Fifty Shades Freed

silencer attached. Holy shit! Jack was armed? Bile rises in my throat and I fight it down.

“Don’t touch, Mrs. Grey,” says Prescott when I bend to pick it up. Sawyer emerges from Taylor’s office wearing latex gloves.

“I’ll take care of that, Mrs. Grey,” he says.

“It’s his?” I ask.

“Yes ma’am,” says Ryan, wincing once more from Mrs. Jones’s ministrations. Holy crap. Ryan fought an armed man in my home. I shudder at the thought.

Sawyer bends and gingerly picks up the Glock.

“Should you be doing that?” I ask.

“Mr. Grey would expect it ma’am.” Sawyer slides the gun into a zip-lock bag then squats to pat down Jack. He pauses and partially pulls a roll of duct tape from

the man’s pocket. Sawyer blanches and pushes the tape back into Hyde’s pocket.

Duct tape? My mind idly registers as I watch the proceedings with fascination and an odd detachment. Then bile rises to my throat again as I realize the implications. Rapidly, I dismiss them from my head. Don’t go there, Ana!

“Should we call the police?” I mutter, trying to hide my fear. I want Hyde out of my home, sooner rather than later.

Ryan and Sawyer glance at each other.

“I think we should call the police,” I say rather more forcefully, wondering what’s going on between Ryan and Sawyer.

“I’ve just tried Taylor, and he’s not answering his cell. Maybe he’s asleep.” Sawyer checks his watch. “It’s one forty-five in the morning on the East Coast.”

Oh no.

“Have you called Christian?” I whisper.

“No, ma’am.”

“Were you calling Taylor for instructions?”

Sawyer looks momentarily embarrassed. “Yes, ma’am.”

Part of me bristles. This man—I glance down at Hyde again—has invaded my home, and he needs to be removed by the police. But looking at the four of them,

into their anxious eyes, I decide I must be missing something so I decide to call Christian. My scalp prickles. I know he’s mad at me—really, really mad at me—and

I falter at the thought of what he’ll say. And how he’ll stress because he’s not here and can’t be here until tomorrow evening. I know I’ve worried him enough this

evening. Perhaps I shouldn’t call him. And then it occurs to me. Shit. What if I’d been here? I pale at the thought. Thank heavens I was out. Maybe I won’t be in so

much trouble after all.

“Is he okay?” I ask, pointing at Jack.

“He’ll have an aching skull when he wakes,” Ryan says, gazing down at Jack with contempt. “But we need paramedics here to make sure.”

I reach into my purse and pull out my BlackBerry, and before I can give too much thought to the extent of Christian’s anger, I dial his number. It goes straight to

voice mail. He must have switched it off because he’s so mad. I ca

“Hi. It’s me. Please don’t be mad. We’ve had an incident at the apartment. But it’s under control, so don’t worry. No one is hurt. Call me.” I hang up.

“Call the police.” I tell Sawyer. He nods, takes out his cell, and makes the call.

“Call the police.” I tell Sawyer. He nods, takes out his cell, and makes the call.

Officer Ski

perhaps in Taylor’s office. Detective Clark is barking questions at me as we sit on the couch in the great room. He’s tall, dark and would be good looking if it

wasn’t for his permanent scowl. I suspect he’s been woken and dragged from his warm bed because the home of one of Seattle’s most influential and wealthy

businessmen has been breached.

“He used to be your boss?” Clark asks tersely.

“Yes.”

I am tired—beyond tired—and I want to go to bed. I still haven’t heard from Christian. On the plus side, the paramedics have removed Hyde. Mrs. Jones hands

Detective Clark and me each a cup of tea.

“Thanks.” Clark turns to me. “And where is Mr. Grey?”

“New York. On business. He’ll be back tomorrow evening, I mean this evening.” It’s after midnight.

“Hyde is known to us,” Detective Clark murmurs. “I’ll need you to come down to the station to make a statement. But that can wait. It’s late and there are a

couple of reporters camped out on the sidewalk. Do you mind if I look around?”

“Of course not,” I offer, relieved his questioning is finished. I shudder at the thought of the photographers outside. Well, they won’t be a problem until tomorrow.

I remind myself to call Mom and Ray just in case they hear anything and worry.

“Mrs. Grey, may I suggest you go to bed?” Mrs. Jones says, her voice warm and full of concern.

Looking into her warm, kind eyes, I suddenly feel an overwhelming need to cry. She reaches over and rubs my shoulder.

“We’re safe now,” she murmurs. “This will all look better in the morning once you’ve had some sleep. And Mr. Grey will be back tomorrow evening.”

I glance nervously up at her, keeping my tears at bay. Christian is going to be so mad.

“Can I get you anything before you go to bed?” she asks.

I realize how hungry I am. “I’d love something to eat.”

She smiles broadly. “Sandwich and some milk?”

I nod with gratitude, and she heads into the kitchen. Ryan is still with Officer Ski

looks thoughtful, despite his scowl. And suddenly I feel homesick—homesick for Christian. Holding my head in my hands, I wish fervently that he were here. He’d

know what to do. What an evening. I want to crawl into his lap, have him hold me and tell me that he loves me, even though I don’t do as I’m told—but that won’t

be possible until this evening. Inwardly I roll my eyes . . . Why didn’t he tell me about the increased security for everyone? What exactly is on Jack’s computer?

He’s so frustrating but right now, I just don’t care. I want my husband. I miss him.

“Here you are, Ana dear.” Mrs. Jones interrupts my i

I haven’t had one of these for years. I smile shyly and dig in.

When I finally crawl into bed, I curl up on Christian’s side, dressed in his T-shirt. Both his pillow and his T-shirt smell of him, and as I drift off I silently wish him

safe passage home . . . and a good mood.

I wake with a start. It’s light and my head is aching, throbbing at my temples. Oh no. I hope I don’t have a hangover. Cautiously, I open my eyes and notice the

bedroom chair has moved, and Christian is sitting in it. He’s wearing his tux, and the end of his bowtie is peeping out of the breast pocket. I wonder if I’m dreaming. His left arm is draped over the chair, and in his hand he holds a cut glass tumbler of amber liquid. Brandy? Whiskey? I have no idea. One long leg is

crossed at the ankle over his knee. He’s wearing black socks and dress shoes. His right elbow rests on the arm of the chair, his hand up to his chin, and he’s slowly

ru

completely unreadable.

My heart almost stops. He’s here. How did he get here? He must have left New York last night. How long has he been here watching me sleep?

“Hi,” I whisper.

He regards me coolly, and my heart stutters once more. Oh no. He moves his long fingers away from his mouth, tosses back the remainder of his drink, and

places the glass on the bedside table. I half expect him to kiss me, but he doesn’t. He sits back, continuing to regard me, his expression impassive.

“Hello,” he says finally, his voice hushed. And I know he’s still mad. Really mad.