Fifty Shades Freed (Fifty Shades #3)(99)
Author: E.L. James

"You both have troubled pasts, and you were both born in Detroit. That’s it, Christian." I fist my hands on my hips.

"Ana, your faith in me is touching, in spite of the last few days. We’ll know more when Welch is here." He’s dismissing the subject.

"Christian – "

He stops me with a kiss. "Enough," he breathes, and I remember the promise I made to myself not to hound him for information.

"And don’t pout," he adds. "Come. Let me dry your hair." I know the subject is closed

After dressing in sweatpants and a T-shirt, I sit between Christian’s legs as he dries my hair.

"So did Clark tell you anything else while I was unconscious?"

"Not that I recall."

"I heard a few of your conversations."

The hairbrush stills in my hair.

"Did you?" he asks, his tone nonchalant.

"Yes. My dad, your dad, Detective Clark . . . your mom."

"And Kate?"

"Kate was there?"

"Briefly, yes. She’s mad at you, too."

I turn in his lap. "Stop with the everyone is mad at Ana crap, okay?"

"Just telling you the truth," Christian says, bemused by my outburst.

"Yes, it was reckless, but you know, your sister was in danger."

His face falls. "Yes. She was." Switching off the hairdryer, he puts it down on the bed beside him. He grasps my chin.

"Thank you," he says, surprising me. "But no more recklessness. Because next time, I will spank the living shit out of you."

I gasp.

"You wouldn’t!"

"I would." He’s serious. Holy cow. Deadly serious. "I have your stepfather’s permission." He smirks. He’s teasing me! Or is he? I launch myself at him, and he twists so that I fall onto the bed and into his arms. As I land, pain from my ribs shoots through me and I wince. Christian pales. "Behave!" he admonishes, and for a moment he’s angry.

"Sorry," I mumble, reaching up to caress his cheek. He nuzzles my hand and kisses it gently.

"Honestly, Ana, you really have no regard for your own safety." He tugs up the hem of my T-shirt then rests his fingers on my belly. I stop breathing. "It’s not just you anymore," he whispers, trailing his fingertips along the waistband of my sweats, caressing my skin. Desire explodes unexpected, hot, and heavy in my blood. I gasp and Christian tenses, halting his fingers and gazing down at me. He moves his hand up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

"No," he whispers.

What?

"Don’t look at me like that. I’ve seen the bruises. And the answer’s no." His voice is firm, and he kisses my forehead.

I squirm. "Christian," I whine.

"No. Get into bed." He sits up.

"Bed?"

"You need rest."

"I need you."

He closes his eyes and shakes his head as if it’s a great effort of will. When he opens them again, his eyes are bright with his resolve.

"Just do as you’re told, Ana."

I’m tempted to take off all my clothes, but then I remember the bruises and know I won’t win that way. Reluctantly, I nod.

"Okay." I deliberately give him an exaggerated pout. He grins, amused. "I’ll bring you some lunch."

"You’re going to cook?" I nearly expire.

He has the grace to laugh. "I’m going to heat something up. Mrs. Jones has been busy."

"Christian, I’ll do it. I’m fine. Jeez, I want sex – I can certainly cook." I sit up awkwardly, trying to hide my flinch from my smarting ribs.

"Bed!" Christian’s eyes flash and he points to the pillow.

"Join me," I murmur, wishing I were wearing something a little more alluring than sweatpants and a T-shirt.

"Ana, get into bed. Now."

I scowl, stand up, and let my pants drop unceremoniously to the floor, glaring at him the whole time. His mouth twitches with humor as he pulls the duvet back.

"You heard Dr. Singh. She said rest." His voice is gentler. I slip into bed and fold my arms in frustration. "Stay," he says clearly enjoying himself.

My scowl deepens.

Mrs. Jones’s chicken stew is, without doubt, one of my favorite dishes. Christian eats with me, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed.

"That was very well heated." I smirk and he grins. I’m replete and sleepy. Was this his plan?

"You look tired." He picks up my tray.

"I am."

"Good. Sleep." He leans down and kisses me. "I have some work I need to do. I’ll do it in here if that’s okay with you."

I nod . . . fighting a losing battle with my eyelids. I had no idea chicken stew could be so exhausting.

It’s dusk when I wake. Pale pink light floods the room. Christian is sitting in the armchair, watching me, gray eyes luminous in the ambient light. He’s clutching some papers. His face is ashen. Holy cow!

"What’s wrong?" I ask immediately, sitting up and ignoring my protesting ribs.

"Welch has just left."

Oh shit. "And?"

"I lived with the f**ker," he whispers.

"Lived? With Jack?"

He nods, eyes wide.

"You’re related?"

"No. Good God, no."

I shuffle over and pull the duvet back, inviting him into bed beside me, and to my surprise he doesn’t hesitate. He kicks off his shoes and slides in alongside me. Wrapping one arm around me, he curls up, resting his head in my lap. I’m stunned. What’s this?

"I don’t understand," I murmur, running my fingers through his hair and gazing down at him. Christian closes his eyes and furrows his brow as if he’s straining to remember.

"After I was found with the crack whore, before I went to live with Carrick and Grace, I was in the care of Michigan State. I lived in a foster home. But I can’t remember anything about that time."

My mind reels. A foster home? This is news to both of us.

"For how long?" I whisper.

"Two months or so. I have no recollection."

"Have you spoken to your mom and dad about it?"

"No."

"Perhaps you should. Maybe they could fill in the blanks."

He hugs me tightly. "Here." He hands me the papers, which turn out to be two photographs. I reach over and switch on the bedside light so I can examine them in detail. The first photo is of a shabby house with a yellow front door and a large gabled window in the roof. It has a porch and a small front yard. It’s an unremarkable house. The second photo is of a family – at first glance, an ordinary bluecollar family – a man and his wife, I think, and their children. The adults are both dressed in dowdy, overwashed blue T-shirts. They must be in their forties. The woman has scraped-back blond hair, and the man a severe buzz-cut, but they are both smiling warmly at the camera. The man has his hand draped over the shoulders of a sullen teenage girl. I gaze at each of the children: two boys – identical twins, about twelve – both with sandy blond hair, grinning broadly at the camera; there’s another boy, who’s smaller, blonder, scowling; and hiding behind him, a copper-haired gray-eyed little boy. Wide-eyed and scared, dressed in mismatched clothes, and clutching a child’s dirty blanket.

Fuck. "This is you," I whisper, my heart lurching into my throat. I know Christian was four when his mother died. But this child looks much younger. He must have been severely malnourished. I stifle a sob as tears spring to my eyes. Oh, my sweet Fifty. Christian nods. "That’s me."

"Welch brought these photos?"

"Yes. I don’t remember any of this." His voice is flat and lifeless.

"Remember being with foster parents? Why should you? Christian, it was a long time ago. Is this what’s worrying you?"

"I remember other things, from before and after. When I met my mom and dad. But this . . . It’s like there’s a huge chasm."

My heart twists and understanding dawns. My darling control freak likes everything in its place, and now he’s learned he’s missing part of the jigsaw.

"Is Jack in this picture?"

"Yes, he’s the older kid." Christian’s eyes are still screwed shut, and he’s clinging to me as if I’m a life raft. I run my fingers through his hair while I gaze at the older boy who is glaring, defiant and arrogant, at the camera. I can see it’s Jack. But he’s just a kid, a sad eight or nine-yearold, hiding his fear behind his hostility. A thought occurs to me.

"When Jack called to tell me he had Mia, he said if things had been different, it could have been him."