by E. L. James
“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 elephant 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.
“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 accurate. 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.
