ch.”
“You’re going to cook?” I nearly expire.
He has the grace to laugh. “I’m going to heat something up. Mrs. Jones has
been busy.”
“Christian, I’ll do it. I’m fine. Jeez, I want sex—I can certainly cook.” I sit up
awkwardly, trying to hide my flinch from my smarting ribs.
“Bed!” Christian’s eyes flash and he points to the pillow.
“Join me,” I murmur, wishing I were wearing something a little more alluring
than sweatpants and a T-shirt.
“Ana, get into bed. Now.”
I scowl, stand up, and let my pants drop unceremoniously to the floor, glaring
at him the whole time. His mouth twitches with humor as 457 | P a g e
Fifty Shades Freed
he pulls the duvet back.
“You heard Dr. Singh. She said rest.” His voice is gentler. I slip into bed and
fold my arms in frustration. “Stay,” he says clearly enjoying himself.
My scowl deepens.
Mrs. Jones’s chicken stew is, without doub一t, one of my fa一vorite dishes.
Christian eats with me, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed.
“That was very well heated.” I smirk and he grins. I’m replete and sleepy. Was
this his plan?
“You look tired.” He picks up my tray.
“I am.”
“Good. Sleep.” He leans down and kisses me. “I ha一ve some work I need to
do. I’ll do it in here if that’s okay with you.”
I nod . . . fighting a losing battle with my eyelids. I had no idea chicken stew
could be so exhausting.
It’s dusk when I wake. Pale pink light floods the room. Christian is sitting in
the armchair, watching me, gray eyes luminous in the ambient light. He’s
clutching some papers. His face is ashen. Holy cow!
“What’s wrong?” I ask immediately, sitting up and ignoring my protesting
ribs.
“Welch has just left.”
Oh shit. “And?”
“I lived with the fucker,” he whispers.
“Lived? With Jack?”
He nods, eyes wide.
“You’re related?”
“No. Good God, no.”
I shuffle over and pull the duvet back, inviting him into bed beside me, and to
my surprise he doesn’t hesitate. He kicks off his shoes and slides in
alongside me. Wrapping one arm around me, he curls up, resting his
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