Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

arms around me. And in that moment it occurs to me; any explanations on his part have to come from him. I can’t force him—he’s got to want to tell me. I won’t be cast as the nagging wife, constantly trying to wheedle information out of her husband. It’s just exhausting. I know he loves me. I know he loves me more than he’s ever loved anyone, and for now, that’s enough. The realization is liberating. I stop crying and step back.
    “Better?” he asks.
    I nod.
    “Good. Let me look at you,” he says, and for a moment I don’t know what he means. But he takes my hand and examines the arm I fell on when Jack hit me. There are bruises on my shoulder and scrapes at my elbow and wrist. He kisses each of them. He grabs a washcloth and shower gel from the rack, and the sweet familiar scent of jasmine fills my nostrils.
    “Turn around.” Gently, he proceeds to wash my injured arm, then my neck, my shoulders, my back, and my other arm. He turns me sideways, and traces his long fingers down my side. I wince as they skate over the large bruise at my hip. Christian’s eyes harden and his lips thin. His anger is palpable as he whistles through his teeth.
    “It doesn’t hurt,” I murmur to reassure him.
    Blazing gray eyes meet mine. “I want to kill him. I nearly did,” he whispers cryptically. I frown then shiver at his bleak expression. He squirts more shower gel on the washcloth and with tender, aching gentleness, he washes my side and my behind, then, kneeling, moves down my legs. He pauses to examine my knee. He lips brush over the bruise before he returns to washing my legs and my feet. Reaching down, I caress his head, running my fingers through his wet hair. He stands, and his fingers trace the outline of the bruise on my ribs where Jack kicked me.
    “Oh, baby,” he groans, his voice filled with anguish, his eyes dark with fury.
    “I’m okay.” I pull his head down to mine and kiss his lips. He’s hesitant to reciprocate, but as my tongue meets his, his body stirs against me.
    “No,” he whispers against my lips, and he pulls back. “Let’s get you clean.”
    His face is serious. Damn . . . He means it. I pout, and the atmosphere between us lightens in an instant. He grins and kisses me briefly.
    “Clean,” he emphasizes. “Not dirty.”
    “I like dirty.”
    “Me, too, Mrs. Grey. But not now, not here.” He grabs the shampoo, and before I can persuade him otherwise, he’s washing my hair.
    I love clean, too. I feel refreshed and reinvigorated, and I don’t know if it’s from the shower, the crying, or my decision to stop hassling Christian about everything. He wraps me in a large towel and drapes one around his hips while I gingerly dry my hair. My head aches, but it’s a dull persistent pain that is more than manageable. I have some painkillers from Dr. Singh, but she’s asked me not to use them unless I have to.
    As I dry my hair, I think about Elizabeth.
    “I still don’t understand why Elizabeth was involved with Jack.”
    “I do,” Christian mutters darkly.
    This is news. I frown up at him, but I’m distracted. He’s drying his hair with a towel, his chest and shoulders still wet with beads of water that glint beneath the halogens. He pauses and smirks.
    “Enjoying the view?”
    “How do you know?” I ask, trying to ignore that I’ve been caught staring at my own husband.
    “That you’re enjoying the view?” he teases.
    “No,” I scold. “About Elizabeth.”
    “Detective Clark hinted at it.”
    I give him my tell-me-more expression, and another nagging memory from when I was unconscious resurfaces. Clark was in my room. I wish I could remember what he said.
    “Hyde had videos. Videos of all of them. On several USB flash drives.”
    What? I frown, my skin tightening across my forehead.
    “Videos of him fucking her and fucking all his PAs.”
    Oh!
    “Exactly. Blackmail material. He likes it rough.” Christian frowns, and I watch confusion followed by disgust cross his face. He pales as his disgust turns to self-loathing. Of course—Christian likes it rough, too.
    “Don’t.” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it.
    His frown deepens. “Don’t what?” He stills and regards me with apprehension.
    “You aren’t anything like him.”
    Christian’s eyes harden, but he says nothing, confirming that’s exactly what he’s thinking.
    “You’re not.” My voice is adamant.
    “We’re cut from the same cloth.”
    “No, you’re not,” I