cheeks. “This is about me not being good enough for you. It was an insight into your life,

and I am so scared you’ll get bored with me, and then you’ll go . . . and I’ll end up like

Leila . . . a shadow. Because I love you, Christian, and if you leave me, it will be like a

world without light. I’ll be in darkness. I don’t want to run. I’m just so frightened you’ll

leave me . . .”

I realize as I say these words to him—in the hope that he’s listening—what my real

problem is. I just don’t get why he likes me. I have neverunderstood why he likes me.

“I don’t understand why you find me attractive,” I murmur. “You’re, well, you’re

you . . . and I’m . . .” I shrug and gaze up at him. “I just don’t see it. You’re beautiful and

sexy and successful and good and kind and caring—all those things—and I’m not. And I

can’t do the things you like to do. I can’t give you what you need. How could you be happy

with me? How can I possibly hold you?” My voice is a whisper as I express my darkest

fears. “I have never understood what you see in me. And seeing you with her, it brought

all that home.” I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand, gazing at his impassive

expression.

Oh, he’s so exasperating. Talk to me, damn it!

“Are you going to kneel here all night? Because I’ll do it, too,” I snap at him.

I think his expression softens—maybe he looks vaguely amused. But it’s so hard to tell.

I could reach across and touch him, but this would be a gross abuse of the position he’s

put me in. I don’t want that, but I don’t know what he wants, or what he’s trying to say to

me. I just don’t understand.

“Christian, please, please . . . talk to me,” I beseech him, wringing my hands in my lap.

I am uncomfortable on my knees, but I continue to kneel, staring into his serious, beautiful,

gray eyes, and I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

“Please,” I beg once more.

His intense gaze darkens suddenly and he blinks.

“I was so scared,” he whispers.

Oh, thank the Lord! Inside, my subconscious staggers back into her armchair, sagging

with relief, and takes a large swig of gin.

He’s talking!Gratitude overwhelms me, and I swallow, trying to contain my emotion

and the fresh bout of tears that threatens.

His voice is soft and low. “When I saw Ethan arrive outside, I knew someone had let

you into your apartment. Both Taylor and I leapt out of the car. We knew and to see her

there like that with you—and armed. I think I died a thousand deaths, Ana. Someone threat-

ening you . . . all my worst fears realized. I was so angry, with her, with you, with Taylor,

with myself.”

He shakes his head revealing his agony. “I didn’t know how volatile she would be. I

didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how she’d react.” He stops and frowns. “And then

she gave me a clue; she looked so contrite. And I just knew what I had to do.” He pauses,

gazing at me, trying to gauge my reaction.

“Go on,” I whisper.

He swallows. “Seeing her in that state, knowing that I might have something to do with

her mental breakdown . . .” He closes his eyes once more. “She was always so mischievous

and lively.” He shudders and takes a rasping breath, almost like a sob. This is torture to

listen to, but I kneel, attentive, lapping up this insight.

“She might have harmed you. And it would have been my fault.” His eyes drift off,

filled with uncomprehending horror, and he’s silent once more.

“But she didn’t,” I whisper. “And you weren’t responsible for her being in that state,

Christian.” I blink up at him, encouraging him to continue.

Then it dawns on me afresh that everything he did was to keep me safe, and perhaps

Leila, too, because he also cares for her. But how much does he care for her? The question

lingers in my head, unwelcome. He says he loves me, but then he was so harsh, throwing

me out of my own apartment.

“I just wanted you gone,” he murmurs, with his uncanny ability to read my thoughts.

“I wanted you away from the danger, and . . . You. Just. Wouldn’t. Go,” he hisses through

clenched teeth and shakes his head. His exasperation is palpable.

He gazes at me intently. “Anastasia Steele, you are the most stubborn woman I know.”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head once more in disbelief.

Oh, he’s back.I breathe a long, cleansing sigh of relief.

He opens his eyes again, and his expression is forlorn—sincere. “You weren’t going

to run?” he asks.

“ No!”

He closes his eyes again and his whole body relaxes. When he opens his eyes, I can see

his pain and anguish.

“I thought—” He stops. “This is me, Ana. All of me . . . and I’m all yours. What do I

have to do to make you realize that? To make you see that I want you any way I can get

you. That I love you.”

“I love you, too, Christian, and to see you like this is . . .” I choke and my tears start

afresh. “I thought I’d broken you.”

“Broken? Me? Oh no, Ana. Just the opposite.” He reaches out and takes my hand.

“You’re my lifeline,” he whispers, and he kisses my knuckles before pressing my palm

against his.

With his eyes wide and full of fear, he gently tugs my hand and places it on his chest

over his heart—in the forbidden zone. His breathing quickens. His heart is beating a fran-

tic, pounding tattoo beneath my fingers. He doesn’t take his eyes off mine; his jaw is tense,

his teeth clenched.

I gasp. Oh my Fifty!He’s letting me touch him. And it’s like all the air in my lungs

has vaporized—gone. The blood is pounding in my ears as the rhythm of my heart rises to

match his.

He releases my hand, leaving it in place over his heart. I flex my fingers slightly, feel-

ing the warmth of his skin beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. He’s holding his breath. I

can’t bear it. I make to move my hand.

“No,” he says quickly and places his hand once more over mine, pressing my fingers

against him. “Don’t.”

Emboldened by these two words, I shuffle closer so our knees are touching and ten-

tatively raise my other hand so that he knows exactly what I intend to do. His eyes grow

wider but he doesn’t stop me.

Gently I start to undo the buttons on his shirt. It’s tricky with one hand. I flex my fin-

gers beneath his hand and he lets go, allowing me to use both hands to undo his shirt. My

eyes don’t leave his as I pull his shirt open, revealing his chest.

He swallows, and his lips part as his breathing increases, and I sense his rising panic,

but he doesn’t pull away. Is he still in sub mode? I have no idea.

Should I do this? I don’t want to hurt him, physically or mentally. The sight of him like

this, offering himself to me, has been a wake-up call.

I reach up, and my hand hovers over his chest, and I stare at him . . . asking his permis-

sion. Very subtly he tilts his head to one side, steeling himself in anticipation of my touch,

and the tension radiates from him, but this time it’s not in anger—it’s in fear.

I hesitate. Can I really do this to him?

“Yes,” he breathes—again with the weird ability to answer my unspoken questions.

I extend my fingertips into his chest hair and lightly brush them down his sternum. He

closes his eyes, and his face creases as if he’s experiencing intolerable pain. It’s unbearable

to witness, so I lift my fingers immediately, but he quickly grabs my hand and replaces it

firmly, flat on his bare chest so that the hair tickles my palm.

“No,” he says, his voice strained. “I need to.”

His eyes are screwed up so tightly. This must be agony. It’s truly tormenting to watch.