Carefully I let my fingers stroke across his chest to his heart, marveling at the feel of him,

terrified that this is a step too far.

He opens his eyes, and they are gray fire, blazing at me.

Holy cow.His look is blistering, feral, beyond intense, and his breathing is rapid. It stirs

my blood. I squirm under his gaze.

He hasn’t stopped me, so I run my fingertips across his chest again, and his mouth goes

slack. He’s panting, and I don’t know if it’s from fear, or something else.

I’ve wanted to kiss him there for so long that I lean up on my knees and hold his gaze

for a moment, making my intention perfectly clear. Then I bend and gently plant a soft kiss

above his heart, feeling his warm, sweet-smelling skin beneath my lips.

His strangled groan moves me so much that I sit back on my heels, fearful of what I’ll

see on his face. His eyes are screwed tightly shut, but he hasn’t moved.

“Again,” he whispers, and I lean into his chest once more, this time to kiss one of his

scars. He gasps, and I kiss another and another. He groans loudly, and suddenly his arms

are around me, and his hand is in my hair, pulling my head up painfully so that my lips meet

his insistent mouth. And we’re kissing, my fingers knotting into his hair.

“Oh, Ana,” he breathes, and he twists and pulls me down on to the floor so that I am

underneath him. I bring my hands up to cup his beautiful face, and in that moment, I feel

his tears.

He’s crying . . . no. No!

“Christian, please, don’t cry. I meant it when I said I’d never leave you. I did. If I gave

you any other impression, I’m so sorry . . . please, please forgive me. I love you. I will

always love you.”

He looms over me, gazing down into my face, and his expression is so pained.

“What is it?”

His eyes grow larger.

“What is this secret that makes you think I’ll run for the hills? That makes you so de-

termined to believe I’ll go?” I plead, my voice tremulous. “Tell me, Christian, please . . .”

He sits up, though this time he crosses his legs and I follow suit, my legs outstretched.

Vaguely I wonder if we can get off the floor? But I don’t want to interrupt his train of

thought. He’s finally going to confide in me.

He gazes down at me, and he looks utterly desolate. Oh shit—it’s bad.

“Ana . . .” He pauses, searching for the words, his expression pained . . . Oh? Where

the hell is this going?

He takes a deep breath and swallows. “I’m a sadist, Ana. I like to whip little brown-

haired girls like you because you all look like the crack whore—my birth mother. I’m sure

you can guess why.” He says it in a rush as if he’s had the sentence in his head for days and

days and is desperate to be rid of it.

My world stops. Oh no.

This is not what I expected. This is bad. Really bad. I gaze at him, trying to understand

the implication of what he’s just said. It does explain why we all look the same.

My immediate thought is that Leila was right—“ Master is dark.”

I recall the first conversation I had with him about his tendencies when we were in the

Red Room of Pain.

“You said you weren’t a sadist,” I whisper, desperately trying to understand . . . make

some excuse for him.

“No, I said I was a Dominant. If I lied to you, it was a lie of omission. I’m sorry.” He

looks briefly down at his manicured fingernails.

I think he’s mortified. Mortified about lying to me? Or about what he is?

“When you asked me that question, I had envisioned a very different relationship be-

tween us,” he murmurs. I can tell by his gaze that he’s terrified.

Then it hits me like a wrecking ball. If he’s a sadist, he really needs all that whipping

and caning shit. Oh fuck. I put my head in my hands.

“So it’s true,” I whisper, glancing up at him. “I can’t give you what you need.” This is

it—this really does mean we are incompatible.

The world starts falling away at my feet, collapsing around me as panic grips my

throat. This is it. We can’t do this.

He frowns. “No, No, No. Ana. No. You can. You dogive me what I need.” He clenches

his fists. “Please believe me,” he murmurs, his words an impassioned plea.

“I don’t know what to believe, Christian. This is so fucked-up,” I whisper, my throat

hoarse and aching as it closes in, choking me with unshed tears.

His eyes are wide and luminous when he looks at me again.

“Ana, believe me. After I punished you and you left me, my worldview changed. I

wasn’t joking when I said I would avoid ever feeling like that again.” He gazes at me with

pained entreaty. “When you said you loved me, it was a revelation. No one’s ever said it to

me before, and it was as if I’d laid something to rest—or maybe you’d laid it to rest, I don’t

know. Dr. Flynn and I are still in deep discussion about it.”

Oh.Hope flares briefly in my heart. Perhaps we’ll be okay. I want us to be okay. Don’t

I?“What does that all mean?” I whisper.

“It means I don’t need it. Not now.”

What?“How do you know? How can you be so sure?”

“I just know. The thought of hurting you . . . in any real way . . . it’s abhorrent to me.”

“I don’t understand. What about rulers and spanking and all that kinky fuckery?”

He runs a hand through his hair and almost smiles but instead sighs ruefully. “I’m

talking about the heavy shit, Anastasia. You should see what I can do with a cane or a cat.”

My mouth drops open, stunned. “I’d rather not.”

“I know. If you wanted to do that, then fine . . . but you don’t and I get it. I can’t do all

that shit with you if you don’t want to. I told you once before, you have all the power. And

now, since you came back, I don’t feel that compulsion, at all.”

I gape at him for a moment trying to take this all in. “When we met, that’s what you

wanted, though?”

“Yes, undoubtedly.”

“How can your compulsion just go, Christian? Like I’m some kind of panacea, and

you’re—for want of a better word—cured? I don’t get it.”

He sighs once more. “I wouldn’t say cured . . .You don’t believe me?”

“I just find it—unbelievable. Which is different.”

“If you’d never left me, then I probably wouldn’t feel this way. You walking out on me

was the best thing you ever did . . . for us. It made me realize how much I want you, just

you, and I mean it when I say I’ll take you any way I can have you.”

I gaze at him. Can I believe this? My head hurts just trying to think this all through, and

deep down I feel . . . numb.

“You’re still here. I thought you would be out of the door by now,” he whispers.

“Why? Because I might think you’re a sicko for whipping and fucking women who

look like your mother? Whatever would give you that impression?” I hiss at him, lashing

out.He blanches at my harsh words.

“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but yes,” he says, his eyes wide and hurt.

His expression is sobering and I regret my outburst. I frown, feeling a pang of guilt.

Oh, what am I going to do? I gaze at him and he looks contrite, sincere . . . he looks

like my Fifty.

And unbidden I recall the photograph in his childhood bedroom, and in that moment

realize why the woman in it looked so familiar. She looked like him. She must have been

his biological mother.

His easy dismissal of her comes to mind: No one of consequence . . .She’s responsible

for all this . . . and I look like her . . . Fuck!

He stares at me, eyes raw, and I know he’s waiting for my next move. He seems genu-