Fifty Shades Freed (Fifty Shades 3) - Chapter 104

He stills. I know he finds it hard to hear this.

“She didn’t hurt me. She loves you, too.”

“I don’t give a f**k.”

I gape at him, shocked. And I’m shocked that he still has the capacity to shock me. This is the Christian Grey I know. Leila’s words rattle around my head. His reaction to her was so cold, so much at odds with the man I’ve come to know and love. I frown, recalling the remorse he felt when she had her breakdown, when he thought he might in some way be responsible for her pain. I swallow, remembering, too, that he bathed her. My stomach twists painfully at the thought, and bile rises in my throat. How can he say he doesn’t care about her? He did back then. What’s changed? Sometimes, like now, I just don’t understand him. He operates on a level far, far removed from mine.

“Why are you championing her cause all of a sudden?” he asks, mystified and irritable.

“Look, Christian, I don’t think Leila and I will be swapping recipes and knitting patterns anytime soon. But I didn’t think you’d be so heartless to her.”

His eyes frost. “I told you once, I don’t have a heart,” he mutters. I roll my eyes – oh, now he is being adolescent.

“That’s just not true, Christian. You’re being ridiculous. You do care about her. You wouldn’t be paying for art classes and the rest of that stuff if you didn’t.”

Suddenly, it’s my lifetime ambition to make him realize this. It’s painstakingly obvious that he cares. Why does he deny it? It’s like his feelings for his birth mother. Oh shit – of course. His feelings for Leila and his other submissives are tangled up with his feelings for his mother . I like to whip little brown-haired girls like you because you all look like the crack whore. No wonder he’s so mad. I sigh and shake my head. Paging Dr. Flynn, please. How can he not see this?

My heart swells for him momentarily. My lost boy . . . Why is it so hard for him to get back in touch with the humanity, the compassion he showed Leila when she had her breakdown?

He glares at me, his eyes glittering with anger. “This discussion is over. Let’s go home.”

I glance at my watch. It’s four twenty-three. I have work to do. “It’s too early,” I mutter.

“Home,” he insists.

“Christian.” My voice is weary. “I’m tired of having the same argument with you.”

He frowns as if he doesn’t understand.

“You know,” I elucidate, “I do something you don’t like, and you think of some way to get back at me. Usually involving some of your kinky f**kery, which is either mind-blowing or cruel.” I shrug, resigned. This is exhausting and confusing.

“Mind-blowing?” he asks.

What?

“Usually, yes.”

“What was mind-blowing?” he asks, his eyes now shimmering with amused sensual curiosity. And I know he’s trying to distract me. Crap! I do not want to discuss this in SIP’s meeting room. My subconscious examines her finely manicured nails with disdain. Shouldn’t have brought the subject up, then.

“You know.” I blush, irritated with both him and myself.

“I can guess,” he whispers.

Holy crap. I’m trying to castigate him and he’s confounding me.

“Christian, I – ”

“I like to please you.”

He delicately traces his thumb over my bottom lip.

“You do,” I acknowledge, my voice a whisper.

“I know,” he says softly. He leans forward and whispers in my ear,

“It’s the one thing I do know.” Oh, he smells good. He leans back and gazes down at me, his lips curled in an arrogant, I-so-own-you smile. Pursing my lips, I strive to appear unaffected by his touch. He is so artful at diverting me from anything painful, or anything he doesn’t want to address. And you let him, my subconscious pipes up unhelpfully, gazing over her copy of Jane Eyre.

“What was mind-blowing, Anastasia?” he prompts, a wicked gleam in his eye.

“You want the list?” I ask.

“There’s a list?” He’s pleased.

Oh, this man is exhausting. “Well, the handcuffs,” I mumble, my mind catapulted back to our honeymoon.

He furrows his brow and grasps my hand, tracing the pulse point on my wrist with his thumb.

“I don’t want to mark you.”

Oh . . .

His lips curl in a slow carnal smile.

“Come home.” His tone is seductive.

“I have work to do.”

“Home,” he says, more insistent.

We gaze at each other, molten gray into bewildered blue, testing each other, testing our boundaries and our wills. I search his eyes for some understanding, trying to fathom how this man can go from raging control freak to seductive lover in one breath. His eyes grow larger and darker, his intention clear. Softly, he caresses my cheek.

“We could stay here.” His is voice low and husky.

Oh no. My inner goddess gazes longingly down at the wooden table. No. No. No. Not in the office.

“Christian, I don’t want to have sex here. Your mistress has just been in this room.”

“She was never my mistress,” he growls, his mouth flattening into a grim line.

“That’s just semantics, Christian.”

He frowns, his expression puzzled. The seductive lover has gone.

“Don’t overthink this, Ana. She’s history,” he says dismissively. I sigh . . . maybe he’s right. I just want him to admit to himself that he cares for her. A chill grips my heart. Oh no. This is why it’s important to me. Suppose I do something unforgivable. Suppose I don’t conform. Will I be history, too? If he can turn like this, when he was so concerned and upset when Leila was ill . . . could he turn against me? I gasp, recalling the fragments of a dream: gilt mirrors and the sound of his heels clicking on the marbled floor as he leaves me standing alone in opulent splendor.