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, blink-

ing 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. “Chris-

tian, 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 steady gray gaze, is the most chilling

and sobering sight I have ever seen—more so than Leila and her gun. The vague alcoholic

fuzziness I’m suffering from evaporates in an instant and is replaced by a prickling scalp

and a creeping sense of doom as the blood drains from my face.

I inhale sharply with shock. No. No, this is wrong, so wrong and so disturbing.

“Christian, please, don’t do this. I don’t want this.”

He continues to regard me passively, not moving, saying nothing.

Oh fuck. My poor Fifty.My heart squeezes and twists. What the hell have I done to

him? Tears prick my eyes.

“Why are you doing this? Talk to me,” I whisper.

He blinks once.

“What would you like me to say?” he says softly, blandly, and for a moment I’m re-

lieved that he’s talking, but not like this—no. No.

Tears begin to ooze down my cheeks, and suddenly it is too much to see him in the

same prostrate position as the pathetic creature that was Leila. The image of a powerful

man who’s really still a little boy, who was horrifically abused and neglected, who feels

unworthy of love from his perfect family and his much-less-than perfect girlfriend . . . my

lost boy . . . it’s heartbreaking.

Compassion, loss, and despair all swell in my heart, and I feel a choking sense of des-

peration. I am going to have to fight to bring him back, to bring back myFifty.

The thought of me dominating anyone is appalling. The thought of dominating Chris-

tian is nauseating. It would make me like her—the woman who did this to him.

I shudder at that thought, fighting the bile in my throat. No way can I do that. No way

do I want that.

As my thoughts clear, I can see only one way. Not taking my eyes off his, I sink to my

knees in front of him.

The wooden floor is hard against my shins, and I dash my tears away roughly with the

back of my hand.

Like this, we are equals. We’re on a level. This is the only way I’m going to retrieve

him.His eyes widen fractionally as I stare up at him, but beyond that his expression and

stance don’t change.

“Christian, you don’t have to do this,” I plead. “I’m not going to run. I’ve told you and

told you and told you, I won’t run.” All that’s happened . . . it’s overwhelming. I just need

some time to think . . . some time to myself. Why do you always assume the worst?” My

heart clenches again because I know; it’s because he’s so doubting, so full of self-loathing.

Elena’s words come back to haunt me. “Does she know how negative you are about

yourself? About all your issues?”

Oh, Christian.Fear grips my heart once more and I start babbling, “I was going to sug-

gest going back to my apartment this evening. You never give me any time . . . time to just

think things through,” I sob, and a ghost of a frown crosses his face. “Just time to think. We

barely know each other, and all this baggage that comes with you . . . I need . . . I need time

to think it through. And now that Leila is . . . well, whatever she is . . . she’s off the streets

and not a threat . . . I thought . . . I thought . . .” My voice trails off and I stare at him. He

regards me intently and I think he’s listening

“Seeing you with Leila . . .” I close my eyes as the painful memory of his interaction

with his ex-sub gnaws at me anew. “It was such a shock. I had a glimpse into how your

life has been . . . and . . .” I gaze down at my knotted fingers, tears still trickling down my