“If it’s in a packet, I can usually do something with it. It’s real food I have a problem

with.”

I cannot believe this is the same man who was on his knees in front of me not half an

hour before. He’s his usual mercurial self. He sets out plates, cutlery, and placemats on the

breakfast bar.

“It’s very late,” I mutter.

“Don’t go to work tomorrow.”

“I have to go to work tomorrow. My boss is leaving for New York.”

Christian frowns. “Do you want to go there this weekend?”

“I checked the weather forecast, and it looks like rain,” I say, shaking my head.

“Oh, so what do you want to do?”

The microwave’s ping announces that our supper is warmed through.

“I just want to get through one day at a time at the moment. All this excitement is . . .

tiring.” I raise an eyebrow at him, which he judiciously ignores.

Christian places the white bowl in between our place settings and takes his seat beside

me. He looks deep in thought, distracted. I dish the macaroni onto our plates. It smells di-

vine, and my mouth waters in anticipation. I am famished.

“Sorry about Leila,” he murmurs.

“Why are you sorry?” Mmm, the macaroni tastes as good as it smells. My stomach

grumbles gratefully.

“It must have been a terrible shock for you, finding her in your apartment. Taylor swept

it earlier himself. He’s very upset.”

“I don’t blame Taylor.”

“Neither do I. He’s been out looking for you.”

“Really? Why?”

“I didn’t know where you were. You left your purse, your phone. I couldn’t even track

you. Where did you go?” he asks. His voice is soft, but there’s an ominous undercurrent to

his words.

“Ethan and I just went to a bar across the street. So I could watch what was happening.”

“I see.” The atmosphere between us has changed subtly. It’s no longer light.

Okay, well . . . two can play that game. Let’s just bring this back to you, Fifty.Trying to

sound nonchalant, wanting to assuage my burning curiosity but dreading the answer, I ask,

“So what did you do with Leila in the apartment?”

I glance up at him, and he freezes with his forkful of macaroni suspended in midair.

Oh no, that’s not good.

“You really want to know?”

A knot tightens in my gut and my appetite vanishes. “Yes,” I whisper. Do you? Do you

really?My subconscious has thrown her empty bottle of gin on the floor and is sitting up

in her armchair, glaring at me in horror.

Christian’s mouth flattens into a line, and he hesitates. “We talked, and I gave her a

bath.” His voice is hoarse, and he continues quickly when I make no response. “And I

dressed her in some of your clothes. I hope you don’t mind. But she was filthy.”

Holy fuck.He bathed her?

What an inappropriate thing to do. I’m reeling, staring down at my uneaten macaroni.

The sight of it now makes me nauseous.

Try to rationalize this, my subconscious coaches. That cool, intellectual part of my

brain knows that he just did that because she was dirty, but it’s too hard. My fragile jealous

self can’t bear it.

Suddenly I want to cry—not succumb to ladylike tears that trickle decorously down

my cheeks, but howling at the moon crying. I take a deep breath to suppress the urge, but

my throat is arid and uncomfortable from my unshed tears and sobs.

“It was all I could do, Ana,” he says softly.

“You still have feelings for her?”

“No!” he says, appalled, and closes his eyes, his expression one of anguish. I turn

away, staring once more at my nauseating food. I can’t bear to look at him.

“To see her like that—so different, so broken. I care about her, one human being to

another.” He shrugs as if to shake off an unpleasant memory. Jeez, is he expecting my

sympathy?

“Ana, look at me.”

I can’t. I know that if I do, I will burst into tears. This is just too much to absorb. I’m

like an overflowing tank of gasoline—full, beyond capacity. There is no room for any

more. I simply cannot cope with any more crap. I will combust and explode, and it will be

ugly if I try. Jeez!

Christian caring for his ex-sub in such an intimate fashion—the image flashes through

my brain. Bathing her, for fuck’s sake—naked. A harsh, painful shudder wracks my body.

“Ana.”

“What?”

“Don’t. It doesn’t mean anything. It was like caring for a child, a broken, shattered

child,” he mutters.

What the hell would he know about caring for a child? This was a woman he had a very

full-on, deviant sexual relationship with.

Oh, this hurts.I take a deep, steadying breath. Or perhaps he’s referring to himself.

He’s the broken child. That makes more sense . . . or maybe it makes no sense at all. Oh,

this is so fucked-up, and suddenly I’m bone crushingly tired. I need sleep.

“Ana?”

I stand, take my plate to the sink, and scrape the contents into the trash.

“Ana, please.”

I whirl around and face him. “Just stop, Christian! Just stop with the ‘Ana, please’!” I

shout at him, and my tears start to trickle down my face. “I’ve had enough of all this shit

today. I am going to bed. I am tired and emotional. Now let me be.”

I turn on my heel and practically run to the bedroom, taking with me the memory of his

wide-eyed, shocked stare. Nice to know I can shock him, too. I strip out of my clothes in

double-quick time, and after rifling through his chest of drawers, drag on one of his T-shirts

and head for the bathroom.

I gaze at myself in the mirror, hardly recognizing the gaunt, pink-eyed, blotchy-

cheeked harridan staring back at me, and it’s too much. I sink to the floor and surrender to

the overwhelming emotion I can no longer contain, sobbing huge chest-wrenching sobs,

finally letting my tears flow unrestrained.

“Hey,” Christian’s says gently as he pulls me into his arms, “please don’t cry, Ana, please,”

he begs. He’s on the bathroom floor, and I am in his lap. I put my arms around him and

weep into his neck. Cooing softly into my hair, he gently strokes my back, my head.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers, and that makes me cry harder and hug him tighter.

We sit like this forever. Eventually, when I’m all cried out, Christian staggers to his

feet, holding me, and carries me into his room where he lays me down in the bed. In a few

moments, he’s beside me and the lights are off. He pulls me into his arms, hugging me

tightly, and I finally drift off into a dark and troubled sleep.

I awake with a jolt. My head is fuzzy and I’m too warm. Christian is wrapped around me

like a vine. He grumbles in his sleep as I slip out of his arms, but he doesn’t wake. Sitting

up I glance at the alarm clock. It’s three in the morning. I need an Advil and a drink. I swing

my legs out of bed and make my way to the kitchen in the great room.

In the fridge, I find a carton of orange juice and pour myself a glass. Hmm . . . it’s

delicious, and my fuzzy head eases immediately. I hunt through the cupboards looking for

some painkillers and eventually come across a plastic box full of meds. I sink two Advil

and pour myself another orange juice.

Wandering to the great wall of glass, I look out on a sleeping Seattle. The lights twinkle

and wink beneath Christian’s castle in the sky, or should I say fortress? I press my forehead

against the cool window—it’s a relief. I have so much to think about after all the revela-

tions of yesterday. I place my back against the glass and slide down onto the floor. The

great room is cavernous in the dark, the only light coming from the three lamps above the