nothing I wouldn't do for her. And she did a lot for me. She stopped my drinking. Made me work hard at school . . . You know, she gave me a coping mechanism I hadn't had before, allowed me to experience things that I never thought I could."

"Touch," I whisper.

He nods. "After a fashion."

I frown, wondering what he means.

He hesitates at my reaction.

Tell me! I will him.

"If you grow up with a wholly negative self-image, thinking you're some kind of reject, an unlovable savage, you think you deserve to be beaten."

Christian . . . you are none of those things.

He pauses and runs his hand through his hair. "Ana, it's much easier to wear your pain on the outside . . ." Again, it's a confession.

Oh.

"She channeled my anger." His mouth presses together in a bleak line.

"Mostly inward—I realize that now. Dr. Flynn's been on and on about this for some time. It was only recently that I saw our relationship for what it was. You know . . . on my birthday."

I shudder as the unwelcome memory of Elena and Christian verbally eviscer-ating each other at Christian's birthday party surfaces unwelcome in my mind.

"For her that side of our relationship was about sex and control and a lonely woman finding some kind of comfort with her boy toy."

"But you like control," I whisper.

"Yes. I do. I always will, Ana. It's who I am. I surrendered it for a brief while. Let someone make all my decisions for me. I couldn't do it myself—I wasn't in a fit state. But through my submission to her, I found myself and found the strength to take charge of my life . . . take control and make my own decisions."

"Become a Dom?"

"Yes."

"Your decision?"

"Yes."

"Dropping out of Harvard?"

"My decision, and it was the best decision I ever made. Until I met you."

"Me?"

"Yes." His lips quirk up in a soft smile. "The best decision I ever made was marrying you."

Oh my. "Not starting your company?"

He shakes his head.

"Not learning to fly?"

He shakes his head. "You," he mouths. He caresses my cheek with his knuckles. "She knew," he whispers.

I frown. "She knew what?"

"That I was head over heels in love with you. She encouraged me to go down to Georgia to see you, and I'm glad she did. She thought you'd freak out and leave. Which you did."

I pale. I'd rather not think about that.

"She thought I needed all the trappings of the lifestyle I enjoyed."

"The Dom?" I whisper.

He nods. "It enabled me to keep everyone at arm's length, gave me control, and kept me detached, or so I thought. I'm sure you've worked out why," he adds softly.

"Your birth mom?"

"I didn't want to be hurt again. And then you left me." His words are barely audible. "And I was a mess."

Oh, no.

"I've avoided intimacy for so long—I don't know how to do this."

"You're doing fine," I murmur. I trace his lips with my index finger. He purses them into a kiss. You're talking to me.

"Do you miss it?" I whisper.

"Miss it?"

"That lifestyle."

"Yes, I do."

Oh!

"But only insofar as I miss the control it brings. And frankly, your stupid stunt"—he stops—"that saved my sister," he whispers, his words full of relief, awe, and disbelief. "That's how I know."

"Know?"

"Really know that you love me."

I frown. "You do?"

"Yes. Because you risked so much . . . for me, for my family."

My frown deepens. He reaches over and traces his finger over the middle of my brow above my nose.

"You have a V here when you frown," he murmurs. "It's very soft to kiss. I can behave so badly . . . and yet you're still here."

"Why are you surprised I'm still here? I told you I wasn't going to leave you."

"Because of the way that I behaved when you told me you were pregnant."

He runs his finger down my cheek. "You were right. I am an adolescent."

Oh shit . . . I did say that. My subconscious glares at me. His doctor said that!

"Christian, I said some awful things." He puts his index finger over my lips.

"Hush. I deserved to hear them. Besides this is my bedtime story." He rolls onto his back again.

"When you told me you were pregnant—" He stops. "I'd thought it would be just you and me for a while. I'd considered children, but only in the abstract. I had this vague idea we'd have a child sometime in the future."

Just one? No . . . Not an only child. Not like me. Perhaps now's not the best time to bring that up.

"You are still so young, and I know you're quietly ambitious."

Ambitious? Me?

"Well, you pulled the rug from under me. Christ, was that unexpected. Never in a million years, when I asked you what was wrong, did I expect you to be pregnant." He sighs. "I was so mad. Mad at you. Mad at myself. Mad at everyone.

And it took me back, that feeling of nothing being in my control. I had to get out.

I went to see Flynn, but he was at some school parents' evening." Christian pauses and arches an eyebrow.

"Ironic," I whisper. Christian smirks in agreement.

"So I walked and walked and walked, and I just . . . found myself at the salon. Elena was leaving. She was surprised to see me. And, truth be told, I was surprised to find myself there. She could tell I was mad and asked me if I wanted a drink."

Oh shit. We've cut to the chase. My heart doubles in speed. Do I really want to know this? My subconscious glares at me, a plucked eyebrow raised in warning.

"We went to a quiet bar I know and had a bottle of wine. She apologized for the way she behaved the last time she saw us. She's hurt that my mom will have nothing to do with her any more—it's narrowed her social circle—but she understands. We talked about the business, which is doing fine, in spite of the recession . . . I mentioned that you wanted kids."

I frown. "I thought you let her know I was pregnant."

He regards me, his face guileless. "No, I didn't."

"Why didn't you tell me that?"

He shrugs. "I never got the chance."

"Yes, you did."

"I couldn't find you the next morning, Ana. And when I did, you were so mad at me . . ."

Oh, yes. "I was."

"Anyway, at some point in the evening—about halfway through the second bottle—she leaned over to touch me. And I froze," he whispers, throwing his arm over his eyes.

My scalp tingles. What's this?

"She saw that I recoiled from her. It shocked both of us." His voice is low, too low.

Christian look at me! I tug at his arm and he lowers it, turning to gaze into my eyes. Shit. His face is pale, his eyes wide.

"What?" I breathe.

He frowns, and swallows.

Oh . . . what isn't he telling me? Do I want to know?

"She made a pass at me." He's shocked, I can tell.

All the breath is sucked from my body. I feel winded, and I think my heart has stopped. That fucking bitch troll!

"It was a moment, suspended in time. She saw my expression, and she realized how far she'd crossed the line. I said . . . no. I haven't thought of her like that for years, and besides"—he swallows—"I love you. I told her, I love my wife."

I gaze at him. I don't know what to say.

"She backed right off. Apologized again, made it seem like a joke. I mean, she said she's happy with Isaac and with the business and she doesn't bear either of us any ill will. She said she missed my friendship, but she could see that my life was with you now. And how awkward that was, given what happened last time we were all in the same room. I couldn't have agreed with her more. We said our good-byes—our final good-byes. I said I wouldn't see her again, and she went on her way."

I swallow, fear gripping my heart. "Did you kiss?"

"No!" he snorts. "I couldn't bear to be that close to her."

Oh. Good.

"I was miserable. I wanted to come home to you. But . . . I knew I'd behaved badly. I stayed and finished the bottle, then started on the bourbon. While I was drinking, I remember you saying to me some time ago, ‘If that was my son . . .'

And I got to thinking about Junior and about how Elena and I started. And it made me feel . . . uncomfortable. I'd never thought of it like that before."

A memory blossoms in my mind—a whispered conversation from when I was half conscious—Christian's voice: "But seeing her finally put it all in perspective for me. You know . . . with the child. For the first time I felt . . . What we did . . . it was wrong." He'd been speaking to Grace.

"That's it?"

"Pretty much."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"It's over?"

"Yes. It's been over since I laid eyes on you. I finally realized it that night and so did she."

"I'm sorry," I mutter.

He frowns. "What for?"

"Being so angry the next day."

He snorts. "Baby, I understand angry." He pauses then sighs. "You see, Ana, I want you to myself. I don't want to share you. What we have, I've never had before. I want to be the center of your universe, for a while at least."

Oh, Christian. "You are. That's not going to change."

He gives me an indulgent, sad, resigned smile. "Ana," he whispers. "That's just not true."

Tears prick my eyes.

"How can it be?" he murmurs.

Oh, no.

"Shit—don't cry, Ana. Please, don't cry." He caresses my face.

"I'm sorry." My lower lip trembles, and he brushes his thumb over it, soothing me.

"No, Ana, no. Don't be sorry. You'll have someone else to love as well. And you're right. That's how it should be."

"Blip will love you, too. You'll be the center of Blip's—Junior's world," I whisper. "Children love their parents unconditionally, Christian. That's how they come into the world. Programmed to love. All babies . . . even you. Think about that children's book you liked when you were small. You still wanted your mom.

You loved her."

He furrows his brow and withdraws his hand, fisting it against his chin.

"No," he whispers.

"Yes. You did." My tears flow freely now. "Of course you did. It wasn't an option. That's why you're so hurt."

He stares at me, his expression raw.

"That's why you're able to love me," I murmur. "Forgive her. She had her own world of pain to deal with. She was a shitty mother, and you loved her."

He gazes at me, saying nothing, eyes haunted—by memories I can't begin to fathom.

Oh, please don't stop talking.

Eventually he says, "I used to brush her hair. She was pretty."

"One look at you and no one would doubt that."

"She was a shitty mother." His voice is barely audible.

I nod and he closes his eyes. "I'm scared I'll be a shitty father."

I stroke his dear face. Oh, my Fifty, Fifty, Fifty. "Christian, do you think for one minute I'd let you be a shitty father?"

He opens his eyes and gazes at me for what feels like an eternity. He smiles as relief slowly illuminates his face. "No, I don't think you would." He caresses my face with the back of his knuckles, gazing at me in wonder. "God, you're strong, Mrs. Grey. I love you so much." He kisses my forehead. "I didn't know I could."

"Oh, Christian," I whisper, trying to contain my emotions.

"Now, that's the end of your bedtime story."

"That's some bedside story . . . "

He smiles wistfully, but I think he's relieved. "How's your head?"

"My head?" Actually, it's about to explode with all you've told me!

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Good. I think you should sleep now."

Sleep! How can I sleep after all that?

"Sleep," he says sternly. "You need it."

I pout. "I have one question."

"Oh? What?" He eyes me warily.

"Why have you suddenly become all . . . forthcoming, for want of a better word?"

He frowns.

"You're telling me all this, when getting information out of you is normally a pretty harrowing and trying experience."

"It is?

"You know it is."

"Why am I being forthcoming? I can't say. Seeing you practically dead on the cold concrete, maybe. The fact I'm going to be a father. I don't know. You said you wanted to know, and I don't want Elena to come between us. She can't.

She's the past, and I've said that to you so many times."

"If she hadn't made a pass at you . . . would you still be friends?"

"That's more than one question."

"Sorry. You don't have to tell me." I flush. "You've already volunteered more than I ever thought you would."

His gaze softens. "No, I don't think so, but she's felt like unfinished business since my birthday. She stepped over the line, and I'm done. Please, believe me.

I'm not going to see her again. You said she's a hard limit for you. That's a term I understand," he says with quiet sincerity.

Okay. I'm going to let this go now. My subconscious sags into her armchair.

Finally!

"Goodnight, Christian. Thank you for the enlightening bedtime story." I lean over to kiss him, and our lips touch briefly, but he pulls back when I try to deepen the kiss.

  

"Don't," he whispers. "I am desperate to make love to you."

"Then do."

"No, you need to rest, and it's late. Go to sleep." He switches off the bedside light, plunging us into darkness.

"I love you unconditionally, Christian," I murmur as I cuddle into his side.

"I know," he whispers, and I sense his shy smile.

I wake with a start. Light is flooding the room, and Christian is not in bed. I glance at the clock and see it's seven fifty-three. I take a deep breath and wince as my ribs smart though not as badly as yesterday. I think I could go to work.

Work—Yes. I want to go to work.

It's Monday, and I spent all of yesterday lounging about in bed. Christian only let me go out briefly to see Ray. Honestly, he's still such a control freak. I smile fondly. My control freak. He's been attentive and loving and chatty . . . and hands-off since I arrived home. I scowl. I am going to have to do something about this. My head doesn't hurt, the pain around my ribs has eased—though, admittedly, laughing has to be undertaken with caution—but I'm frustrated. I think this is the longest I've gone without sex since . . . well, since the first time.

I think we've both recovered our equilibrium. Christian is much more relaxed; his long bedtime story seems to have laid some ghosts to rest, for him and for me. We'll see.

I shower quickly, and once I'm dry, I browse carefully through my clothes. I want something sexy. Something that might galvanize Christian into action. Who would have thought such an insatiable man could actually exercise so much self-control? I don't really want to dwell on how Christian learned such discipline over his body. We haven't spoken of the Bitch Troll once since his confessional. I hope we never do. To me she's dead and buried.

I choose an almost indecently short black skirt and a white silk blouse with a frill. I slide on thigh-highs with lacy tops and my black Louboutin pumps. A little mascara and lip gloss for a natural look, and after a ferocious brushing, I leave my hair loose. Yes. This should do it.

Christian is eating at the breakfast bar. His forkful of omelet stops in midair when he sees me. He frowns.

"Good morning, Mrs. Grey. Going somewhere?"

"Work." I smile sweetly.

"I don't think so." Christian snorts with amused derision. "Dr. Singh said a week off."

"Christian, I am not spending the day lounging in bed on my own. So I may as well go to work. Good morning, Gail."

"Mrs. Grey." Mrs. Jones tries to hide a smile. "Would you like some breakfast?"

"Please."

"Granola?"

"I'd prefer scrambled eggs with whole wheat toast."

Mrs. Jones grins and Christian registers his surprise.

"Very good, Mrs. Grey," Mrs. Jones says.

"Ana, you are not going to work."

"But—"

"No. It's simple. Don't argue." Christian is adamant. I glare at him, and only then do I notice that he's in the same pajama bottoms and T-shirt he was wearing last night.

"Are you going to work?" I ask.

"No."

Am I going crazy? "It is Monday, right?"

He smiles. "Last time I looked."

I narrow my eyes. "Are you playing hooky?"

"I'm not leaving you here on your own to get into trouble. And Dr. Singh said it would be a week before you could go back to work. Remember?"

I slide onto a bar stool beside him and hoist my skirt up a little. Mrs. Jones places a cup of tea in front of me."You look good," Christian says. I cross my legs. "Very good. Especially here." He traces a finger over the bare flesh that shows above my thigh-highs. My pulse quickens as his finger runs across my skin. "This skirt is very short," he murmurs, vague disapproval in his voice as his eyes follow his finger.

"Is it? I hadn't noticed."

Christian gazes at me, mouth twisted in an amused yet exasperated smirk.

"Really, Mrs. Grey?"

I blush.

"I'm not sure this look is suitable for the workplace," he murmurs.

"Well, since I'm not going to work, that's a moot point."

"Moot?"

"Moot," I mouth.

Christian smirks again and resumes eating his omelet. "I have a better idea."

"You do?"

He glances at me through long lashes, gray eyes darkening. I inhale sharply.

Oh, my. About time.

"We can go see how Elliot's getting on with the house."

What? Oh! Tease! I vaguely remember we were supposed to do that before Ray was injured.

"I'd love to."

"Good." He grins.

"Don't you have to work?"

"No. Ros is back from Taiwan. That all went well. Today, everything's fine."

"I thought you were going to Taiwan."

He snorts again. "Ana, you were in the hospital."

"Oh."

"Yeah—oh. So today I'm spending some quality time with my wife." He smacks his lips together as he takes a sip of coffee.

"Quality time?" I can't disguise the hope in my voice.

Mrs. Jones places my scrambled eggs in front of me, again failing to hide her smile.

Christian smirks. "Quality time." He nods.

I am too hungry to flirt anymore with my husband.

"It's good to see you eat," he murmurs. Rising, he leans over and kisses my hair. "I'm going to shower."

"Um . . . can I come and scrub your back?" I mumble through a mouth full of toast and scrambled egg.

"No. Eat."

Leaving the breakfast bar, he tugs his T-shirt over his head, treating me to the sight of his finely sculptured shoulders and naked back as he saunters out of the great room. I stop mid-chew. He's doing this on purpose. Why?

Christian is relaxed on the drive north. We've just left Ray and Mr. Rodriguez watching soccer on the new flat-screen television that I suspect Christian has bought for Ray's hospital room.

Christian has been laid back ever since "the talk." It's as if a weight has been lifted; Mrs. Robinson's shadow no longer looms so large over us, maybe because I've decided to let it go—or because he has, I don't know. But I feel closer to him now than I ever have before. Perhaps because he's finally confided in me. I hope he continues to do so. And he's more accepting of the baby, too. He hasn't gone out and bought a crib yet, but I have high hopes.

I gaze at him, drinking him in as he drives. He looks casual, cool . . . sexy with his tousled hair, Ray-Bans, pinstripe jacket, white linen shirt, and jeans.

He glances at me and clasps my leg above the knee, his fingers stroking gently. "I'm glad you didn't change."

I did slip on a denim jacket and change to flats, but I'm still wearing the short skirt. His hand lingers above my knee. I put my hand on his.

"Are you going to continue to tease me?"

"Maybe." Christian smiles.

"Why?"

"Because I can." He grins, boyish as ever.

"Two can play at that game," I whisper.

His fingers move tantalizingly up my thigh. "Bring it on, Mrs. Grey." His grin broadens.

I pick up his hand and put it back on his knee. "Well, you can keep your hands to yourself."

He smirks. "As you wish, Mrs. Grey."

Dammit. This game is going to backfire on me.

Christian turns into the driveway of our new house. He stops at the keypad and punches in a number, and the ornate white metal gates swing open. We roar up the tree-lined lane under leaves that are a blend of green, yellow, and burnished copper. The tall grass in the meadow is turning gold, but there are still a few yellow wildflowers dotted among the grass. It's a beautiful day. The sun is shining, and the salty tang of the Sound is in the air mixed with the scent of the coming fall.

This is such a tranquil and beautiful place. And to think we're going to make our home here.

The lane curves around, and our house comes into view. Several large trucks, sides emblazoned with GREY CONSTRUCTION, are parked out front. The house is decked in scaffolding, and several workmen in hard hats are busy on the roof.

Christian pulls up outside the portico and switches off the engine. I can sense his excitement.

"Let's go find Elliot."

"Is he here?"

"I hope so. I'm paying him enough."

I snort, and Christian grins as we get out of the car.

"Yo, Bro!" Elliot shouts from somewhere. We both glance around.

"Up here!" He's up on the roof, waving down at us and beaming from ear to ear. "About time we saw you here. Stay where you are. I'll be right down."

I glance at Christian, who shrugs. A few minutes later, Elliot appears at the front door.

"Hey, bro." He shakes Christian's hand. "And how are you, little lady?" He picks me up and swings me around.

"Better, thanks," I giggle breathlessly, my ribs protesting. Christian frowns at him, but Elliot ignores him.

"Let's head over to the site office. You'll need one of these." He taps his hard hat.

The house is a shell. The floors are covered in a hard fibrous material that looks like burlap; some of the original walls have disappeared and new ones have taken their place. Elliot leads us through, explaining what's happening, while men—and a few women—work everywhere around us. I'm relieved to see the stone staircase with its intricate iron balustrade is still in place and draped completely in white dustsheets.

In the main living area, the back wall has been removed to make way for Gia's glass wall, and work is beginning on the terrace. In spite of the mess, the view is still stunning. The new work is sympathetic and in keeping with the old-world charm of the house . . . Gia's done well. Elliot patiently explains the processes and gives us a rough timeframe for each. He's hoping we can be in by Christmas, although Christian thinks this is optimistic.

Holy cow—Christmas overlooking the Sound. I can't wait. A bubble of excitement blooms inside me. I have visions of us trimming an enormous tree while a copper-haired little boy looks on in wonder.

Elliot finishes our tour in the kitchen. "I'll leave you two to roam. Be careful.

This is a building site."

"Sure. Thanks, Elliot," Christian murmurs, taking my hand. "Happy?" he asks once Elliot has left us alone. I am gazing at this empty shell of a room and wondering where I will hang the pepper pictures that we bought in France.

"Very. I love it. You?"

"Ditto." He grins.

"Good. I was thinking of the pepper pictures in here."

Christian nods. "I want to put up José's portraits of you in this house. You need to decide where they should go."

I blush. "Somewhere I won't see them often."

"Don't be like that." He scolds me, brushing his thumb across my bottom lip.

"They're my favorite pictures. I love the one in my office."

"I have no idea why," I murmur and kiss the pad of his thumb.

"Worse things to do than look at your beautiful smiling face all day.

Hungry?" he asks.

"Hungry for what?" I whisper.

He smirks, his eyes darkening. Hope and desire unfurl in my veins.

"Food, Mrs. Grey." And he plants a swift kiss on my lips.

I give him my faux pout and sigh. "Yes. These days I'm always hungry."

"The three of us can have a picnic."

"Three of us? Is someone joining us?"

Christian cocks his head to one side. "In about seven or eight months."

Oh . . . Blip. I grin goofily at him.

"I thought you might like to eat al fresco."

"In the meadow?" I ask.

He nods.

"Sure." I grin.

"This will be a great place to raise a family," he murmurs, gazing down at me.

Family! More than one? Dare I mention this now?

He spreads his fingers over my belly. Holy shit. I hold my breath and place my hand over his.

"It's hard to believe," he whispers, and for the first time I hear wonder in his voice.

"I know. Oh—here, I have evidence. A picture."

"You do? Baby's first smile?"

I pull out the ultrasound of Blip from my wallet.

"See?"

Christian examines it closely, staring for several seconds. "Oh . . . Blip.

Yeah, I see." He sounds distracted, awed.

"Your child," I whisper.

"Our child." He counters.

"First of many."

"Many?" Christian's eyes widen with alarm.

"At least two."

"Two?" He tests the word. "Can we just take this one child at a time?"

I grin. "Sure."

We head back outside into the warm fall afternoon.

"When are you going to tell your folks?" Christian asks.

"Soon," I murmur. "I thought about telling Ray this morning, but Mr. Rodriguez was there." I shrug.

Christian nods and opens the hood of the R8. Inside are a wicker picnic basket and the tartan blanket we bought in London.

"Come," he says, taking the basket and blanket in one hand and holding the other out to me. Together we walk into the meadow.

"Sure, Ros, go for it." Christian hangs up. That's the third call he's taken during our picnic. He's kicked off his shoes and socks, and is watching me, arms on his raised knees. His jacket lies discarded on top of mine, as we're warm in the sun. I lie beside him, stretched out on the picnic blanket, both of us surrounded by tall golden and green grass far from the noise at the house and hidden from the prying eyes of the construction workers. We are in our own bucolic haven. He feeds me another strawberry, and I chew and suck it gratefully, gazing at his darkening eyes.

"Tasty?" he whispers.

"Very."

"Had enough?"

"Of strawberries, yes."

His eyes glitter dangerously, and he grins. "Mrs. Jones packs a mighty fine picnic," he says.

"That she does," I whisper.

Shifting suddenly, he lies down so his head is resting on my belly. He closes his eyes and seems content. I tangle my fingers in his hair.

He sighs heavily, then scowls and checks the number on the screen of his buzzing BlackBerry. He rolls his eyes and takes the call.

"Welch," he snaps. He tenses, listens for a second or two, then suddenly bolts upright.

"24-7 . . . Thanks," he says through gritted teeth and hangs up. The change in his mood is instant. Gone is my teasing, flirtatious husband, replaced by a cold, calculating master of the universe. He narrows his eyes for a moment then gives me a cool, chilling smile. A shiver runs down my back. He picks up his BlackBerry and presses a speed dial.

"Ros, how much stock do we own in Lincoln Timber?" He kneels up.

My scalp prickles. Oh no, what's this?

"So, consolidate the shares into GEH, then fire the board . . . except the CEO . . . I don't give a fuck . . . I hear you, just do it . . . thank you . . . keep me informed." He hangs up, and gazes at me impassively for a moment.

Holy shit! Christian is mad.

"What's happened?"

"Linc," he murmurs.

"Linc? Elena's ex?"

"The same. He's the one who posted Hyde's bail."

I gape at Christian in shock. His mouth is pressed in a hard line.

"Well—he'll look like an idiot," I murmur, dismayed. "I mean, Hyde com-mitted another crime while out on bail."

Christian's eyes narrow and he smirks. "Fair point well made, Mrs. Grey."

"What did you just do?" I kneel, facing him.

"I fucked him over."

Oh! "Um . . . that seems a little impulsive," I murmur.

"I'm an in-the-moment kind of guy."

"I'm aware of that."

His eyes narrow and his lips thin. "I've had this plan in my back pocket for a while," he says dryly.

I frown. "Oh?"

He pauses, seeming to weigh something in his mind, then takes a deep breath.

"Several years back, when I was twenty-one, Linc beat his wife to a pulp. He broke her jaw, her left arm, and four of her ribs because she was fucking me." His eyes harden. "And now I learn he posted bail for a man who tried to kill me, kidnapped my sister, and fractured my wife's skull. I've had enough. I think it's payback time."

I blanch. Holy shit. "Fair point well made, Mr. Grey," I whisper.

"Ana, this is what I do. I'm not usually motivated by revenge, but I cannot let him get away with this. What he did to Elena . . . well, she should have pressed charges, but she didn't. That was her prerogative.

"But he's seriously crossed the line with Hyde. Linc's made this personal by going after my family. I'm going to crush him, break up his company right under his nose, and sell the pieces to the highest bidder. I am going to bankrupt him."

Oh . . .

"Besides." Christian smirks. "We'll make good money out of the deal."

I stare into blazing gray eyes that soften suddenly.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he whispers.

"You didn't," I lie.

He arches a brow, amused.

"You just took me by surprise," I whisper, then swallow. Christian is really quite scary sometimes.

He brushes his lips against mine. "I will do anything to keep you safe. Keep my family safe. Keep this little one safe," he murmurs and splays his hand out over my belly in a gentle caress.

Oh . . . I stop breathing. Christian gazes down at me, his eyes darkening. His lips part as he inhales and, in a deliberate move, the tips of his fingers brush against my sex.

Holy shit. Desire detonates like an incendiary device igniting my bloodstream. I grasp his head, my fingers weaving into his hair, and tug hard so my lips find his. He gasps, surprised by my assault, giving my tongue free passage into his mouth. He groans and kisses me back, his lips and tongue hungry for mine, and for a moment we consume each other, lost in tongues and lips and breaths and sweet, sweet sensation as we rediscover each other.

Oh, I want this man. It's been too long. I want him here, now, in the open air, in our meadow.

"Ana," he breathes, entranced, and his hand skims over my backside to the hem of my skirt. I scramble to unbutton his shirt, all fingers and thumbs.

"Whoa, Ana—stop." He pulls back, his jaw clenched, and grabs my hands.

"No." My teeth clamp gently around his lower lip and I tug. "No," I murmur again, gazing at him. I release him. "I want you."

He inhales sharply. He's torn, his indecision writ large in luminous gray eyes.

"Please, I need you." Every pore of my being is begging. This is what we do.

He groans in defeat as his mouth finds mine, molding my lips to his. One hand cradles my head while the other skims down my body to my waist, and he eases me onto my back and stretches out beside me, never breaking contact with my mouth.

He pulls back, hovering over me and gazing down. "You are so beautiful, Mrs. Grey."

I caress his lovely face. "So are you, Mr. Grey. Inside and out."

He frowns, and my fingers trace the furrow in his brow.

"Don't frown. You are to me, even when you're angry," I whisper.

He groans once more, and his mouth captures mine, pushing me into the soft grass beneath the blanket.

"I've missed you," he whispers, and his teeth graze my jaw. My heart soars.

"I've missed you, too. Oh, Christian." I fist one hand in his hair and clutch his shoulder with the other.

His lips move to my throat, leaving tender kisses in their wake, and his fingers follow, deftly undoing each button of my blouse. Tugging my blouse apart, he kisses the soft swell of my breasts. He murmurs appreciatively, low in his throat, and the sound echoes through my body to my deep dark places.

"Your body's changing," he whispers. His thumb teases my nipple until it's erect and straining against my bra. "I like," he adds. I watch his tongue taste and trace the line between my bra and my breast, tantalizing and teasing me. Taking my bra cup delicately between his teeth, he pulls it down, freeing my breast and nuzzling my nipple with his nose in the process. It puckers at his touch and from the chill of the gentle fall breeze. His lips close around me, and he sucks long and hard.

"Ah!" I groan, inhaling sharply then wincing as pain radiates outward from my bruised ribs.

"Ana!" Christian exclaims and glares down at me, concern etched on his face. "This is what I'm talking about," he admonishes. "Your lack of self-preser-vation. I don't want to hurt you."

"No . . . don't stop," I whimper. He stares at me, warring with himself.

"Please."

"Here." Abruptly he moves, and I'm sitting astride him, my short skirt now bunched up around my hips. His hands glide over the top of my thigh-highs.

"There. That's better, and I can enjoy the view." He reaches up and hooks his long index finger into my other bra cup, freeing that breast, too. He grasps both of my breasts, and I throw my head back, pushing them into his welcome, expert hands. He teases me, tugging and rolling my nipples until I cry out, then sits up so we're nose to nose, his greedy gray eyes on mine. He kisses me, his fingers still teasing me. I scramble for his shirt, undoing the first two buttons, and it's like sensory overload—I want to be kissing him everywhere, undressing him, making love with him all at once.

"Hey—" He gently grasps my head and pulls back, eyes dark and full of sensual promise. "There's no rush. Take it slow. I want to savor you."

"Christian, it's been so long." I'm panting.

"Slow," he whispers, and it's a command. He kisses the right corner of my mouth. "Slow." He kisses the left corner. "Slow, baby." He tugs my bottom lip with his teeth. "Let's take this slow." He unfurls his fingers in my hair, keeping me in place as his tongue invades my mouth, seeking, tasting, calming . . . inflam-ing. Oh, my man can kiss.

I caress his face, my fingers moving tentatively down to his chin then to his throat, and I start again on the buttons of his shirt, taking my time, as he continues to kiss me. Slowly I pull his shirt apart, my fingers trailing over his clavicles, feeling their way across his warm, silky skin. I push him gently back until he's lying beneath me. Sitting up, I gaze down at him, aware that I'm squirming against his growing erection. Hmm. I trace my fingers across his lips to his jaw then down his neck, over his Adam's apple to that little dip at the base of his throat. My beautiful man. I lean down, and my kisses follow the tips of my fingers. My teeth graze his jaw and kiss his throat. He closes his eyes.

"Ah." He groans and tilts his head back, giving me easier access to the base of his throat, his mouth slack and open in silent veneration. Christian lost and aroused is just so exhilarating . . . and so arousing to me.

My tongue trails down his sternum, twirling through his chest hair. Hmm. He tastes so good. He smells so good. Intoxicating. I kiss first one, then two of his small round scars, and he grasps my hips, so my fingers halt on his chest as I gaze down at him. His breathing is harsh.

"You want this? Here?" he breathes, his eyes hooded with a heady combination of love and lust.

"Yes," I murmur, and my lips and tongue graze across his chest to his nipple.

I pull and roll it gently with my teeth.

"Oh, Ana," he whispers and circling my waist he lifts me, tugging at his button and fly so he springs free. He sits me down again, and I push against him, delighting in the feel of him hot and hard beneath me. He runs his hands up my thighs, pausing where my thigh-highs stop and my flesh begins, his hands running small teasing circles at the top of my thighs so that the tips of his thumbs touch me . . . touch me where I want to be touched. I gasp.

"I hope you're not attached to your underwear," he murmurs, his eyes wild and bright. His fingers trace the elastic along my belly then slide inside, teasing me, before grabbing my panties tightly and pushing his thumbs through the delicate material. My panties disintegrate. His hands splay out on my thighs, and his thumbs brush against my sex once more. He flexes his hips so his erection rubs against me.

"I can feel how wet you are." His voice is tinged with carnal appreciation, and he suddenly sits up, his arm around my waist again, so we're nose to nose. He rubs his nose against mine.


"We're going to take this slow, Mrs. Grey. I want to feel all of you." He lifts me, and with exquisite, frustrating, slow ease, lowers me onto him. I feel each blessed inch of him fill me.

"Ah—" I moan incoherently as I reach out to clasp his arms. I try to lift myself off him for some welcome friction, but he holds me in place.

"All of me," he whispers and tilts his pelvis, pushing himself into me all the way. I throw my head back and let out a strangled cry of pure pleasure.

"Let me hear you," he murmurs. "No—don't move, just feel."

I open my eyes, my mouth frozen in a silent Ah! And he's gazing at me, hooded, licentious gray eyes into dazed blue. He shifts, rolling his hips, but holds me in place.

I groan. His lips are at my throat, kissing me.

"This is my favorite place. Buried in you," he murmurs against my skin.

"Please, move," I plead.

"Slow, Mrs. Grey." He flexes his hips again and pleasure radiates through me. I cup his face and kiss him, consuming him.

"Love me. Please, Christian."

His teeth skim my jaw up to my ear. "Go," he whispers, and he lifts me up and down. My inner goddess is unleashed, and I push him down on the ground and start to move, savoring the feeling of him inside me . . . riding him . . . riding him hard. With his hands around my waist he matches my rhythm. I have missed this . . . the heady feeling of him beneath me, inside me . . . the sun on my back, the sweet smell of fall in the air, the gentle autumnal breeze. It's a heady fusion of senses: touch, taste, smell, and the sight of my beloved husband beneath me.

"Oh, Ana." He groans, eyes closed, head back, mouth open.

Ah . . . I love this. And inside, I'm building . . . building . . . climbing . . .

higher. Christian's hands move to my thighs, and delicately his thumbs press at their apex, and I explode around him over and over and over and over, and I collapse, sprawled on his chest as he cries out in turn, letting go and calling out my name with love and joy.

He cuddles me against his chest, cradling my head. Hmm. Closing my eyes, I savor the feel of his arms around me. My hand is on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart as it slows and calms. I kiss and nuzzle him, and marvel briefly that not long ago he would not have let me do this.

"Better?" he whispers. I raise my head. He's grinning broadly.

"Much. You?" My answering grin reflects his.

"I've missed you, Mrs. Grey." He's serious for a moment.

"Me, too."

"No more heroics, eh?"

"No," I promise.

"You should always talk to me," he whispers.

"Back at you, Grey."

He smirks. "Fair point well made. I'll try." He kisses my hair.

"I think we're going to be happy here," I whisper, closing my eyes again.

"Yep. You, me and . . . Blip. How do you feel, incidentally?"

"Fine. Relaxed. Happy."

"Good."

"You?"

"Yeah, all those things," he murmurs.

I look up at him, trying to gauge his expression.

"What?" he asks.

"You know, you're very bossy when we have sex."

"Are you complaining?"

"No. I'm just wondering . . . you said you missed it."

He stills, gazing at me. "Sometimes," he whispers.

Oh. "Well, we'll have to see what we can do about that," I murmur and kiss him lightly on his lips, curling around him like a vine. Images of us together, in the playroom; the Tallis, the table, on the cross, shackled to the bed . . . I love his kinky fuckery—our kinky fuckery. Yes. I can do that stuff. I can do that for him, with him. I can do that for me. My skin tingles as I remember the riding crop.

"I like to play, too," I murmur, and glancing up, I'm treated to his shy smile.

"You know, I'd really like to test your limits," he whispers.

"My limits for what?"

"Pleasure."

"Oh, I think I'd like that." My inner goddess drops into a dead faint.

"Well, maybe when we get home," he whispers, leaving that promise hanging between us.

I nuzzle him once more. I love him so.

It's been two days since our picnic. Two days since the promise of well, maybe when we get home was made. Christian is still treating me like I'm made of glass.

He still won't let me go to work, so I have been working from home. I put the stack of query letters I've been reading aside on my desk and sigh. Christian and I haven't been back in the playroom since I safe worded. And he's said he misses it.

Well, so do I . . . especially now that he wants to explore my limits. I flush, thinking what that could possibly entail. I glance at the billiard table . . . Yes I can't wait to explore those.

My thoughts are interrupted by soft, lyrical music that fills the apartment.

Christian is playing the piano; not one of his usual laments but a sweet melody, a hopeful melody—one that I recognize, but have never heard him play.

I tiptoe to the archway of the great room and watch Christian at the piano. It's dusk. The sky is an opulent pink, and the light is reflected off his burnished copper hair. He looks his beautiful breathtaking self, concentrating as he plays, un-aware of my presence. He's been so forthcoming over the last few days, so attentive—offering small insights into his day, his thoughts, his plans. It's as if he's breached a dam and started talking.

I know he'll come to check on me in a few minutes, and it gives me an idea.

Excited, I steal away, hoping that he still hasn't noticed me, and race to our room, stripping off my clothes as I go, until I'm wearing nothing but pale blue lace panties. I find a pale blue camisole and slip into it quickly. It will hide my bruise.

Diving into the closet, I pull out Christian's faded jeans—his playroom jeans, my favorite jeans—from the drawer. From my bedside table I pick up my BlackBerry, fold the jeans neatly, and kneel by the bedroom door. The door is ajar, and I can hear the strains of another piece, one I don't know. But it's another hopeful tune; it's lovely. Quickly I type an email.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: My Husband's Pleasure

Date: September 21, 2011 20:45

To: Christian Grey

Sir

I await your instructions.

Yours always

Mrs. G x

I press send.

A few moments later the music stops abruptly. My heart lurches and starts pounding. I wait and wait and eventually my BlackBerry buzzes.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: My Husband's Pleasure <--- love this title baby Date: September 21, 2011 20:48

To: Anastasia Grey

Mrs. G

I'm intrigued. I'll come find you.

Be ready.

Christian Grey

Anticipative CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Be ready! My heart starts to pound and I begin to count. Thirty-seven seconds later the door opens. I'm looking down at his bare feet as they pause on the threshold. Hmm. He says nothing. For ages he says nothing. Oh shit. I resist the urge to look up at him and keep my eyes downcast.

Finally, he reaches down and picks up his jeans. He stays silent but heads in-to the walk-in closet while I remain stock-still. Oh my . . . this is it. My heart is thundering, and I relish the rush of adrenaline that spikes through my body. I squirm as my excitement builds. What will he do to me? A few moments later he's back, wearing the jeans.

"So you want to play?" he murmurs.

"Yes."

He says nothing, and I risk a quick glance . . . up his jeans, his denim clad thighs, the soft bulge at his fly, the open button at the waist, his happy trail, his navel, his chiseled abdomen, his chest hair, his gray eyes blazing, and his head cocked to one side. He's arching an eyebrow. Oh shit.

"Yes what?" he whispers.

Oh.

"Yes, Sir."

His eyes soften. "Good girl," he murmurs, and he caresses my head. "I think we'd better get you upstairs now," he adds. My insides liquefy, and my belly clenches in that delicious way.

He takes my hand and I follow him through the apartment and up the stairs.

Outside the playroom door, he halts and bends and kisses me gently before grasping my hair hard.

"You know, you're topping from the bottom," he murmurs against my lips.

"What?" I don't understand what he's talking about.

"Don't worry. I'll live with it," he whispers, amused, and he runs his nose along my jaw and gently bites my ear. "Once inside, kneel, like I've shown you."

"Yes . . . Sir."

He gazes down at me, eyes shining with love, wonder, and wicked thoughts.

Jeez . . . Life is never going to be boring with Christian, and I'm in this for the long haul. I love this man: my husband, my lover, father of my child, my sometimes Dominant . . . my Fifty Shades.

Epilogue

The Big House, May 2014

I lie on our tartan picnic blanket and gaze up at the clear, blue, summer sky, my view framed by meadow flowers and tall green grasses. The heat of the afternoon summer sun warms my skin, my bones and my belly, and I relax, my body turning to Jell-O. This is comfortable. Hell no . . . this is wonderful. I savor the moment, a moment of peace, a moment of pure and utter contentment. I should feel guilty for feeling this joy, this completeness, but I don't. Life right here right now is good, and I've learned to appreciate it and live in the moment like my husband. I smile and squirm as my mind drifts to the delicious memory of last night at our home in Escala . . .

The strands of the flogger skim across my swollen belly at an aching, languorous pace.

"Have you had enough yet, Ana?" Christian whispers in my ear.

"Oh, please." I beg, pulling on the restraints above my head as I stand blindfolded and tethered to the grid in the playroom.

The flogger's sweet sting bites into my behind.

"Please what?"

I gasp. "Please, Sir."

Christian places his hand over my ringing skin and rubs gently.

"There. There. There." His words are soft. His hand moves south and around, and his fingers slide inside me.

I groan.

"Mrs. Grey," he breathes, and his teeth pull on my earlobe. "You're so ready."

His fingers slide in and out of me, hitting that spot, that sweet, sweet spot again. The flogger clatters onto the floor and his hand moves over my belly and up to my breasts. I tense. They are sensitive.

"Hush," Christian says, cupping one, and he gently brushes his thumb over my nipple.

"Ah."

His fingers are gentle and enticing, and pleasure spirals out from my breast, down, down . . . deep down. I tilt my head back, pushing my nipple into his palm, and moan once more.

"I like to hear you," Christian whispers. His erection is at my hip, the buttons of his fly pressing into my flesh as his fingers continue their relentless assault: in, out, in, out—keeping a rhythm. "Shall I make you come like this?" he asks.

"No."

His fingers stop moving inside me.

"Really, Mrs. Grey? Is it up to you?" His fingers tighten around my nipple.

"No . . . No, Sir."

"That's better."

"Ah. Please," I beg.

"What do you want, Anastasia?"

"You. Always."

He inhales sharply.

"All of you," I add, breathless.

He eases his fingers out of me, pulls me around to face him, and removes the blindfold. I blink up into darkening gray eyes that burn into mine. His index fingers trace my bottom lip, and he pushes his index and middle fingers into my mouth, letting me taste the salty tang of my arousal.

"Suck," he whispers. I swirl my tongue around and between his fingers.

Hmm . . . even I taste good on his fingers.

His hands skim up my arms to the cuffs above my head, and he unclips them, freeing me. Turning me around so I'm facing the wall, he tugs on my braid, pulling me into his arms. He angles my head to one side and skims his lips up my throat to my ear while holding me flush against him.

"I want in your mouth." His voice is soft and seductive. My body, ripe and ready, clenches deep inside. The pleasure is sweet and sharp.

I moan. Turning to face him, I pull his head down to mine and kiss him hard, my tongue invading his mouth, tasting and savoring him. He groans, places his hands on my behind and tugs me against him, but only my pregnant belly touches him. I bite his jaw and trail kisses down his throat and run my fingers down to his jeans. He tilts his head back, exposing more of his throat to me, and I run my tongue down to his chest and through his chest hair.

"Ah."

I tug the waistband of his jeans, the buttons popping, and he grasps my shoulders as I sink to my knees in front of him.

As I gaze up at him through my lashes, he stares down at me. His eyes are dark, his lips parted, and he inhales deeply when I free him and ensnare him with my mouth. I love doing this to Christian. Watching him come apart, hearing his breath hitch, and the soft moans he makes deep in his throat. I close my eyes and suck hard, pressing down on him, relishing his taste and his breathless gasp.

He grasps my head, stilling me, and I sheath my teeth with my lips and push him deeper into my mouth.

"Open your eyes and look at me," he orders, his voice low.

Blazing eyes meet mine and he flexes his hips, filling my mouth to the back of my throat then withdrawing quickly. He pushes into me again and I reach up to grab him. He stops and holds me in place.

"Don't touch or I'll cuff you again. I just want your mouth," he growls.

Oh my. Like that is it? I put my hands behind my back and gaze up at him innocently with my mouth full.

"Good girl," he says, smirking down at me, his voice hoarse. He eases back, and holding me gently but firmly, he pushes into me again. "You have such a fuckable mouth, Mrs. Grey." He closes his eyes and eases into my mouth as I squeeze him between my lips, running my tongue over and around him. I take him deeper and withdraw, again and again and again, the air hissing between his teeth.

"Ah! Stop," he says, and he pulls out of me, leaving me wanting more. He grasps my shoulders and pulls me to my feet. Grabbing my braid, he kisses me hard, his persistent tongue greedy and giving at once. Suddenly he releases me, and before I know it, he's lifted me into his arms and moved over to the four-poster. Gently, he lays me down so that my behind is just on the edge of the bed.

"Wrap your legs around my waist," he orders. I do and pull him toward me.

He leans down, hands either side of my head, and still standing, very slowly eases himself into me.

Oh, that feels so good. I close my eyes and revel in his slow possession.

"Okay?" he asks, his concern evident in his tone.

"Oh, God, Christian. Yes. Yes. Please." I tighten my legs around him and push against him. He groans. I clasp his arms, and he flexes his hips slowly at first, in, out.

"Christian, please. Harder—I won't break."

He groans and starts to move, really move, pounding into me again and again. Oh, it's heavenly.

"Yes," I gasp, tightening my hold on him as I start to build . . . He moans, grinding into me with renewed determination . . . and I'm close. Oh, please. Don't stop.

"Come on, Ana," he groans through gritted teeth, and I explode around him, my orgasm going on and on and on. I call out his name and Christian stills, groaning loudly, as he climaxes inside me.

"Ana," he cries.

Christian lies beside me, his hand caressing my belly, his long fingers splayed out wide.

"How's my daughter?"

"She's dancing." I laugh.

"Dancing? Oh yes! Wow. I can feel her." He grins as Blip Two somersaults inside me.

"I think she likes sex already."

Christian frowns. "Really?" he says dryly. He moves so his lips are against my bump. "There'll be none of that until you're thirty, young lady."

I giggle. "Oh, Christian, you are such a hypocrite."

"No, I'm an anxious father." He gazes up at me, his brow furrowed, betraying his anxiety.

"You're a wonderful father, as I knew you would be." I caress his lovely face, and he gives me his shy smile.

"I like this," he murmurs, stroking then kissing my belly. "There's more of you."

I pout. "I don't like more of me."

"It's great when you come."

"Christian!"

"And I'm looking forward to the taste of breast milk again."

"Christian! You are such a kinky—"

He swoops on me suddenly, kissing me hard, throwing his leg over mine, and grabbing my hands so they are above my head. "You love the kinky fuckery," he whispers, and he runs his nose down mine.

I grin, caught in his infectious, wicked smile. "Yes, I love the kinky fuckery.

And I love you. Very much."

I jerk awake, woken by a high-pitched squeal of delight from my son, and even though I can't see him or Christian, I grin like an idiot with my glee. Ted has woken from his nap, and he and Christian are romping nearby. I lie quietly, still marveling at Christian's capacity for play. His patience with Teddy is extraordinary—much more so than with me. I snort. But then, that's how it should be. And my beautiful little boy, the apple of his mother and father's eyes, knows no fear.

Christian, on the other hand, is still too overprotective—of both of us. My sweet, mercurial, controlling Fifty.

"Let's find Mommy. She's here in the meadow somewhere."

Ted says something I don't hear, and Christian laughs freely, happily. It's a magical sound, filled with his paternal joy. I can't resist. I struggle up onto my elbows to spy on them from my hiding place in the long grass.

Christian is swinging Ted around and around, making him squeal once more in delight. He stops, launches him high into the air—I stop breathing—then he catches him. Ted shrieks with childish abandon and I breathe a sigh of relief. Oh my little man, my darling little man, always on the go.

"Gain, Daddy!" he squeals. Christian obliges, and my heart leaps into my mouth once more as he tosses Teddy into the air then catches him again, clutching him close. Christian kisses Ted's copper-colored hair, and blows a kiss on his cheek, then tickles him mercilessly for a moment. Teddy howls with laughter, squirming and pushing against Christian's chest, wanting out of his arms. Grinning, Christian sets him on the ground.

"Let's find Mommy. She's hiding in the grass."

Ted beams, enjoying the game, and looks around the meadow. Grasping Christian's hand, he points to somewhere I'm not, and it makes me giggle. I lie back down quickly, delighting in this game.

"Ted, I heard Mommy. Did you hear her?"

"Mommy!"

I giggle-snort at Ted's imperious tone. Jeez—so like his dad, and he's only two.

"Teddy!" I call back, gazing up the sky with a ridiculous grin on my face.

"Mommy!"

All too soon I hear their footsteps trampling through the meadow, and first Ted then Christian bursts through the long grass.

"Mommy!" Ted screeches as if he's found the lost treasure of the Sierra Madre, and he leaps onto me.

"Hey, baby boy!" I cradle him against me and kiss his chubby cheek. He giggles and kisses me in return, then struggles out of my arms.

"Hello, Mommy." Christian smiles down at me.

"Hello, Daddy." I grin, and he picks Ted up, and sits down beside me with our son in his lap.

"Gently with Mommy," he admonishes Ted. I smirk—the irony is not lost on me. From his pocket, Christian produces his BlackBerry and gives it to Ted. This will probably win us five minutes of peace, maximum. Teddy studies it, his little brow furrowed. He looks so serious, blue eyes concentrating hard, just like his daddy does when he reads his e-mails. Christian nuzzles Ted's hair, and my heart swells to look at them both. Two peas in a pod: my son sitting quietly—for a few moments at least—in my husband's lap. My two favorite men in the whole world.

Of course, Ted is the most beautiful and talented child on the planet, but then I am his mother so I would think that. And Christian is . . . well, Christian is just himself. In white T-shirt and jeans, he looks as hot as usual. What did I do to win such a prize?

"You look well, Mrs. Grey."

"As do you, Mr. Grey."

"Isn't Mommy pretty?" Christian whispers in Ted's ear. Ted swats him away, more interested in Daddy's BlackBerry.

I giggle. "You can't get around him."

"I know." Christian grins and kisses Ted's hair. "I can't believe he'll be two tomorrow." His tone is wistful. Reaching across, he spreads his hand over my bump. "Let's have lots of children," he says.

"One more at least." I grin, and he caresses my belly.

"How is my daughter?"

"She's good. Asleep, I think."

"Hello, Mr. Grey. Hi, Ana."

We both turn to see Sophie, Taylor's ten-year-old daughter, appear out of the long grass.

"Soeee," Ted squeals with delighted recognition. He struggles out of Christian's lap, discarding the BlackBerry.

"I have some popsicles from Gail," Sophie says. "Can I give one to Ted?"

"Sure," I say. Oh dear, this is going to be messy.

"Pop!" Ted holds out his hands and Sophie passes one to him. It's dripping already.

"Here—let Mommy see." I sit up, take the popsicle from Ted, and quickly slip it into my mouth, licking off the excess juice. Hmm . . . cranberry, cool and delicious.

"Mine!" Ted protests, his voice ringing with indignation.

"Here you go." I hand him back a slightly less runny popsicle, and it goes straight into his mouth. He grins.

"Can Ted and I go for a walk?" Sophie asks.

"Sure."

"Don't go too far."

"No, Mr. Grey." Sophie's hazel eyes are wide and serious. I think she's a little frightened of Christian. She holds her hand out, and Teddy takes it willingly.

They trudge away together through the long grass.

Christian watches them.

"They'll be fine, Christian. What harm could come to them here?" He frowns at me momentarily, and I crawl over and into his lap.

"Besides, Ted is completely smitten with Sophie."

Christian snorts and nuzzles my hair. "She's a delightful child."

"She is. So pretty, too. A blonde angel."

Christian stills and places his hands on my belly. "Girls, eh?" There's a hint of trepidation in his voice. I curl my hand behind his head.

"You don't have to worry about your daughter for at least another three months. I have her covered here. Okay?"

He kisses me behind my ear and scrapes his teeth around the edge to the lobe.

"Whatever you say, Mrs. Grey." Then he bites me. I yelp.

"I enjoyed last night," he says. "We should do that more often."

"Me, too."

"And we could, if you stopped working . . ."

I roll my eyes and he tightens his arms around me and grins into my neck.

"Are you rolling your eyes at me Mrs. Grey?" His threat is implicit but sensual, making me squirm, but as we're in the middle of the meadow with the kids nearby, I ignore his invitation.

"Grey Publishing has an author on the New York Times Best Sellers—Boyce Fox's sales are phenomenal, the e-book side of our business has exploded, and I finally have the team I want around me."

"And you're making money in these difficult times," Christian adds, his voice reflecting his pride. "But . . . I like you barefoot and pregnant and in my kitchen."

I lean back so I can see his face. He gazes down at me, eyes bright.

"I like that, too," I murmur, and he kisses me, his hands still spread across my bump.

Seeing he's in a good mood, I decide to broach a delicate subject. "Have you thought any more about my suggestion?"

He stills. "Ana, the answer is no."

"But Ella is such a lovely name."

"I am not naming my daughter after my mother. No. End of discussion."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Grasping my chin, he gazes earnestly down at me, radiating exasperation. "Ana, give it up. I don't want my daughter tainted by my past."

"Okay. I'm sorry." Shit . . . I don't want to anger him.

"That's better. Stop trying to fix it," he mutters. "You got me to admit I loved her, you dragged me to her grave. Enough."

Oh no. I twist in his lap to straddle him and grasp his head in my hands.

"I'm sorry. Really. Don't be angry with me, please." I kiss him, then kiss the corner of his mouth. After a beat, he points to the other corner, and I smile and kiss it. He points to his nose. I kiss that. He grins and places his hands on my backside.

"Oh, Mrs. Grey—what am I going to do with you?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something," I murmur. He grins and, twisting suddenly, he pushes me down onto the blanket.

"How about I do it now?" he whispers with a salacious smile.

"Christian!" I gasp.

Suddenly there's a high-pitched cry from Ted. Christian leaps to his feet with a panther's easy grace and races toward the source of the sound. I follow at a more leisurely pace. Secretly, I'm not as concerned as Christian—it was not a cry that would make me take the stairs two at a time to find out what's wrong.

Christian swings Teddy up into his arms. Our little boy is crying inconsolably and pointing to the ground, where the remains of his popsicle lie in a soggy mess, melting into the grass.

"He dropped it," Sophie says, sadly. "He could have had mine, but I've finished it."

"Oh, Sophie darling, don't worry." I stroke her hair.

"Mommy!" Ted wails, holding his hands out to me. Christian reluctantly lets him go as I reach for him.

"There, there."

"Pop," he sobs.

"I know, baby boy. We'll go see Mrs. Taylor and get another one." I kiss his head . . . oh, he smells so good. He smells of my baby boy.

"Pop," he sniffs. I take his hand and kiss his sticky fingers.

"I can taste your popsicle here on your fingers."

Ted stops crying and examines his hand.

"Put your fingers in your mouth."

He does. "Pop!"

"Yes. Popsicle."

He grins. My mercurial little boy, just like his dad. Well, at least he has an excuse—he's only two.

"Shall we go see Mrs. Taylor?" He nods, smiling his beautiful baby smile.

"Will you let Daddy carry you?" He shakes his head and wraps his arms around my neck, hugging me tightly, his face pressed against my throat.

"I think Daddy wants to taste popsicle, too," I whisper in Ted's little ear. Ted frowns at me, then looks at his hand and holds it out to Christian. Christian smiles and puts Ted's fingers in his mouth.

"Hmm . . . tasty."

Ted giggles and reaches up, wanting Christian to hold him. Christian grins at me and takes Ted in his arms, settling him on his hip.

"Sophie, where's Gail?"

"She was in the big house."

I glance at Christian. His smile has turned bittersweet, and I wonder what he's thinking.

"You're so good with him," he murmurs.

"This little one?" I ruffle Ted's hair. "It's only because I have the measure of you Grey men." I smirk at my husband.

He laughs. "Yes, you do, Mrs. Grey."

Teddy squirms out of Christian's hold. Now he wants to walk, my stubborn little man. I take one of his hands, and his dad takes the other, and together we swing Teddy between us all the way back to the house, Sophie skipping along in front of us.

I wave to Taylor who, on a rare day-off, is outside the garage, dressed in jeans and a wife-beater, as he tinkers with an old motorbike.

I pause outside the door to Ted's room and listen as Christian reads to Ted. "I am the Lorax! I speak for the trees . . ."1

When I peek in, Teddy is fast asleep while Christian continues to read. He glances up when I open the door and closes the book. He puts his finger to his lips and switches on the baby monitor beside Ted's crib. He adjusts Ted's bedclothes, strokes his cheek, then straightens up, and tiptoes over to me without making a sound. It's hard not to giggle at him.

Out in the hallway, Christian pulls me into his embrace. "God, I love him, but it's great when he's asleep," he murmurs against my lips.

"I couldn't agree with you more."

He gazes down at me, eyes soft. "I can hardly believe he's been with us for two years."

"I know." I kiss him, and for a moment, I'm transported back to Teddy's birth: the emergency caesarian, Christian's crippling anxiety, Dr. Greene's no-nonsense calm when my Little Blip was in distress. I shudder inwardly at the memory.

"Mrs. Grey, you've been in labor for fifteen hours now. Your contractions have slowed in spite of the Pitocin. We need to do a C-section—the baby is in distress."

Dr. Greene is adamant.

"About fucking time!" Christian growls at her. Dr. Greene ignores him.

"Christian, quiet." I squeeze his hand. My voice is low and weak and everything is fuzzy—the walls, the machines, the green-gowned people . . . I just want to go to sleep. But I have something important to do first . . . Oh yes. "I wanted to push him out myself."

"Mrs. Grey, please. C-section."

"Please, Ana," Christian pleads.

"Can I sleep then?"

"Yes, baby, yes." It's almost a sob, and Christian kisses my forehead.

"I want to see the Lil' Blip."

"You will."

"Okay," I whisper.

"Finally," Dr. Greene mutters. "Nurse, page the anesthesiologist. Dr. Miller, prep for a C-section. Mrs. Grey, we are going to move you to the OR."

"Move?" Christian and I speak at once.

"Yes. Now."

And suddenly we're moving—quickly, the lights on the ceiling blurring into one long bright strip as I'm whisked across the corridor.

"Mr. Grey, you'll need to change into scrubs."

"What?"

"Now, Mr. Grey."

He squeezes my hand and releases me.

"Christian," I call, panic setting in.

We are through another set of doors, and in no time a nurse is setting up a screen across my chest. The door opens and closes, and there's so many people in the room. It's so loud . . . I want to go home.

"Christian?" I search the faces in the room for my husband.

"He'll be with you in a moment, Mrs. Grey."

A moment later, he's beside me, in blue scrubs, and I reach for his hand.

"I'm frightened," I whisper.

"No, baby, no. I'm here. Don't be frightened. Not my strong Ana." He kisses my forehead, and I can tell by the tone of his voice that something's wrong.

"What is it?"

"What?"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Everything's fine. Baby, you're just exhausted." His eyes burn with fear.

"Mrs. Grey, the anesthesiologist is here. He's going to adjust your epidural, and then we can proceed."

"She's having another contraction."

Everything tightens like a steel band around my belly. Shit! I crush Christian's hand as I ride it out. This is what's tiring—enduring this pain. I am so tired. I can feel the numbing liquid spread . . . spread down. I concentrate on Christian's face. On the furrow between his brows. He's tense. He's worried. Why is he worried?

"Can you feel this, Mrs. Grey?" Dr. Greene's disembodied voice is coming from behind the curtain.

"Feel what?"

"You can't feel it."

"No."

"Good. Dr. Miller, let's go."

"You're doing well, Ana."

Christian is pale. There is sweat on his brow. He's scared. Don't be scared, Christian. Don't be scared.

"I love you," I whisper.

"Oh, Ana," he sobs. "I love you, too, so much."

I feel a strange pulling deep inside. Like nothing I've felt before. Christian looks over the screen and blanches, but stares, fascinated.

"What's happening?"

"Suction! Good . . ."

Suddenly, there's a piercing angry cry.

"You have a boy, Mrs. Grey. Check his Apgar."

"Apgar is nine."

"Can I see him?" I gasp.

Christian disappears from view for a second and reappears a moment later, holding my son, swathed in blue. His face is pink, and covered in white mush and blood. My baby. My Blip . . . Theodore Raymond Grey.

When I glance at Christian, he has tears in his eyes.

"Here's your son, Mrs. Grey," he whispers, his voice strained and hoarse.

"Our son," I breathe. "He's beautiful."

"He is," Christian says and plants a kiss on our beautiful boy's forehead beneath a shock of dark hair. Theodore Raymond Grey is oblivious. Eyes closed, his earlier crying forgotten, he's asleep. He is the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. So beautiful, I begin to weep.

"Thank you, Ana," Christian whispers, and there are tears in his eyes too.

"What is it?" Christian tilts my chin back.

"I was just remembering Ted's birth."

Christian blanches and cups my belly.

"I am not going through that again. Elective caesarian this time."

"Christian, I—"

"No, Ana. You nearly fucking died last time. No."

"I did not nearly die."

"No." He's emphatic and not to be argued with, but as he gazes down at me, his eyes soften. "I like the name Phoebe," he whispers, and runs his nose down mine.

"Phoebe Grey? Phoebe . . . Yes. I like that, too." I grin up at him.

"Good. I want to set up Ted's present." He takes my hand, and we head downstairs. His excitement radiates off him; Christian has been waiting for this moment all day.

"Do you think he'll like it?" His apprehensive gaze meets mine.

"He'll love it. For about two minutes. Christian, he's only two."

Christian has finished setting up the wooden train set he bought Teddy for his birthday. He's had Barney at the office convert two of the little engines to run on solar power like the helicopter I gave Christian a few years ago. Christian seems anxious for the sun to rise. I suspect that's because he wants to play with the train set himself. The layout covers most of the stone floor of our outdoor room.

Tomorrow we will have a family party for Ted. Ray and José will be coming and all the Grey's, including Ted's new cousin Ava, Kate and Elliot's two-month-old daughter. I look forward to catching up with Kate and seeing how motherhood is agreeing with her.

I gaze up at the view as the sun sinks behind the Olympic Peninsula. It's everything Christian promised it would be, and I get the same joyful thrill seeing it now as I did the first time. It's simply stunning: twilight over the Sound. Christian pulls me into his arms.

"It's quite a view."

"It is," Christian answers, and when I turn to look at him, he's gazing at me.

He plants a soft kiss on my lips. "It's a beautiful view," he murmurs. "My favorite."

"It's home."

He grins and kisses me again. "I love you, Mrs. Grey."

"I love you, too, Christian. Always."

The End

Dr. Seuss. The Lorax. New York: Random House, 1971.