Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

a few moments later.
    “She’s gone,” he says warily, gauging my reaction.
    I gaze up at him, trying to frame my question. “Will you tell me all about her? I am trying to understand why you think she helped you.” I pause, thinking carefully about my next sentence. “I loathe her, Christian. I think she did you untold damage. You have no friends. Did she keep them away from you?”
    He sighs and runs his hand through his hair.
    “Why the fuck do you want to know about her? We had a very long-standing affair, she beat the shit out of me often, and I fucked her in all sorts of ways you can’t even imagine, end of story.”
    I pale. Shit, he’s angry—with me. I blink at him. “Why are you so angry?”
    “Because all of that shit is OVER !” he shouts, glowering at me. He sighs in exasperation and shakes his head.
    I blanch. Shit . I look down at my hands, knotted in my lap. I just want to understand.
    He sits down beside me. “What do you want to know?” he asks wearily.
    “You don’t have to tell me. I don’t mean to intrude.”
    “Anastasia, it’s not that. I don’t like talking about this shit. I’ve lived in a bubble for years with nothing affecting me and not having to justify myself to anyone. She’s always been there as a confidante. And now my past and my future are colliding in a way I never thought possible.”
    I glance at him and he’s staring at me, his eyes wide.
    “I never thought I had a future with anyone, Anastasia. You give me hope and have me thinking about all sorts of possibilities.” He drifts off.
    “I was listening,” I whisper and stare back down at my hands.
    “What? To our conversation?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well?” He sounds resigned.
    “She cares for you.”
    “Yes, she does. And I for her in my own way, but it doesn’t come close to how I feel about you. If that’s what this is about.”
    “I’m not jealous.” I’m wounded that he would think that—or am I? Shit. Maybe that’s what this is. “You don’t love her,” I murmur.
    He sighs again. He really is pissed. “A long time ago, I thought I loved her,” he says through gritted teeth.
    Oh. “When we were in Georgia . . . you said you didn’t love her.”
    “That’s right.”
    I frown.
    “I loved you then, Anastasia,” he whispers. “You’re the only person I’d fly three thousand miles to see.”
    Oh my . I don’t understand. He still wanted me as a sub then. My frown deepens.
    “The feelings I have for you are very different from any I ever had for Elena,” he says by way of explanation.
    “When did you know?”
    He shrugs. “Ironically, it was Elena who pointed it out to me. She encouraged me to go to Georgia.”
    I knew it ! I knew it in Savannah. I gaze at him, blankly.  
    What do I make of this? Maybe she is on my side and just worried that I’ll hurt him. The thought is painful. I would never want to hurt him. She’s right—he’s been hurt enough.  
    Perhaps she’s not so bad. I shake my head. I don’t want to accept his relationship with her. I disapprove. Yes, that’s what this is. She’s an unsavory character who preyed on a vulnerable adolescent, robbing him of his teenage years, no matter what he says.
    “So you desired her? When you were younger.”
    “Yes.”
    Oh .
    “She taught me a great deal. She taught me to believe in myself.”
    Oh . “But she also beat the shit out of you.”
    He smiles fondly. “Yes, she did.”
    “And you liked that?”
    “At the time I did.”
    “So much that you wanted to do it to others?”
    His eyes grow wide and serious. “Yes.”
    “Did she help you with that?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did she sub for you?”
    “Yes.”
    Holy fuck . “Do you expect me to like her?” My voice sounds brittle and bitter.
    “No. Though it would make my life a hell of a lot easier,” he says wearily. “I do understand your reticence.”
    “Reticence! Jeez, Christian—if that were your son, how would you feel?”
    He blinks at me as though he doesn’t comprehend the question. He frowns. “I didn’t have to stay with her. It was my choice, too, Anastasia,” he murmurs.
    This is getting me nowhere.
    “Who’s Linc?”
    “Her ex-husband.”
    “Lincoln Timber?”
    “The very same,” he smirks.
    “And Isaac?”
    “Her current submissive.”
    Oh no .
    “He’s in his mid-twenties, Anastasia. You know—a consenting adult,” he adds quickly, correctly deciphering my look of disgust.
    I flush. “Your age,” I mutter.
    “Look,