Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

his usual mercurial self. He sets out plates, cutlery, and placemats on the breakfast bar.
    “It’s very late,” I mutter.
    “Don’t go to work tomorrow.”
    “I have to go to work tomorrow. My boss is leaving for New York.”
    Christian frowns. “Do you want to go there this weekend?”
    “I checked the weather forecast, and it looks like rain,” I say, shaking my head.
    “Oh, so what do you want to do?”
    The microwave’s ping announces that our supper is warmed through.
    “I just want to get through one day at a time at the moment. All this excitement is . . . tiring.” I raise an eyebrow at him, which he judiciously ignores.
    Christian places the white bowl in between our place settings and takes his seat beside me. He looks deep in thought, distracted. I dish the macaroni onto our plates. It smells divine, and my mouth waters in anticipation. I am famished.
    “Sorry about Leila,” he murmurs.
    “Why are you sorry?” Mmm, the macaroni tastes as good as it smells. My stomach grumbles gratefully.
    “It must have been a terrible shock for you, finding her in your apartment. Taylor swept it earlier himself. He’s very upset.”
    “I don’t blame Taylor.”
    “Neither do I. He’s been out looking for you.”
    “Really? Why?”
    “I didn’t know where you were. You left your purse, your phone. I couldn’t even track you. Where did you go?” he asks. His voice is soft, but there’s an ominous undercurrent to his words.
    “Ethan and I just went to a bar across the street. So I could watch what was happening.”
    “I see.” The atmosphere between us has changed subtly. It’s no longer light.
    Okay, well . . . two can play that game. Let’s just bring this back to you, Fifty. Trying to sound nonchalant, wanting to assuage my burning curiosity but dreading the answer, I ask, “So what did you do with Leila in the apartment?”
    I glance up at him, and he freezes with his forkful of macaroni suspended in midair. Oh no, that’s not good.
    “You really want to know?”
    A knot tightens in my gut and my appetite vanishes. “Yes,” I whisper. Do you? Do you really? My subconscious has thrown her empty bottle of gin on the floor and is sitting up in her armchair, glaring at me in horror.
    Christian’s mouth flattens into a line, and he hesitates. “We talked, and I gave her a bath.” His voice is hoarse, and he continues quickly when I make no response. “And I dressed her in some of your clothes. I hope you don’t mind. But she was filthy.”
    Holy fuck. He bathed her?  
    What an inappropriate thing to do. I’m reeling, staring down at my uneaten macaroni. The sight of it now makes me nauseous.  
    Try to rationalize this, my subconscious coaches. That cool, intellectual part of my brain knows that he just did that because she was dirty, but it’s too hard. My fragile jealous self can’t bear it.  
    Suddenly I want to cry—not succumb to ladylike tears that trickle decorously down my cheeks, but howling at the moon crying. I take a deep breath to suppress the urge, but my throat is arid and uncomfortable from my unshed tears and sobs.
    “It was all I could do, Ana,” he says softly.
    “You still have feelings for her?”
    “No!” he says, appalled, and closes his eyes, his expression one of anguish. I turn away, staring once more at my nauseating food. I can’t bear to look at him.
    “To see her like that—so different, so broken. I care about her, one human being to another.” He shrugs as if to shake off an unpleasant memory. Jeez, is he expecting my sympathy?
    “Ana, look at me.”
    I can’t. I know that if I do, I will burst into tears. This is just too much to absorb. I’m like an overflowing tank of gasoline—full, beyond capacity. There is no room for any more. I simply cannot cope with any more crap. I will combust and explode, and it will be ugly if I try. Jeez!  
    Christian caring for his ex-sub in such an intimate fashion—the image flashes through my brain. Bathing her, for fuck’s sake—naked. A harsh, painful shudder wracks my body.
    “Ana.”
    “What?”
    “Don’t. It doesn’t mean anything. It was like caring for a child, a broken, shattered child,” he mutters.
    What the hell would he know about caring for a child? This was a woman he had a very full-on, deviant sexual relationship with.  
    Oh, this hurts . I take a deep, steadying breath. Or perhaps he’s referring to himself. He’s the broken child. That makes more