’s almost unbelievable and completely
unexpected. But then everything about Christian is
unexpected. My lips quirk up with irony. Christian Grey,
expect the unexpected—Fifty Shades of Fucked-Up.
My smile fades. I look like his mother. This wounds
me, deeply, and the air lea一ves my lungs in a rush. We all
look like his mom.
How the hell do I move on from the disclosure of that
little secret? No wonder he didn’t want to tell me. But
surely he can’t remember much of his mother. I wonder
surely he can’t remember much of his mother. I wonder
once more, if I should talk to Dr. Flynn. Would Christian
let me? Perhaps he could fill in the gaps.
I shake my head. I feel world weary, but I’m enjoying
the calm serenity of the great room and its beautiful works
of art—cold and austere, but in their own way, still
beautiful in the shadows and surely worth a fortune. Could
I live here? For better, for worse? In sickness and in
health? I close my eyes, lean my head back against the
glass, and take a deep, cleansing breath.
The peaceful tranquility is shattered by a visceral,
primeval cry that makes every single hair on my body
stand to attention. Christian! Holy fuck—what’s
happened? I am on my feet, running back to the bedroom
before the echoes of that horrible sound ha一ve died away,
my heart thumping with fear.
I flip one of the light switches, and Christian’s bedside
light comes to life. He’s tossing and turning, writhing in
agony. No! He cries out again, and the eerie, devastating
sound lances through me anew.
Shit—a nightmare!
“Christian!” I lean over him, grab his shoulders, and
shake him awake. He opens his eyes, and they are wild
and vacant, scanning quickly round the empty room before
coming back to rest on me.
“You left, you left, you must ha一ve left,” he mumbles—
his wide-eyed stare becoming accusatory—and he looks
so lost, it wrenches at my heart. Poor Fifty.
“I’m here.” I sit down on the bed beside him. “I’m
here,” I murmur softly in an effort to reassure him. I reach
h
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