m my
panicked breathing, and move toward the kitchen island.
She frowns as if she can’t quite understand what I am
doing and shifts a little so she is still facing me. I reach the
kettle and with a shaking hand fill it from the faucet. As I
move, my breathing eases. Yes, if she wanted me dead,
surely she would ha一ve shot me by now. She watches me
with an absent, bemused curiosity. As I switch on the
kettle, I’m plagued by the thought of Ethan. Is he hurt?
Tied up?
“Is there anyone else in the apartment?” I ask
tentatively.
She inclines her head the other way, and with her right
hand—the hand not holding the revolver—she grabs a
hand—the hand not holding the revolver—she grabs a
strand of her long greasy hair and starts twirling and
fiddling with it, pulling and twisting. It’s obviously a
nervous habit, and while I am distracted by this, I am
struck once again by how much she resembles me. I hold
my breath, waiting for her answer, the anxiety building to
an almost unbearable pitch.
“Alone. All alone,” she murmurs. I find this comforting.
Maybe Ethan isn’t here. The relief is empowering.
“Are you sure you don’t want tea or coffee?”
“Not thirsty,” she answers softly, and she takes a
cautious step toward me. My feeling of empowerment
evaporates. Fuck! I start panting with fear again, feeling it
surge thick and rough through my veins. In spite of this and
feeling beyond bra一ve, I turn and fetch a couple of cups
from the cupboard.
“What do you ha一ve that I don’t?” she asks, her voice
assuming the singsong intonation of a child.
“What do you mean, Leila?” I ask as gently as I can.
“Master—Mr. Grey—he lets you call him by his given
“Master—Mr. Grey—he lets you call him by his given
name.”
“I’m not his submissive, Leila. Er . . . Master
understands that I am unable, inadequate to fulfill that
role.”
She tilts her head to the other side. It’s wholly
unnerving and unnatural as a gesture.
“In-ad-e-quate.” She tests the word, sounding it out,
seeing how it feels on her tongue. “
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