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I shake my head. No . . . no . . . not like Leila.
“Shower?” His voice is choked with concern.
Through my tears, I nod. I want to wash away the grime of the last few days, wash away the memory of Jack’s attack. “You gold digging whore.” I sob into my
hands as the sound of the water cascading from the shower echoes off the walls.
“Hey,” Christian croons. Kneeling in front of me, he pulls my hands away from my tearstained cheeks and cups my face in his hands. I gaze at him, blinking
away my tears.
“You’re safe. You both are,” he whispers.
Blip and me. My eyes brim with tears again.
“Stop, now. I can’t bear it when you cry.” His voice is hoarse. His thumbs wipe my cheeks, but my tears still flow.
“I’m sorry, Christian. Just sorry for everything. For making you worry, for risking everything—for the things I said.”
“Hush, baby, please.” He kisses my forehead. “I’m sorry. It takes two to tango, Ana.” He gives me a crooked smile. “Well, that’s what my mom always says. I
said things and did things I’m not proud of.” His gray eyes are bleak but penitent. “Let’s get you undressed.” His voice is soft. I wipe my nose with the back of my
hand, and he kisses my forehead once more.
Briskly he strips me, taking particular care as he pulls my T-shirt over my head. But my head is not too sore. Leading me to the shower, he peels off his own
clothing in record time before stepping into the welcome hot water with me. He pulls me into his arms and holds me, holds me for the longest time, as the water
gushes over us, soothing us both.
He lets me cry into his chest. Occasionally he kisses my hair, but he doesn’t let go, he just rocks me gently beneath the warm water. To feel his skin against mine,
his chest hair against my cheek . . . this man I love, this self-doubting, beautiful man, the man I could have lost through my own recklessness. I feel empty and
aching at the thought but grateful that he’s here, still here—despite everything that’s happened.
He has some explaining to do, but right now I want to revel in the feel of his comforting, protective arms around me. And in that moment it occurs to me; any
explanations on his part have to come from him. I can’t force him—he’s got to want to tell me. I won’t be cast as the nagging wife, constantly trying to wheedle
information out of her husband. It’s just exhausting. I know he loves me. I know he loves me more than he’s ever loved anyone, and for now, that’s enough. The
realization is liberating. I stop crying and step back.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod.
“Good. Let me look at you,” he says, and for a moment I don’t know what he means. But he takes my hand and examines the arm I fell on when Jack hit me.
There are bruises on my shoulder and scrapes at my elbow and wrist. He kisses each of them. He grabs a washcloth and shower gel from the rack, and the sweet
familiar scent of jasmine fills my nostrils.
“Turn around.” Gently, he proceeds to wash my injured arm, then my neck, my shoulders, my back, and my other arm. He turns me sideways, and traces his
long fingers down my side. I wince as they skate over the large bruise at my hip. Christian’s eyes harden and his lips thin. His anger is palpable as he whistles
through his teeth.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I murmur to reassure him.
Blazing gray eyes meet mine. “I want to kill him. I nearly did,” he whispers cryptically. I frown then shiver at his bleak expression. He squirts more shower gel
on the washcloth and with tender, aching gentleness, he washes my side and my behind, then, kneeling, moves down my legs. He pauses to examine my knee. He
lips brush over the bruise before he returns to washing my legs and my feet. Reaching down, I caress his head, ru
and his fingers trace the outline of the bruise on my ribs where Jack kicked me.
“Oh, baby,” he groans, his voice filled with anguish, his eyes dark with fury.
“I’m okay.” I pull his head down to mine and kiss his lips. He’s hesitant to reciprocate, but as my tongue meets his, his body stirs against me.
“No,” he whispers against my lips, and he pulls back. “Let’s get you clean.”
His face is serious. Damn . . . He means it. I pout, and the atmosphere between us lightens in an instant. He grins and kisses me briefly.
“Clean,” he emphasizes. “Not dirty.”
“I like dirty.”
“Me, too, Mrs. Grey. But not now, not here.” He grabs the shampoo, and before I can persuade him otherwise, he’s washing my hair.
I love clean, too. I feel refreshed and reinvigorated, and I don’t know if it’s from the shower, the crying, or my decision to stop hassling Christian about everything.
He wraps me in a large towel and drapes one around his hips while I gingerly dry my hair. My head aches, but it’s a dull persistent pain that is more than manageable. I have some painkillers from Dr. Singh, but she’s asked me not to use them unless I have to.
As I dry my hair, I think about Elizabeth.
As I dry my hair, I think about Elizabeth.
“I still don’t understand why Elizabeth was involved with Jack.”
“I do,” Christian mutters darkly.
This is news. I frown up at him, but I’m distracted. He’s drying his hair with a towel, his chest and shoulders still wet with beads of water that glint beneath the
halogens. He pauses and smirks.
“Enjoying the view?”
“How do you know?” I ask, trying to ignore that I’ve been caught staring at my own husband.
“That you’re enjoying the view?” he teases.
“No,” I scold. “About Elizabeth.”
“Detective Clark hinted at it.”
I give him my tell-me-more expression, and another nagging memory from when I was unconscious resurfaces. Clark was in my room. I wish I could remember
what he said.
“Hyde had videos. Videos of all of them. On several USB flash drives.”
What? I frown, my skin tightening across my forehead.
“Videos of him fucking her and fucking all his PAs.”
Oh!
“Exactly. Blackmail material. He likes it rough.” Christian frowns, and I watch confusion followed by disgust cross his face. He pales as his disgust turns to self-
loathing. Of course—Christian likes it rough, too.
“Don’t.” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it.
His frown deepens. “Don’t what?” He stills and regards me with apprehension.
“You aren’t anything like him.”
Christian’s eyes harden, but he says nothing, confirming that’s exactly what he’s thinking.
“You’re not.” My voice is adamant.
“We’re cut from the same cloth.”
“No, you’re not,” I snap, though I understand why he might think so. “His dad died in a brawl in a bar. His mother drank herself into oblivion. He was in and
out of foster homes as a kid, in and out of trouble, too—mainly boosting cars. Spent time in juvie.” I recall the information Christian revealed on the plane to Aspen.
“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, especially in light 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.”
And 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.”