Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

me.
    “Come on, Steele. Let’s get drunk.”
    Sounds like the best offer I’ve had in a while. We clink glasses, and I take a gulp of the burning amber liquid, the fiery heat a welcome distraction from the hideous blossoming pain in my heart.

    It’s late, and I feel fuzzy. Ethan and I are locked out of the apartment. He insists on walking me back to Escala, but he won’t stay. He’s called the friend he met earlier for a drink and arranged to crash with him.
    “So, this is where the Mogul lives.” Ethan whistles through his teeth, impressed.
    I nod.
    “Sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” he asks.
    “No, I need to face this—or just go to bed.”
    “See you tomorrow?”
    “Yes. Thanks, Ethan.” I hug him.
    “You’ll work it out, Steele,” he murmurs against my ear. He releases me and watches while I head into the building.
    “Laters,” he calls. I offer him a weak smile and a wave then press the button to call the elevator.
    The elevator doors open, and I step into Christian’s apartment. Taylor is not waiting, which is unusual. Opening the double doors, I head toward the great room. Christian is on the phone, pacing the room near the piano.
    “She’s here,” he snaps. He turns to glare at me as he switches off his phone. “Where the fuck have you been?” he growls but doesn’t make a move toward me.  
    Holy crap, he’s angry with me? He’s the one that just spent God knows how long with his loony ex-girlfriend, and he’s angry with me?
    “Have you been drinking?” he asks, appalled.
    “A bit.” I didn’t think it was that obvious.
    He gasps and runs his hand through his hair. “I told you to come back here.” His voice is menacingly quiet. “It’s now fifteen after ten. I’ve been worried about you.”
    “I went for a drink or three with Ethan while you attended to your ex,” I hiss at him. “I didn’t know how long you were going to be . . . with her.”
    He narrows his eyes and takes a few paces toward me but stops.
    “Why do you say it that like that?”
    I shrug and stare down at my fingers.
    “Ana, what’s wrong?” And for the first time, I hear something other than anger in his voice. What? Fear?
    I swallow, trying to work out what I want to say. “Where’s Leila?” I ask looking up at him.
    “In a psychiatric hospital in Fremont,” he says, and his face is scrutinizing mine. “Ana, what is it?” He moves toward me until he’s standing right in front of me. “What’s wrong?” he breathes.
    I shake my head. “I’m no good for you.”
    “What?” he breathes, his eyes widening in alarm. “Why do you think that? How can you possibly think that?”
    “I can’t be everything you need.”
    “You are everything I need.
    “Just seeing you with her . . .” My voice trails off.
    “Why do you do this to me? This is not about you, Ana. It’s about her.” He takes a sharp breath, running his hand through his hair again. “At the moment she’s a very sick girl.”
    “But I felt it . . . what you had together.”
    “What? No.” He reaches for me, and I step back instinctively. He drops his hand, blinking at me. He looks as though he’s seized with panic.
    “You’re running?” he whispers as his eyes widen with fear.
    I say nothing as I try to collect my scattered thoughts.
    “You can’t,” he pleads.
    “Christian . . . I—” I struggle to collect my thoughts. What am I trying to say? I need time, time to process this. Give me time.
    “No. No!” he says.
    “I . . .”
    He looks wildly around the room. For inspiration? For divine intervention? I don’t know.
    “You can’t go. Ana, I love you!”
    “I love you, too, Christian, it’s just—”  
    “No . . . no!” he says in desperation and puts both hands on his head.
    “Christian . . .”
    “No,” he breathes, his eyes wide with panic, and suddenly he drops to his knees in front of me, head bowed, long-fingered hands spread out on his thighs. He takes a deep breath and doesn’t move.
    What? “Christian, what are you doing?”
    He continues to stare down, not looking at me.
    “Christian! What are you doing?” My voice is high-pitched. He doesn’t move. “Christian, look at me!” I command in panic.
    His head sweeps up without hesitation, and he regards me passively with his cool gray gaze—he’s almost serene . . . expectant.
    Holy Fuck . . . Christian. The submissive.

Christian on his knees at my feet, holding me with his