Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (104 page)

Should I leave? I gaze at him, this crazy man that I love—yes, love.

Can I leave him? I left him once before, and it nearly broke me … and him. I love him. I know that in spite of this revelation.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispers.

“Oh, for crying out loud—no! I am not going to go!” I shout, and it’s cathartic. There, I’ve said it. I am not leaving.

“Really?” His eyes widen.

“What can I do to make you understand I will not run? What can I say?”

He gazes at me, revealing his fear and anguish again. He swallows. “There is one thing you can do.”

“What?” I snap.

“Marry me,” he whispers.

What? Did he really just
—

For the second time in less than half an hour my world stops.

Holy fuck
. I stare at the deeply damaged man I love. I can’t believe what he’s just said.

Marriage?
He’s proposing marriage? Is he kidding? I can’t help it—a small, nervous, disbelieving giggle erupts from deep inside. I bite my lip to stop it from turning into full-scale hysterical laughter and fail miserably. I lie back flat on the floor and surrender myself to the laughter, laughing as I’ve never laughed before, huge healing cathartic howls of laughter.

And for a moment I am on my own, looking down at this absurd situation, a giggling, overwhelmed girl beside a beautiful, disturbed boy. I drape my arm across my eyes, as my laughter turns to scalding tears.
No, no … this is too much
.

As the hysteria subsides, Christian gently lifts my arm off my face. I turn and gaze up at him.

He’s leaning over me. His mouth is twisted with wry amusement, but his eyes are a burning gray, maybe wounded.
Oh no
.

He gently wipes away a stray tear with the back of his knuckles. “You find my proposal amusing, Miss Steele?”

Oh, Fifty!
Reaching up, I caress his cheek tenderly, enjoying the feel of the stubble beneath my fingers. Lord, I love this man.

“Mr. Grey … Christian. Your sense of timing is without doubt …” I gaze up at him as words fail me.

He smirks at me, but the crinkling around his eyes shows me that he’s hurt. It’s sobering.

“You’re cutting me to the quick here, Ana. Will you marry me?”

I sit up and lean over him, placing my hands on his knees. I stare into his lovely face. “Christian, I’ve met your psycho ex with a gun, been thrown out of my apartment, had you go thermonuclear Fifty on me—”

He opens his mouth to speak, but I hold up my hand. He obediently shuts his mouth.

“You’ve just revealed some quite frankly shocking information about yourself, and now you’ve asked me to marry you.”

He moves his head from side to side as if considering the facts. He’s amused. Thank heavens.

“Yes, I think that’s a fair and accurate summary of the situation,” he says dryly.

I shake my head at him. “Whatever happened to delayed gratification?”

“I got over it, and I’m now a firm advocate of instant gratification. Carpe diem, Ana,” he whispers.

“Look, Christian, I’ve known you for about three minutes, and there’s so much more I need to know. I’ve had too much to drink, I’m hungry, I’m tired, and I want to go to bed. I need to consider your proposal just as I considered that contract you gave me. And”—I press my lips together to show my displeasure but also to lighten the mood between us—“that wasn’t the most romantic proposal.”

He tilts his head to one side and his lips quirk up in a smile. “Fair point well made, as ever, Miss Steele,” he breathes, his voice laced with relief. “So, that’s not a no?”

I sigh. “No, Mr. Grey, it’s not a no, but it’s not a yes, either. You’re only doing this because you’re scared, and you don’t trust me.”

“No, I’m doing this because I’ve finally met someone I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

Oh
. My heart skips a beat and inside, I melt. How is it that in the middle of the most bizarre situations he can say the most romantic things? My mouth pops open in shock.

“I never thought that would happen to me,” he continues, his expression radiating pure undiluted sincerity.

I gape at him, searching for the right words.

“Can I think about it … please? And think about everything else that’s happened today? What you’ve just told me? You asked for patience and faith. Well, back at you, Grey. I need those now.”

His eyes search mine and after a beat, he leans forward and tucks my hair behind my ear.

“I can live with that.” He kisses me quickly on the lips. “Not very romantic, eh?” He raises his eyebrows, and I give him an admonishing shake of my head. “Hearts and flowers?” he asks softly.

I nod and he gives me a slight smile.

“You’re hungry?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t eat.” His eyes frost and his jaw hardens.

“No, I didn’t eat.” I sit back on my heels and regard him passively. “Being thrown out of my apartment after witnessing my boyfriend interacting intimately with his ex-submissive considerably suppressed my appetite.” I glare at him and fist my hands on my hips.

Christian shakes his head and rises gracefully to his feet.
Oh, finally we can get off the floor
. He holds his hand out to me.

“Let me fix you something to eat,” he says.

“Can’t I just go to bed?” I mutter wearily as I place my hand in his.

He pulls me up. I am stiff. He gazes down at me, his expression soft.

“No, you need to eat. Come.” Bossy Christian is back, and it’s a relief.

He leads me to the kitchen area and ushers me toward a barstool as he heads to the fridge. I glance at my watch and it’s nearly eleven thirty and I have to get up for work in the morning.

“Christian, I’m really not hungry.”

He studiously ignores me as he ferrets through the enormous fridge. “Cheese?” he asks.

“Not at this hour.”

“Pretzels?”

“In the fridge? No,” I snap.

He turns and grins at me. “You don’t like pretzels?”

“Not at eleven thirty. Christian, I’m going to bed. You can rummage around in your refrigerator for the rest of the night if you want. I’m tired, and I’ve had far too interesting a day. A day I’d like to forget.” I slide off the stool and he scowls at me, but right now I don’t care. I want to go to bed—I’m exhausted.

“Macaroni and cheese?” He holds up a white bowl lidded with foil. He looks so hopeful and endearing.

“You like macaroni and cheese?” I ask.

He nods enthusiastically, and my heart melts. He looks so young all of a sudden. Who would have thought? Christian Grey likes nursery food.

“You want some?” he asks, sounding hopeful. I can’t resist him, and I’m hungry.

I nod and give him a weak smile. His answering grin is breathtaking. He takes the foil off the bowl and pops it into the microwave. I perch back on the stool and watch the beauty that is Mr. Christian Grey—the man who wants to marry me—move gracefully and with ease around his kitchen.

“So you know how to use the microwave, then?” I tease softly.

“If it’s in a packet, I can usually do something with it. It’s real food I have a problem with.”

I cannot believe this is the same man who was on his knees in front of me not half an hour before. He’s his usual mercurial self. He sets out plates, cutlery, and place mats on the breakfast bar.

“It’s very late,” I mutter.

“Don’t go to work tomorrow.”

“I have to go to work tomorrow. My boss is leaving for New York.”

Christian frowns. “Do you want to go there this weekend?”

“I checked the weather forecast, and it looks like rain,” I say, shaking my head.

“Oh, so what do you want to do?”

The microwave’s
ping
announces that our supper is warmed through.

“I just want to get through one day at a time right now. All this excitement is … tiring.” I raise an eyebrow at him, which he judiciously ignores.

Christian places the white bowl in between our place settings and takes his seat beside me. He looks deep in thought, distracted. I dish the macaroni onto our plates. It smells divine, and my mouth waters in anticipation. I am famished.

“Sorry about Leila,” he murmurs.

“Why are you sorry?” Mmm, the macaroni tastes as good as it smells. My stomach grumbles gratefully.

“It must have been a terrible shock for you, finding her in your apartment. Taylor swept through it earlier himself. He’s very upset.”

“I don’t blame Taylor.”

“Neither do I. He’s been out looking for you.”

“Really? Why?”

“I didn’t know where you were. You left your purse, your phone. I couldn’t even track you. Where did you go?” he asks. His voice is soft, but there’s an ominous undercurrent to his words.

“Ethan and I just went to a bar across the street. So I could watch what was happening.”

“I see.” The atmosphere between us has changed subtly. It’s no longer light.

Okay, well … two can play that game. Let’s just bring this back to you, Fifty
. Trying to sound nonchalant, wanting to assuage my burning curiosity but dreading the answer, I ask, “So, what did you do with Leila in the apartment?”

I glance up at him, and he freezes with his forkful of macaroni suspended in midair.
Oh no, that’s not good
.

“You really want to know?”

A knot tightens in my gut and my appetite vanishes. “Yes,” I whisper.
Do you? Do you really?
My subconscious has thrown her empty bottle of gin on the floor and is sitting up in her armchair, glaring at me in horror.

Christian’s mouth flattens into a line, and he hesitates. “We talked, and I gave her a bath.” His voice is hoarse, and he continues quickly when I make no response. “And I dressed her in some of your clothes. I hope you don’t mind. But she was filthy.”

Holy fuck
. He bathed her?

What an inappropriate thing to do. I’m reeling, staring down at my uneaten macaroni. The sight of it now makes me nauseous.

Try to rationalize this
, my subconscious coaches. That cool, intellectual part of my brain knows that he just did that because she was dirty, but it’s too hard. My fragile, jealous self can’t bear it.

Suddenly I want to cry—not succumb to ladylike tears that trickle decorously down my cheeks, but howling-at-the-moon crying. I take a deep breath to suppress the urge, but my throat is arid and uncomfortable from my unshed tears and sobs.

“It was all I could do, Ana,” he says softly.

“You still have feelings for her?”

“No!” he says, appalled, and closes his eyes, his expression one of anguish. I turn away, staring once more at my sickening food. I can’t bear to look at him.

“To see her like that—so different, so broken. I care about her, one human being to another.” He shrugs as if to shake off an unpleasant memory. Jeez, is he expecting my sympathy?

“Ana, look at me.”

I can’t. I know that if I do, I will burst into tears. This is just too much to absorb. I’m like an overflowing tank of gasoline—full, beyond capacity. There is no room for any more. I simply cannot cope with any more crap. I will combust and explode, and it will be ugly if I try. Jeez!

Christian caring for his ex-sub in such an intimate fashion—the image flashes through my brain. Bathing her, for fuck’s sake—naked. A harsh, painful shudder wracks my body.

“Ana.”

“What?”

“Don’t. It doesn’t mean anything. It was like caring for a child, a broken, shattered child,” he mutters.

What the hell would he know about caring for a child? This was a woman he had a very full-on, deviant sexual relationship with.

Oh, this hurts
. I take a deep, steadying breath. Or perhaps he’s referring to himself. He’s the broken child. That makes more sense … or maybe it makes no sense at all. Oh, this is so fucked-up, and suddenly I’m bone-crushingly tired. I need sleep.

“Ana?”

I stand, take my plate to the sink, and scrape the contents into the trash.

“Ana, please.”

I whirl around and face him. “Just stop, Christian! Just stop with the ‘Ana, please’!” I shout at him, and my tears start to trickle down my face. “I’ve had enough of all this shit today. I am going to bed. I am tired and emotional. Now let me be.”

I turn on my heel and practically run to the bedroom, taking with me the memory of his wide-eyed, shocked stare. Nice to know I can shock him, too. I strip out of my clothes in double-quick time, and after rifling through his chest of drawers, drag on one of his T-shirts and head for the bathroom.

I gaze at myself in the mirror, hardly recognizing the gaunt, pink-eyed, blotchy-cheeked harridan staring back at me, and it’s too much. I sink to the floor and surrender to the overwhelming emotion I can no longer contain, sobbing huge chest-wrenching sobs, finally letting my tears flow unrestrained.

H
ey,” Christian’s says gently as he pulls me into his arms, “please don’t cry, Ana, please,” he begs. He’s on the bathroom floor, and I am in his lap. I put my arms around him and weep into his neck. Cooing softly into my hair, he gently strokes my back, my head.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers, and that makes me cry harder and hug him tighter.

We sit like this forever. Eventually, when I’m all cried out, Christian staggers to his feet, holding me, and carries me into his room where he lays me down in the bed. In a few seconds he’s beside me and the lights are off. He pulls me into his arms, hugging me tightly, and I finally drift off into a dark and troubled sleep.

I AWAKE WITH A
jolt. My head is fuzzy and I’m too warm. Christian is wrapped around me like a vine. He grumbles in his sleep as I slip out of his arms, but he doesn’t wake. Sitting up, I glance at the alarm clock. It’s three in the morning. I need an Advil and a drink. I swing my legs out of bed and make my way to the kitchen in the great room.

In the fridge I find a carton of orange juice and pour myself a glass. Mmm … it’s delicious, and my fuzzy head eases immediately. I hunt through the cupboards looking for some painkillers and eventually come across a plastic box full of meds. I sink two Advil and pour myself another orange juice.