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“Oh, merely an observation, Mr. Grey.” I wave my hand airily at the surroundings. Smirking, he follows me to the center of the room where I stand and gawk at
the view—the spectacular gardens reflected in the looking glass and the spectacular Christian Grey, my husband, reflected back at me, his gaze bright and bold.
“I would build this for you,” he whispers. “Just to see the way the light burnishes your hair, right here, right now.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You
look like an angel.” He kisses me just below my earlobe, takes my hand in his, and murmurs, “We despots do that for the women we love.”
I flush at his compliment, smiling shyly, and follow him through the vast room.
“What are you thinking about?” Christian asks softly, taking a sip of his after-di
“Versailles.”
“Ostentatious, wasn’t it?” He grins. I glance around the more understated grandeur of the Fair Lady’s dining room and purse my lips.
“This is hardly ostentatious,” Christian says, a tad defensively.
“I know. It’s lovely. The best honeymoon a girl could want.”
“Really?” he says, genuinely surprised. And he smiles his shy smile.
“Of course it is.”
“Of course it is.”
“We’ve only got two more days. Is there anything you’d like to see or do?”
“Just be with you,” I murmur. He rises from the table, comes around, and kisses me on the forehead.
“Well, can you do without me for about an hour? I need to check my e-mails, find out what’s happening at home.”
“Sure,” I say brightly, trying to hide my disappointment that I’ll be without him for an hour. Is it freaky that I want to be with him all the time? My subconscious
presses her lips into a narrow, unattractive line and nods vigorously.
“Thank you for the camera,” he murmurs and heads for the study.
Back in our cabin I decide to catch up on my correspondence and open my laptop. There are e-mails from my mom and from Kate, giving me the latest gossip from
home and asking how the honeymoon is going. Well, great, until someone decided to burn down GEH Inc. . . . As I finish my response to my mom, an e-mail from
Kate hits my inbox.
From: Katherine L. Kavanagh
Date: August 17, 2011 11:45 PST
To: Anastasia Grey
Subject: OMG!!!!
Ana, just heard about the fire at Christian’s office.
Do you think it’s arson?
K xox
Kate is online! I jump on to my newfound toy—Skype messaging—and see that she’s available. I quickly type a message.
Oh no—I’m sure Christian doesn’t want this broadcast all over Seattle. I try my patented distract-tenacious-Kavanagh technique.
Trust Kate to be on the trail of this story. I roll my eyes and shut Skype down before Christian sees the chat. He wouldn’t appreciate the ex-Dom comment, and
I’m not sure he’s entirely ex . . .
I sigh loudly. Kate knows everything, since our tipsy evening three weeks before the wedding when I finally succumbed to the Kavanagh inquisition. It was a
relief to finally talk to someone.
relief to finally talk to someone.
I glance at my watch. It’s been about an hour since di
I am in the Hall of Mirrors and Christian is standing beside me, smiling down at me with love and affection. You look like an angel. I beam back at him, but when I
glance into the looking glass, I’m standing on my own and the room is gray and drab. No! My head whips back to his face, to find his smile is sad and wistful. He
tucks my hair behind my ear. Then he turns wordlessly and walks away slowly, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the mirrors as he paces the enormous room to
the ornate double doors at the end . . . a man on his own, a man with no reflection . . . and I wake, gasping for air, as panic seizes me.
“Hey,” he whispers from beside me in the darkness, his voice filled with concern.
Oh, he’s here. He’s safe. Relief courses through me.
“Oh, Christian,” I mumble, trying to bring my pounding heartbeat under control. He wraps me in his arms, and it’s only then that I realize I have tears streaming
down my face.
“Ana, what is it?” He strokes my cheek, wiping away my tears, and I can hear his anguish.
“Nothing. A silly nightmare.”
He kisses my forehead and my tearstained cheeks, comforting me. “Just a bad dream, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. I’ll keep you safe.”
Drinking in his scent, I curl around him, trying to ignore the loss and devastation I felt in my dream, and in that moment, I know that my deepest, darkest fear
would be losing him.
I stir, instinctively reaching for Christian only to feel his absence. Shit! I wake instantly and look anxiously around the cabin. Christian is watching me from the
small, upholstered armchair by the bed. Stooping down, he places something on the floor, then moves and stretches out on the bed beside me. He’s dressed in his
cut-offs and a gray T-shirt.
“Hey, don’t panic. Everything’s fine,” he says, his voice gentle and soothing—like he’s talking to a cornered wild animal. Tenderly, he smooths the hair back
from my face and I calm immediately. I see him trying and failing to hide his own concern.
“You’ve been so jumpy these last couple of days,” he murmurs, his eyes wide and serious.