ared to go to. We’ll go to your place,
pick up your things, and you can stay with me until we’ve
tracked her down.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“So I can keep you safe.”
“But—”
He glares at me. “You are coming back to my
apartment if I ha一ve to drag you there by your hair.”
I gape at him . . . this is beyond belief. Fifty Shades in
Glorious Technicolor.
“I think you’re overreacting.”
“I don’t. We can continue our discussion back at my
place. Come.”
I fold my arms and glare at him. This has gone too far.
“No,” I state stubbornly. I ha一ve to make a stand.
“You can walk or I can carry you. I don’t mind either
way, Anastasia.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” I scowl at him. Surely he
wouldn’t make a scene on Second Avenue?
He half smiles at me, but the smile doesn’t reach his
eyes.
“Oh, baby, we both know that if you throw down the
gauntlet I’ll be only too happy to pick it up.”
We glare at each other—and abruptly he sweeps
down, clasps me round my thighs, and lifts me. Before I
know it, I am over his shoulder.
“Put me down!” I scream. Oh, it feels good to scream.
He starts striding along Second Avenue, ignoring me.
Clasping his arm firmly around my thighs, he swats my
behind with his free hand.
“Christian!” I shout. People are staring. Could this be
any more humiliating? “I’ll walk! I’ll walk.”
He puts me down, and before he’s even stood upright,
He puts me down, and before he’s even stood upright,
I stomp off in the direction of my apartment, seething,
ignoring him. Of course, he’s by my side in moments, but I
continue to ignore him. What am I going to do? I am so
angry, but I’m not even sure what I am angry about—
there’s so much.
As I stalk back home, I make a mental list:
1. Shoulder carrying—unacceptable for anyone over
the age of six.
2. Taking me to the salon that he owns with his exlover—
how stupid can he be?
3. The same place he took his submissives—same
stupidity at work here.
4. Not even realizing that this was a bad idea—and
he’s supposed to be a bright guy.
5. Ha
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