Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

taken to the community hospital in Astoria, but they airlifted Ray here. We don’t know what they’re doing. We’re waiting for news.”
    I start to shake.
    “Hey, Ana, you cold?”
    I nod. I’m in my white sleeveless shirt and black summer jacket, and neither provides warmth. Gingerly, José pulls off his leather jacket and wraps it around my shoulders.
    “Shall I get you some tea, ma’am?” Sawyer is by my side. I nod gratefully, and he disappears from the room.
    “Why were you fishing in Astoria?” I ask.
    José shrugs. “The fishing’s supposed to be good there. We were having a boys’ get-together. Some bonding time with my old man before academia heats up for my final year.” José’s dark eyes are large and luminous with fear and regret.
    “You could have been hurt, too. And Mr. Rodriguez   .   .   . worse.” I gulp at the thought. My body temperature drops further, and I shiver once more. José takes my hand.
    “Hell, Ana, you’re freezing.”
    Mr. Rodriguez inches forward and takes my other hand in his good one.
    “Ana, I am so sorry.”
    “Mr. Rodriguez, please. It was an accident   .   .   .” My voice fades to a whisper.
    “Call me José,” he corrects me. I give him a weak smile, because that’s all I can manage. I shiver once more.
    “The police took the asshole into custody. Seven in the morning and the guy was out of his skull,” José hisses in disgust.
    Sawyer reenters, bearing a paper cup of hot water and a separate teabag. He knows how I take my tea! I’m surprised, and glad for the distraction. Mr. Rodriguez and José release my hands as I gratefully take the cup from Sawyer.
    “Do either of you want anything?” Sawyer asks Mr. Rodriguez and José. They both shake their heads, and Sawyer resumes his seat in the corner. I dunk my teabag in the water and, rising shakily, dispose of the used bag in a small trashcan.
    “What’s taking them so long?” I mutter to no one in particular as I take a sip.
    Daddy . . . Please let him be okay. Please let him be okay.
    “We’ll know soon enough, Ana,” José says gently. I nod and take another sip. I take my seat again beside him. We wait   .   .   . and wait. Mr. Rodriguez with his eyes closed, praying I think, and José holding my hand and squeezing it every now and then. I slowly sip my tea. It’s not Twinings, but some cheap nasty brand, and it tastes disgusting.
    I remember the last time I waited for news. The last time I thought all was lost when Charlie Tango went missing. Closing my eyes, I offer up a silent prayer for the safe passage of my husband. I glance at my watch: 2:15 p.m. He should be here soon. My tea is cold . . . Ugh!
    I stand up and pace then sit down again. Why haven’t the doctors been to see me? I take José’s hand, and he gives mine another reassuring squeeze. Please let him be okay. Please let him be okay.
    Time crawls so slowly.
    Suddenly the door opens, and we all glance up expectantly, my stomach knotting. Is this it ?
    Christian strides in. His face darkens momentarily when he notices my hand in José’s.
    “Christian!” I gasp and leap up, thanking God he’s arrived safely. Then I’m wrapped in his arms, his nose in my hair, and I’m inhaling his scent, his warmth, his love. A small part of me feels calmer, stronger, and more resilient because he’s here. Oh, the difference his presence makes to my peace of mind.
    “Any news?”
    I shake my head, unable to speak.
    “José.” He nods a greeting.
    “Christian, this is my father, José Senior.”
    “Mr. Rodriguez—we met at the wedding. I take it you were in the accident, too?”
    José briefly retells the story.
    “Are you both well enough to be here?” Christian asks.
    “We don’t want to be anywhere else,” Mr. Rodriguez says, his voice quiet and laced with pain. Christian nods. Taking my hand, he sits me down then takes a seat beside me.
    “Have you eaten?” he asks.
    I shake my head.
    “Are you hungry?”
    I shake my head.
    “But you’re cold?” he asks, eyeing José’s jacket.
    I nod. He shifts in his chair, but wisely says nothing.
    The door opens again, and a young doctor in bright blue scrubs enters. He looks exhausted and harrowed.
    All the blood disappears from my head as I stumble to my feet.
    “Ray Steele,” I whisper as Christian stands beside me, putting his arm around my waist.
    “You’re his next of kin?” the doctor asks. His bright blue eyes almost match his scrubs, and under