otic photographs of me. Christian
swallows and runs a hand through his hair, and he looks so lost, so confused.
He takes a deep breath.
“For me, photos like those ha一ve usually been an insurance policy, Ana. I
know I’ve objectified women for so long,” he says and pauses awkwardly.
What? Where the fuck is this going?
“And you think taking pictures of me is . . . um, objectifying me?
Oh.” All the air lea一ves my body, and the blood drains from my face. He
scrunches up his eyes. “I am so confused,” he whispers. When he opens his
eyes again, they are wide and wary, full of some raw emotion.
Shit. What has brought this on—Me? My questions earlier about his birth
mom? The fire at his office?
63 | P a g e
Fifty Shades Freed
“Why do you say that?” I whisper, panic rising in my throat. I thought he was
happy. I thought we were happy. I thought I made him happy. I don’t want to
confuse him. Do I? My mind starts racing. What’s brought about this sea
change? He hasn’t seen Flynn in nearly three weeks. Is that it? Is that the
reason he’s unra一veling? Shit, should I call Flynn? And in a possibly unique
moment of extraordinary depth and clarity, it comes to me—the fire, Charlie
Tango, the Jet Ski . . . He’s scared, he’s scared for me, and seeing these
marks on my skin must bring that home. He’s been fussing about them all
day, confusing himself because he’s not used to feeling uncomfortable about
inflicting pain. The thought chills me.
He shrugs and once more his eyes move down to my wrist where the bangle
he bought me this afternoon used to be. Bingo!
“Christian, these don’t matter.” I hold up my wrist, revealing the fading welt.
“You ga一ve me a safe word. Shit—yesterday was fun. I enjoyed it. Stop
brooding about it—I like rough sex, I’ve told you that before.” I flush scarlet as
I try to quash my rising panic. He gazes at me intently, and I ha一ve no idea
what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s measuring my words. I stumble on.
“Is this about the fire? Do you think it’s connected somehow t
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