Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed

by E. L. James

  I turn very slowly in his arms so I can face him. I am resting my head on his arm. His eyes are flinty gray and guarded.

  I gaze at his beautiful face. He’s giving nothing away, but he keeps his eyes on mine, hardly blinking. Oh, he is so breathtakingly good-looking. In such a short time, he’s become so, so dear to me. Reaching up, I caress his cheek and run the tips of my fingers through his stubble. He closes his eyes and exhales.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  He opens his eyes and looks at me puzzled.

  “What for?”

  “What I said.”

  “You didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know.” And his eyes soften with relief. “I am sorry I hurt you.”

  I shrug. “I asked for it.” And now I know. I swallow. Here goes. I need to say my piece. “I don’t think I can be everything you want me to be,” I whisper. His eyes widen, and he blinks, his fearful expression returning.

  “You are everything I want you to be.”

  What?

  “I don’t understand. I’m not obedient, and you can be as sure as hell I’m not going to let you do that to me again. And that’s what you need, you said so.”

  He closes his eyes again, and I can see myriad emotions cross his face. When he reopens them, his expression is bleak. Oh no.

  “You’re right. I should let you go. I am no good for you.”

  My scalp prickles as every single hair follicle on my body stands to attention, and the world falls away from me, leaving a wide, yawning abyss for me to fall into. Oh no.

  “I don’t want to go,” I whisper. Fuck—this is it. Pay or play. Tears swim in my eyes once more.

  “I don’t want you to go, either,” he whispers, his voice raw. He reaches up and gently strokes my cheek and wipes away a falling tear with his thumb. “I’ve come alive since I met you.” His thumb traces the contours of my lower lip.

  “Me, too,” I whisper. “I’ve fallen in love with you, Christian.”

  His eyes widen again, but this time with pure, undiluted fear.

  “No,” he breathes as if I’ve knocked the wind out of him.

  Oh no.

  “You can’t love me, Ana. No … that’s wrong.” He’s horrified.

  “Wrong? Why’s it wrong?”

  “Well, look at you. I can’t make you happy.” His voice is anguished.

  “But you do make me happy.” I frown.

  “Not at the moment, not doing what I want to do.”

  Holy fuck. This really is it. This is what it boils down to—incompatibility—and all those poor subs come to mind.

  “We’ll never get past that, will we?” I whisper, my scalp prickling in fear.

  He shakes his head bleakly. I close my eyes. I cannot bear to look at him.

  “Well … I’d better go, then,” I murmur, wincing as I sit up.

  “No, don’t go.” He sounds panicked.

  “There’s no point in me staying.” Suddenly, I feel tired, really dog-tired, and I want to go now. I climb out of bed, and Christian follows.

  “I’m going to get dressed. I’d like some privacy,” I say, my voice flat and empty as I leave him standing in the bedroom.

  Heading downstairs, I glance at the great room, thinking how only hours before I had rested my head on his shoulder as he played the piano. So much has happened since then. I have had my eyes opened and glimpsed the extent of his depravity, and I now know he’s not capable of love—of giving or receiving love. My worst fears have been realized. And strangely, it’s liberating.

  The pain is such that I refuse to acknowledge it. I feel numb. I have somehow escaped from my body and am now a casual observer to this unfolding tragedy. I shower quickly and methodically, thinking only of each second in front of me. Now squeeze body wash bottle. Put body wash bottle back in rack. Rub cloth on face, on shoulders … on and on, all simple, mechanical actions, requiring simple, mechanical thoughts.

  I finish my shower—and as I haven’t washed my hair, I can dry myself quickly. I dress in the bathroom, taking my jeans and T-shirt out of my small suitcase. My jeans chafe against my backside, but quite frankly, it’s a pain I welcome as it distracts my mind from what’s happening to my splintering, shattered heart.

  I stoop to shut my suitcase and the bag holding Christian’s gift catches my eye, a model kit for a Blanik L23 glider, something for him to build. Tears threaten. Oh no … happier times, when there was hope of more. I take it out of the case, knowing that I need to give it to him. Quickly, I rip a small piece of paper from my notebook, hastily scribble a note for him, and leave it on top of the box.

  This reminded me of a happy time.

  Thank you.

  Ana

  I gaze at myself in the mirror. A pale and haunted ghost stares back at me. I scoop my hair into a bun and ignore how swollen my eyelids are from the crying. My subconscious nods with approval. Even she knows not to be snarky right now. I cannot believe that my world is crumbling around me into a sterile pile of ashes, all my hopes and dreams cruelly dashed. No, no, don’t think about it. Not now, not yet. Taking a deep breath, I pick up my case, and after placing the glider kit and my note on his pillow, I head for the great room.

  Christian is on the phone. He’s dressed in black jeans and a T-shirt. His feet are bare.

  “He said what?” he shouts, making me jump. “Well, he could have told us the fucking truth. What’s his number? I need to call him … Welch, this is a real fuckup.” He glances up and doesn’t take his dark and brooding eyes off me. “Find her,” he snaps and presses the off switch.

  I walk over to the couch and collect my backpack, doing my best to ignore him. I take the Mac out of it and walk back toward the kitchen, placing it carefully on the breakfast bar, along with the BlackBerry and the car key. When I turn to face him, he’s staring at me, stupefied with horror.

  “I need the money that Taylor got for my Beetle.” My voice is clear and calm, devoid of emotion … extraordinary.

  “Ana, I don’t want those things, they’re yours,” he says in disbelief. “Take them.”

  “No, Christian. I only accepted them under sufferance—and I don’t want them anymore.”

  “Ana, be reasonable,” he scolds me, even now.

  “I don’t want anything that will remind me of you. I just need the money that Taylor got for my car.” My voice is quite monotone.

  He gasps. “Are you really trying to wound me?”

  “No.” I frown, staring at him. Of course not … I love you. “I’m not. I’m trying to protect myself,” I whisper. Because you don’t want me the way I want you.

  “Please, Ana, take that stuff.”

  “Christian, I don’t want to fight—I just need the money.”

  He narrows his eyes, but I’m no longer intimidated by him. Well, only a little. I gaze impassively back, not blinking or backing down.

  “Will you take a check?” he says acidly.

  “Yes. I think you’re good for it.”

  He doesn’t smile; he just turns on his heel and stalks into his study. I take a last, lingering look around his apartment—at the art on the walls—all abstracts, serene, cool … cold, even. Fitting, I think absently. My eyes stray to the piano. Jeez—if I’d kept my mouth shut, we’d have made love on the piano. No, fucked, we would have fucked on the piano. Well, I would have made love. The thought lies heavy and sad in my mind and what’s left of my heart. He has never made love to me, has he? It’s always been fucking to him.

  Christian returns and hands me an envelope.

  “Taylor got a good price. It’s a classic car. You can ask him. He’ll take you home.” He nods in the direction over my shoulder. I turn, and Taylor is standing in the doorway, wearing his suit, as impeccable as ever.

  “That’s fine. I can get myself home, thank you.”

  I turn to stare at Christian, and I see the barely contained fury in his eyes.

  “Are you going to defy me at every turn?”

  “Why change a h
abit of a lifetime?” I give him a small, apologetic shrug.

  He closes his eyes in frustration and runs his hand through his hair.

  “Please, Ana, let Taylor take you home.”

  “I’ll get the car, Miss Steele,” Taylor announces authoritatively. Christian nods at him, and when I glance around, Taylor has gone.

  I turn back to face Christian. We are four feet apart. He steps forward, and instinctively I step back. He stops, and the anguish in his expression is palpable, his gray eyes burning.

  “I don’t want you to go,” he murmurs, his voice full of longing.

  “I can’t stay. I know what I want and you can’t give it to me, and I can’t give you what you need.”

  He takes another step forward, and I hold up my hands.

  “Don’t, please.” I recoil from him. There’s no way I can tolerate his touch now, it will slay me. “I can’t do this.”

  Grabbing my suitcase and my backpack, I head for the foyer. He follows me, keeping a careful distance. He presses the elevator button, and the doors open. I climb in.

  “Good-bye, Christian,” I murmur.

  “Ana, good-bye,” he says softly, and he looks utterly, utterly broken, a man in agonizing pain, reflecting how I feel inside. I tear my gaze away from him before I change my mind and try to comfort him.

  The elevator doors close and it whisks me down to the bowels of the basement and to my own personal hell.

  TAYLOR HOLDS THE DOOR open for me, and I climb into the back of the car. I avoid eye contact. Embarrassment and shame wash over me. I’m a complete failure. I had hoped to drag my Fifty Shades into the light, but it’s proved a task beyond my meager abilities. Desperately, I try to keep my emotions banked and at bay. As we head out onto Fourth Avenue, I stare blankly out the window, and the enormity of what I’ve done slowly washes over me. Shit—I’ve left him. The only man I’ve ever loved. The only man I’ve ever slept with. I gasp, as crippling pain slices through me, and the levees burst. Tears course unbidden and unwelcome down my cheeks, and I wipe them away hurriedly with my fingers, scrambling in my bag for my sunglasses. As we pause at some traffic light, Taylor holds out a linen handkerchief for me. He says nothing and doesn’t look in my direction, and I take it with gratitude.

  “Thank you,” I mutter, and this small discreet act of kindness is my undoing. I sit back in the luxurious leather seat and weep.

  THE APARTMENT IS ACHINGLY empty and unfamiliar. I have not lived here long enough for it to feel like home. I head straight to my room, and there, hanging limply at the end of my bed, is a very sad, deflated helicopter balloon. Charlie Tango, looking and feeling exactly like me. I grab it angrily off my bedrail, snapping the tie, and hug it to me. Oh—what have I done?

  I fall onto my bed, shoes and all, and howl. The pain is indescribable … physical, mental … metaphysical … it is everywhere, seeping into the marrow of my bones. Grief. This is grief—and I’ve brought it on myself. Deep down, a nasty, unbidden thought comes from my inner goddess, her lips contorted in a snarl … the physical pain from the bite of a belt is nothing, nothing compared to this devastation. I curl up, desperately clutching the flat foil balloon and Taylor’s handkerchief, and surrender myself to my grief.

  First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop Publishing House, Australia, 2011

  FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, APRIL 2012

  Copyright © 2011 by Fifty Shades Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author published an earlier serialized version of this story online with different characters as “Master of the Universe” under the pseudonym Snowqueen’s Icedragon.

  The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress.

  eISBN: 978-1-61213-059-0

  Cover design by Jennifer McGuire

  Cover image © Random House, Inc., photo by E. Spek

  www.vintagebooks.com

  v3.1

  For Z and J

  You have my unconditional love, always

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  * * *

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Sarah, Kay, and Jada. Thank you for all that you have done for me.

  Also, HUGE thanks to Kathleen and Kristi, who stepped into the breach and sorted stuff out.

  Thank you, too, to Niall, my husband, my lover, and my best friend (most of the time).

  And a big shout-out to all the wonderful, wonderful women from all over the world whom I have had the pleasure of meeting since I started all this, and whom I now consider friends, including: Ale, Alex, Amy, Andrea, Angela, Azucena, Babs, Bee, Belinda, Betsy, Brandy, Britt, Caroline, Catherine, Dawn, Gwen, Hannah, Janet, Jen, Jenn, Jill, Kathy, Katie, Kellie, Kelly, Liz, Mandy, Margaret, Natalia, Nicole, Nora, Olga, Pam, Pauline, Raina, Raizie, Rajka, Rhian, Ruth, Steph, Susi, Tasha, Taylor, and Una. And also to the many talented, funny, warm women (and men) I have met online. You know who you are.

  Thanks to Morgan and Jenn for all things Heathman.

  And finally, thank you to Janine, my editor. You rock. That is all.

  Contents

  Master - Table of Contents

  Fifty Shades Darker

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  PROLOGUE

  * * *

  He’s come back. Mommy’s asleep or she’s sick again.

  I hide and curl up small under the table in the kitchen. Through my fingers I can see Mommy. She is asleep on the couch. Her hand is on the sticky green rug, and he’s wearing his big boots with the shiny buckle and standing over Mommy shouting.

  He hits Mommy with a belt. Get up! Get up! You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch.

  Mommy makes a sobbing noise. Stop. Please stop. Mommy doesn’t scream. Mommy curls up small.

  I have my fingers in my ears, and I close my eyes. The sound stops.

  He turns and I can see his boots as he stomps into the kitchen. He still has the belt. He is trying to find me.

  He stoops down and grins. He smells nasty. Of cigarettes and drink. There you are, you little shit.

  A chilling wail wakes him. Christ! He’s drenched in sweat and his heart is pounding. What the fuck? He sits bolt upright in bed and puts his head in hands. Fuck. They’re back. The noise was me. He takes a deep steadying breath, trying to rid his mind and nostrils of the smell of cheap bourbon and stale Camel cigarettes.

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  I have survived Day Three Post-Christian, and my first day at work. It has been a welcome distraction. The time has flown by in a haze of new faces, work to do, and Mr. Jack Hyde. Mr. Jack Hyde … he smiles down at me, his blue eyes twinkling, as he leans against my desk.

  “Excellen
t work, Ana. I think we’re going to make a great team.”

  Somehow, I manage to curl my lips upward in a semblance of a smile.

  “I’ll be off, if that’s okay with you,” I murmur.

  “Of course, it’s five thirty. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Good night, Jack.”

  “Good night, Ana.”

  Collecting my bag, I shrug on my jacket and head for the door. Out in the early evening air of Seattle, I take a deep breath. It doesn’t begin to fill the void in my chest, a void that’s been present since Saturday morning, a painful hollow reminder of my loss. I walk toward the bus stop with my head down, staring at my feet and contemplating being without my beloved Wanda, my old Beetle … or the Audi.

  I shut the door on that thought immediately. No. Don’t think about him. Of course, I can afford a car—a nice, new car. I suspect he has been overgenerous in his payment, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but I dismiss it and try to keep my mind as numb and as blank as possible. I can’t think about him. I don’t want to start crying again—not out on the street.

  The apartment is empty. I miss Kate, and I imagine her lying on a beach in Barbados sipping a cool cocktail. I turn on the flat-screen television so there’s noise to fill the vacuum and provide some semblance of company, but I don’t listen or watch. I sit and stare blankly at the brick wall. I am numb. I feel nothing but the pain. How long must I endure this?

  The door buzzer startles me from my anguish, and my heart skips a beat. Who could that be? I press the intercom.

  “Delivery for Ms. Steele.” A bored, disembodied voice answers, and disappointment crashes through me. I listlessly make my way downstairs and find a young man noisily chewing gum, holding a large cardboard box, and leaning against the front door. I sign for the package and take it upstairs. The box is huge and surprisingly light. Inside are two dozen long-stemmed, white roses and a card.