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

by E. L. James

  “Will do, T,” he says and turns to face us. “Mr. Grey, the tires on Ms. Steele’s Audi have been slashed and paint thrown all over it.”

  Holy shit. My car! Who would do that? And I know the answer as soon as the question materializes in my mind. Leila. I glance up at Christian, and he blanches.

  “Taylor is concerned that the perp may have entered the apartment and may still be there. He wants to make sure.”

  “I see,” Christian whispers. “What’s Taylor’s plan?”

  “He’s coming up in the service elevator with Ryan and Reynolds. They’ll do a sweep, then give us the all clear. I’m to wait with you, sir.”

  “Thank you, Sawyer.” Christian tightens his arm around me. “This day just gets better and better,” he sighs bitterly, nuzzling my hair. “Listen, I can’t stand here and wait. Sawyer, take care of Miss Steele. Don’t let her in until you have the all clear. I am sure Taylor is overreacting. She can’t get into the apartment.”

  What? “No, Christian—you have to stay with me,” I plead.

  Christian releases me. “Do as you’re told, Anastasia. Wait here.”

  No!

  “Sawyer?” Christian says.

  Sawyer opens the foyer door to let Christian enter the apartment then shuts the door behind him and stands in front of it, staring impassively down at me.

  Holy shit. Christian! All manner of horrific outcomes run through my mind, but all I can do is stand and wait.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  Sawyer talks into his sleeve again.

  “Taylor, Mr. Grey has entered the apartment.” He flinches and grabs the earpiece, pulling it out of his ear, presumably receiving some powerful invective from Taylor.

  Oh no—if Taylor is worried …

  “Please let me go in,” I plead.

  “Sorry, Miss Steele. This won’t take long.” Sawyer holds both hands up in a defensive gesture. “Taylor and the guys are just coming into the apartment now.”

  Oh. I feel so impotent. Standing stock-still, I listen avidly for the slightest sound, but all I hear is my aggravated breathing. It’s loud and shallow, my scalp prickles, my mouth is dry, and I feel faint. Please, let Christian be okay, I pray silently.

  I have no idea how much time passes, and still we hear nothing. Surely no sound is good—there are no gunshots. I begin pacing around the table in the foyer and examine the paintings on the walls to distract myself.

  I’ve never really looked at them before: all figurative paintings, all religious—the Madonna and child, all sixteen of them. How odd.

  Christian isn’t religious, is he? All of the paintings in the great room are abstracts—these are so different. They don’t distract me for long. Where is Christian?

  I stare at Sawyer and he watches me impassively.

  “What’s happening?”

  “No news, Miss Steele.”

  Abruptly, the doorknob moves. Sawyer spins like a top and draws a gun from his shoulder holster.

  I freeze. Christian appears at the door.

  “All clear,” he says, frowning at Sawyer, who puts his gun away immediately and steps back to let me in.

  “Taylor is overreacting,” Christian grumbles as he holds out his hand to me. I stand gaping at him, unable to move, drinking in every little detail: his unruly hair, the tightness around his eyes, the tense jaw, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. I think I must have aged ten years. Christian frowns at me in concern, his eyes dark.

  “It’s all right, baby.” He moves toward me, enveloping me in his arms, and kisses my hair. “Come on, you’re tired. Bed.”

  “I was so worried,” I murmur, rejoicing in his embrace and inhaling his sweet, sweet scent with my head against his chest.

  “I know. We’re all jumpy.”

  Sawyer has disappeared, presumably into the apartment.

  “Honestly, your exes are proving to be very challenging, Mr. Grey,” I mutter wryly. Christian relaxes.

  “Yes. They are.”

  He releases me and, taking my hand, leads me across the hallway and into the great room.

  “Taylor and his crew are checking all the closets and cupboards. I don’t think she’s here.”

  “Why would she be here?” It makes no sense.

  “Exactly.”

  “Could she get in?”

  “I don’t see how. But Taylor is overcautious sometimes.”

  “Have you searched your playroom?” I whisper.

  Christian glances quickly at me, his brow creasing. “Yes, it’s locked—but Taylor and I checked.”

  I take a deep, cleansing breath.

  “Do you want a drink or anything?” Christian asks.

  “No.” Fatigue sweeps through me—I just want to go to bed.

  “Come. Let me put you to bed. You look exhausted.” Christian’s expression softens.

  I frown. Isn’t he coming, too? Does he want to sleep alone?

  I’m relieved when he leads me into his bedroom. I place my clutch bag on the chest of drawers and open it to empty the contents. I spy Mrs. Robinson’s note.

  “Here.” I pass it to Christian. “I don’t know if you want to read this. I want to ignore it.”

  Christian scans it briefly and his jaw tenses.

  “I’m not sure what blanks she can fill in,” he says dismissively. “I need to talk to Taylor.” He gazes down at me. “Let me unzip your dress.”

  “Are you going to call the police about the car?” I ask as I turn around.

  He sweeps my hair out of the way, his fingers softly grazing my naked back, and tugs down my zipper.

  “No. I don’t want the police involved. Leila needs help, not police intervention, and I don’t want them here. We just have to double our efforts to find her.” He leans down and plants a gentle kiss on my shoulder.

  “Go to bed,” he orders, and then he’s gone.

  I LIE, STARING AT the ceiling, waiting for him to return. So much has happened today, so much to process. Where to start?

  I wake with a jolt, disoriented. Have I been asleep? Blinking in the dim glow the hallway casts through the slightly open bedroom door, I notice that Christian is not with me. Where is he? I glance up. Standing at the end of the bed is a shadow. A woman, maybe? Dressed in black? It’s difficult to tell.

  In my befuddled state, I reach across and switch on the bedside light, then turn back to look but there’s no one there. I shake my head. Did I imagine it? Dream it?

  I sit up and look around the room, a vague, insidious unease gripping me—but I am quite alone.

  I rub my face. What time is it? Where’s Christian? The alarm clock shows that it’s two fifteen in the morning.

  Climbing groggily out of bed, I set off to hunt him down, disconcerted by my overactive imagination. I am seeing things now. It must be a reaction to the dramatic events of the evening.

  The main room is empty, the only light emanating from the three pendulum lamps above the breakfast bar. But his study door is ajar, and I hear him on the phone.

  “I don’t know why you’re calling at this hour. I have nothing to say to you … well, you can tell me now. You don’t have to leave a message.”

  I stand motionless by the door, eavesdropping guiltily. Who is he talking to?

  “No, you listen. I asked you, and now I am telling you. Leave her alone. She has nothing to do with you. Do you understand?”

  He sounds belligerent and angry. I hesitate to knock.

  “I know you do. But I mean it, Elena. Leave her the fuck alone. Do I need to put it in triplicate for you? Are you hearing me? … Good. Good night.” He slams the phone down on the desk.

  Oh, shit. I knock tentatively on the door.

  “What?” he snarls, and I almost want to run and hide.

  He sits at his desk with his head in his hands. He glances up, his expression ferocious, but his face softens immediately when he sees me. His eyes are wide and cautious. Suddenly, he looks so tired and my heart constricts.
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  He blinks, and his eyes sweep down my legs and back again. I am wearing one of his T-shirts.

  “You should be in satin or silk, Anastasia,” he breathes. “But even in my T-shirt you look beautiful.”

  Oh, an unexpected compliment. “I missed you. Come to bed.”

  He rises slowly out of the chair, still in his white shirt and black dress pants. But now his eyes are shining and full of promise … but there’s a trace of sadness, too. He stands in front of me, staring intently but not touching me.

  “Do you know what you mean to me?” he murmurs. “If something happened to you, because of me …” His voice trails off, his brow creasing, and the pain that flashes across his face is almost palpable. He looks so vulnerable—his fear very much apparent.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I reassure him, my voice soothing. I reach up and stroke his face, running my fingers through the stubble on his cheek. It’s unexpectedly soft. “Your beard grows quickly,” I whisper, unable to hide the wonder in my voice at this beautiful, fucked-up man who stands before me.

  I trace the line of his bottom lip then trail my fingers down his throat, to the faint smudge of lipstick at the base of his neck. He gazes down at me, still not touching me, his lips parted. I run my index finger along the line, and he closes his eyes. His soft breathing quickens. My fingers reach the edge of his shirt, and I run them down to the next fastened button.

  “I’m not going to touch you. I just want to undo your shirt,” I whisper.

  His eyes open wide, regarding me with alarm. But he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t stop me. Very slowly I unfasten the button, holding the material away from his skin, and move tentatively down to the next button, repeating the process—slowly, concentrating on what I am doing.

  I don’t want to touch him. Well, I do … but I won’t. On the fourth button, the red line reappears, and I smile shyly up at him.

  “Back on home territory.” I trace the line with my fingers before undoing the final button. I pull his shirt open and move to his cuffs, removing his black polished stone cufflinks one at a time.

  “Can I take your shirt off?” I ask, my voice low.

  He nods, eyes still wide, as I reach up and pull his shirt over his shoulders. He frees his hands so he’s standing in front of me naked from the waist up. With his shirt off, he seems to recover his equilibrium. He smirks down at me.

  “What about my pants, Miss Steele?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “In the bedroom. I want you in your bed.”

  “Do you, now? Miss Steele, you are insatiable.”

  “I can’t think why.” I grab his hand, pull him from his study, and lead him to his bedroom. The room is chilly.

  “You opened the balcony door?” he asks, frowning down at me as we arrive in his room.

  “No.” I don’t remember doing that. I recall scanning the room when I woke. The door was definitely closed.

  Oh shit … All the blood rushes from my face, and I stare at Christian as my mouth falls open.

  “What?” he snaps, glaring at me.

  “When I woke … there was someone in here,” I whisper. “I thought it was my imagination.”

  “What?” He looks horrified and dashes to the balcony door, peers out, then steps back into the room and locks the door behind him. “Are you sure? Who?” he asks his voice tight.

  “A woman, I think. It was dark. I’d only just woken up.”

  “Get dressed,” he snarls at me on his way back in. “Now!”

  “My clothes are upstairs,” I whimper.

  He pulls open one of the drawers in his chest of drawers and fishes out a pair of sweatpants.

  “Put these on.” They are far too big, but he is not to be argued with.

  He swipes a T-shirt, too, and quickly pulls it over his head. Grabbing the bedside phone, he presses two buttons.

  “She’s still fucking here,” he hisses down the phone.

  Approximately three seconds later, Taylor and one of the other security guys burst into Christian’s bedroom. Christian gives them a précis of what has happened.

  “How long ago?” Taylor demands, staring at me all businesslike. He’s still wearing his jacket. Does this man ever sleep?

  “About ten minutes,” I mutter, for some reason feeling guilty.

  “She knows the apartment like the back of her hand,” says Christian. “I am taking Anastasia away now. She’s hiding here somewhere. Find her. When is Gail back?”

  “Tomorrow evening, sir.”

  “She’s not to return until this place is secure. Understand?” Christian snaps.

  “Yes, sir. Will you be going to Bellevue?”

  “I’m not leading this problem to my parents. Book me somewhere.”

  “Yes. I’ll call you.”

  “Aren’t we all overreacting slightly?” I ask.

  Christian glowers at me. “She may have a gun,” he growls.

  “Christian, she was standing at the end of the bed. She could have shot me then if that’s what she wanted to do.”

  Christian pauses for a moment to rein in his temper, I think. In a menacingly soft voice he says, “I’m not prepared to take the risk. Taylor, Anastasia needs shoes.”

  Christian disappears into his closet while the security guy watches me. I can’t remember his name, Ryan maybe. He looks alternately down the hall and to the balcony windows. Christian emerges a couple of minutes later with a leather messenger bag, wearing jeans and his pinstriped blazer. He drapes a denim jacket around my shoulders.

  “Come.” He clasps my hand tightly, and I have to practically run to keep up with his long strides into the great room.

  “I can’t believe she could hide somewhere in here,” I mutter, staring out the balcony doors.

  “It’s a big place. You haven’t seen it all yet.”

  “Why don’t you just call her … tell her you want to talk to her?”

  “Anastasia, she’s unstable, and she may be armed,” he says irritably.

  “So we just run?”

  “For now—yes.”

  “Supposing she tries to shoot Taylor?”

  “Taylor knows and understands guns,” he says with distaste. “He’ll be quicker with a gun than she is.”

  “Ray was in the army. He taught me to shoot.”

  Christian raises his eyebrows and for a moment looks utterly bemused. “You, with a gun?” he says incredulously.

  “Yes.” I am affronted. “I can shoot, Mr. Grey, so you’d better beware. It’s not just crazy ex-subs you need to worry about.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, Miss Steele,” he answers dryly, amused, and it feels good to know that even in this ridiculously tense situation, I can make him smile.

  Taylor meets us in the foyer and hands me my small suitcase and my black Converse sneakers. I am stunned that he’s packed me some clothes. I smile shyly at him with gratitude, and his returning smile is swift and reassuring. Before I can stop myself I hug him, hard. He’s taken by surprise, and when I release him, he’s pink in both cheeks.

  “Be careful,” I murmur.

  “Yes, Miss Steele,” he mutters, embarrassed.

  Christian frowns at me and then looks questioningly at Taylor, who smiles very slightly and adjusts his tie.

  “Let me know where I’m going.” Christian says.

  Taylor reaches into his jacket, pulls out his wallet, and hands Christian a credit card.

  “You might want to use this when you get there.”

  Christian nods. “Good thinking.”

  Ryan joins us. “Sawyer and Reynolds found nothing,” he says to Taylor.

  “Accompany Mr. Grey and Miss Steele to the garage,” Taylor orders.

  The garage is deserted. Well, it is nearly three in the morning. Christian ushers me into the passenger seat of the R8 and puts my case and his bag in the trunk at the front of the car. The Audi beside us is a complete mess—every tire slashed, white paint splattered all over it. It’s chilling and ma
kes me grateful that Christian is taking me somewhere else.

  “A replacement will arrive on Monday,” Christian says bleakly when he’s seated beside me.

  “How could she have known it was my car?”

  He glances anxiously at me and sighs. “She had an Audi A3. I buy one for all my submissives—it’s one of the safest cars in its class.”

  Oh. “So, not so much a graduation present, then.”

  “Anastasia, despite what I hoped, you have never been my submissive, so technically it is a graduation present.” He pulls out of the parking space and speeds to the exit.

  Despite what he hoped. Oh no … My subconscious shakes her head sadly. This is what we come back to all the time.

  “Are you still hoping?” I whisper.

  The in-car phone buzzes. “Grey,” Christian snaps.

  “Fairmont Olympic. In my name.”

  “Thank you, Taylor. And, Taylor, be careful.”

  Taylor pauses. “Yes, sir,” he says quietly, and Christian hangs up.

  The streets of Seattle are deserted, and Christian roars up Fifth Avenue toward I-5. Once on the interstate, he floors the gas pedal, heading north. He accelerates so quickly I’m momentarily thrown back in my seat.

  I peek at him. He’s deep in thought, radiating a deadly brooding silence. He hasn’t answered my question. He glances frequently at the rearview mirror, and I realize he’s checking that we’re not being followed. Perhaps that’s why we’re on I-5. I thought the Fairmont was in Seattle.

  I gaze out of the window, trying to rationalize my exhausted, overactive mind. If she’d wanted to hurt me, she had ample opportunity in the bedroom.

  “No. It’s not what I hope for, not anymore. I thought that was obvious.” Christian interrupts my introspection, his voice soft.

  I blink at him, pulling his denim jacket tighter around me, and I don’t know if the chill is emanating from within me or from outside.

  “I worry that, you know … that I’m not enough.”

  “You’re more than enough. For the love of God, Anastasia, what do I have to do?”

  Tell me about yourself. Tell me you love me.

  “Why did you think I’d leave when I told you Dr. Flynn had told me all there was to know about you?”