Freed

by James, E L

  You are not the only one who is fucking pissed. Okay?

  Ana

  Anastasia Grey

  Editor, SIP

  Cursing and shouty capitals, too. Two can play at that game.

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: Here’s the Thing…

  Date: August 26 2011 13:59

  To: Anastasia Grey

  As ever, Mrs. Grey, you are forthright and challenging in e-mail.

  Perhaps we can discuss this when you get home to OUR apartment.

  You should watch your language. I am still fucking pissed, too.

  Christian Grey

  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  Fuck it. I don’t want an e-mail fight with Ana. I storm out of my office and into the living area. My temper eases at the sight of the cold chicken salad that Mrs. Jones has prepared for my lunch.

  Maybe I’m so mad because I’m hungry.

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  “I’m going to the Greek deli that Mrs. Grey likes, to pick up her favorite foods from there for this evening. She’ll just have to pop them in the oven or microwave to heat them up.”

  “Great,” I say, distracted. Why are Ana and I always fighting these days?

  “Mr. Grey—” Mrs. Jones is trying to get my attention.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for this evening. But I must say you look tired. Have you thought about taking a quick nap?”

  I frown. A nap? I’m not a child. “No.”

  “It’s just an idea.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement,” I mutter, and bring my salad into my office.

  Welch calls while I’m eating.

  “Welch.”

  “Interesting development in the Hyde case,” he rasps in his gruff voice. “Turns out Hyde’s van in the garage was kitted out with a mattress and enough ketamine to fell a Texas rodeo.”

  “Ketamine. Shit.” I was right!

  “Yes, sir. And syringes.”

  I grimace. I loathe syringes.

  Welch continues, “Looks like our boy will be charged with attempted kidnapping, first degree. They’ll probably throw in criminal trespass, robbery, and illegal possession of a firearm, too. Also, there was a note.”

  “Clark showed me the note.”

  “Mean anything to you?”

  “No. And Hyde left it in the van. Maybe he changed his mind about that, because it’s nonsensical.”

  “Maybe. He was delivering lights to one of the new tenants in the building,” Welch growls.

  “Delivering lights? What do you mean?”

  “Yes. He was working for a courier company. The client lives at apartment sixteen.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve met him. Young guy. That’s how Hyde got access; he’s a wily bastard.”

  “That he is, sir,” Welch agrees. “One more thing. I’ve heard from King County PD and the FBI. The prints match.”

  “We have him!”

  “It looks like it.”

  “There must be a Detroit connection, but I’m damned if I know what it is,” I mutter.

  “I’ll keep digging,” Welch responds. “That’s it for now.”

  “Thanks for the update.”

  He hangs up, and I look at the remains of my lunch. My appetite has evaporated. What the hell did that evil motherfucker have planned for my wife? Kidnap. Rape. Murder. And he had syringes. Perhaps he was going to inject her with a filthy, dirty syringe. Bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it down.

  Fuck.

  I have to get out of here and get some fresh air. Abandoning my lunch, I walk out through the living room and, ignoring Gail’s anxious look, take the elevator down to the main lobby. The photographers have gone, so I slip out the front entrance and walk. And walk. And walk.

  Life in the Emerald City goes on. People are going about their business; the streets are crowded, but I manage to weave my way through the throng.

  My poor wife.

  He could have killed her.

  If I ever get my hands on that evil, twisted asshole. I will end him.

  Once more I imagine all the ways I could do that.

  Shit.

  Grey, get a grip.

  I’m outside Nordstrom. Maybe I should buy something for Ana. Anything. I check that my wallet’s in my back pocket and head in. I’m in the scarf section. A silk scarf… Yeah. That works.

  I’m calmer when I get back to the apartment.

  “You didn’t like your lunch? Would you like something else?” Gail offers.

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll take your advice. I’m going to lie down. I’m exhausted.”

  Gail’s smile is sympathetic.

  Once in our bedroom, I take off my shoes, lie down, and close my eyes.

  Ana is laid out before me, naked. She holds out her arms. You can do anything you want to me. A punishment fuck. She’s in the harness. In the playroom. What will you do to me? I stand behind her, a cane in my hand. Whatever I want. She’s on the table. Facedown. She cannot move. She’s tied. I slap a paddle against my hand. Her buttocks clench in anticipation. She’s on her knees, her forehead pressed to the floor. Her hands tied behind her back. I want your mouth. Your cunt. Your ass. Your body. Your soul. She kneels before me. I’m yours. I will always be yours, husband of mine. Mine. Yours.

  I wake. Disoriented.

  I’m at home. It’s late afternoon, by the look of the light. I check the time; it’s 5:30. Ana won’t be home yet. I rub my face and walk into the bathroom, a plan hatching in my mind. I’m anticipating one hell of a fight. Ana says she’s pissed at me. In the closet I remove my shirt, replace it with a T-shirt, and change into my playroom jeans in readiness for her return. I tuck the new scarf into my pocket.

  Maybe we can both get what we want.

  In my office, I print out her e-mail and notice that she hasn’t sent me any messages since our last exchange. My wife does not back down from a challenge. This evening will be interesting.

  Gail is absent. As is Taylor. Idly, I wonder what they are doing.

  Ryan is in Taylor’s office; he stands when I enter. “Good evening, Mr. Grey.”

  “You can hang out upstairs. I’d like to give everyone the night off. We’ll call you if we need you.”

  He hesitates before agreeing. “Okay, sir.”

  And with that I wander back into the living room and over to the piano to await my wife’s return.

  Behind me, the late-afternoon sun is drifting toward the horizon, and I’m in my corner of the ring, waiting for the match to start. Gloves on. Mouth guard in.

  How many rounds will I go with Mrs. Grey?

  The soft ping of the elevator rings through the foyer.

  She’s here.

  Showtime, Grey.

  The thud of Ana’s briefcase hitting the floor in the hall is followed by her footsteps into the living room. She stops when she sees me.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Grey.” Barefoot, I swagger toward her, like a gunfighter in an old black-and-white movie, my eyes fixed on her. “Good to have you home. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Have you, now?” she whispers. She’s as beautiful as she looked this morning, though her eyes are wide and wary; her guard is up.

  Game on, Ana.

  “I have,” I answer.

  “I like your jeans,” she murmurs, eyeing me from head to toe.

  I wore them for you. I give her a wolfish grin and halt in front of her. She licks her lips, and swallows, but she doesn’t look away.

  “I understand you have issues, Mrs. Grey.” From my back pocket I pull out her shouty-capped e-mail and unfold it in front of her, trying to intimidate her with a look.

  I fail.

  “Yes, I have issues,” she responds, gazing at me, her mann
er forthright but her voice betraying her, all breathy and sexy.

  Leaning down, I run my nose along hers, relishing the contact. Her eyes close and she utters the softest of sighs.

  “So do I,” I murmur against her fragrant skin.

  Her eyes flutter open and I straighten up.

  “I think I’m familiar with your issues, Christian.” She raises a brow, and humor hovers behind her eyes.

  I narrow mine.

  Don’t make me laugh, Ana.

  I remember her saying that to me, not so long ago.

  She takes a step back. “Why did you fly back from New York?” she asks, her voice kitten-soft, belying the lioness I know.

  “You know why.”

  “Because I went out with Kate?”

  “Because you went back on your word, and you defied me, putting yourself at unnecessary risk.”

  “Went back on my word? Is that how you see it?”

  “Yes.”

  She looks heavenward, then stops when she notices my scowl, but I’m not sure a spanking would be a good idea right now. “Christian,” she says in the same soft voice, “I changed my mind. I’m a woman. We’re renowned for it. That’s what we do.” When I don’t respond, she continues, “If I had thought for one minute that you would cancel your business trip…” She stops, seemingly at a loss.

  “You changed your mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t think to call me?”

  How could you be so inconsiderate?

  “What’s more, you left the security detail short here and put Ryan at risk.”

  Her cheeks pink. “I should have called, but I didn’t want to worry you. If I had, I’m sure you would have forbidden me to go, and I’ve missed Kate. I wanted to see her. Besides, it kept me out of the way when Jack was here. Ryan shouldn’t have let him in.”

  But he did.

  And had you been here…

  Fuck. Enough, Grey.

  I reach for her, pulling her into my arms. “Oh, Ana,” I whisper, and hold her as close as I can. “If something were to happen to you—”

  He had a gun.

  He had a syringe.

  “It didn’t,” she whispers.

  “But it could have. I’ve died a thousand deaths today, thinking about what might have happened. I was so mad, Ana. Mad at you. Mad at myself. Mad at everyone. I can’t remember being this angry…except—”

  “Except?” she asks.

  “Once in your old apartment. When Leila was there.”

  Someone else with a fucking gun.

  “You were so cold this morning.” Her voice breaks into a sob on the last word.

  No. Ana. Don’t cry. I loosen my grip and tip her head up. “I don’t know how to deal with this anger,” I whisper.

  I used to have a way. But that’s lost to me now.

  Shit. Don’t go there, Grey.

  I gaze down into troubled blue eyes that draw the truth from me. “I don’t think I want to hurt you.” That’s why I was cold. I was raging. “This morning, I wanted to punish you, badly, and—”

  How do I explain that?

  I want to rage at the world, and you are my world.

  “You were worried you’d hurt me?” she asks.

  “I didn’t trust myself.”

  “Christian, I know you’d never hurt me. Not physically, anyway.” She clasps my face.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. I knew what you said was an empty, idle threat. I know you’re not going to beat the shit out of me.”

  “I wanted to.”

  “No, you didn’t. You just thought you did.”

  “I don’t know if that’s true.”

  “Think about it,” she says, embracing me and nuzzling my chest. “About how you felt when I left. You’ve told me often enough what that did to you. How it altered your view of the world, of me. I know what you’ve given up for me. Think about how you felt about the cuff marks on our honeymoon.”

  She has a point. Thinking back, I felt like an asshole, and I don’t want her to leave me again. She tightens her arms around me and gently rubs my back, and slowly, oh-so-slowly, my tension eases. She presses her cheek to my chest, and I can resist her no more. Leaning down, I kiss her hair, and she turns her face up, offering her mouth to me. I kiss her, my lips begging her to do as she’s told, begging her not to go, begging her to stay. She kisses me back.

  “You have such faith in me,” I murmur.

  “I do.”

  I stroke her face, staring into her beautiful eyes, seeing her compassion, her love, and her desire.

  What did I do to deserve her?

  She smiles. “Besides,” she whispers, an impish look on her face, “you don’t have the paperwork.”

  I laugh and clutch her to my chest. “You’re right. I don’t.” We hold each other, and a quiet peace settles between us; it’s the first time I’ve felt any tranquility since my trip to New York. Is this the end of hostilities?

  “Come to bed,” I whisper.

  “Christian, we need to talk.”

  “Later.”

  “Christian, please. Talk to me.”

  Damn. I sigh as my spirits sink. Perhaps we’re just in the eye of the storm. “About what?” Even to my own ears, I sound petulant.

  “You know. You keep me in the dark.”

  “I want to protect you.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “I am fully aware of that, Mrs. Grey.” I skim my hands over her body and fondle her backside, pressing my interested cock against her.

  “Christian!” she scolds. “Talk to me.”

  Ana is as persistent as ever. “What do you want to know?” Releasing her, I pick up her e-mail that’s fallen to the floor and take her hand.

  “Lots of things,” she says, as I lead her to the couch.

  “Sit.” She obeys, and I take a seat beside her. Putting my head in my hands, I steel myself for her onslaught of questions. Then I turn to face her. “Ask me.”

  “Why the additional security for your family?”

  “Hyde was a threat to them.”

  “How do you know?”

  “From his computer. It held personal details about me and the rest of my family. Especially Carrick.”

  “Carrick? Why him?”

  “I don’t know yet.” This feels like the Inquisition. I change tack. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “Christian, tell me!”

  “Tell you what?”

  “You are so exasperating,” she says, holding up her hands.

  “So are you.”

  She sighs. “You didn’t ramp up the security when you first found out there was information about your family on the computer. So what happened? Why now?”

  “I didn’t know he was going to attempt to burn down my building, or—” I stop. I don’t want to tell her about Charlie Tango. She’ll worry. I change tack again. “We thought it was an unwelcome obsession, but you know”—I shrug—“when you’re in the public eye, people are interested. It was random stuff: news reports on me from when I was at Harvard—my rowing, my career. Reports on Carrick—following his career, following my mom’s career—and, to some extent, Elliot and Mia.”

  She frowns. “You said ‘or.’”

  “Or what?”

  “You said ‘attempt to burn down my building, or…’ Like you were going to say something else.”

  She misses nothing.

  “Are you hungry?” I try distraction and, on cue, her stomach rumbles. “Did you eat today?” She flushes, and I have my answer. “As I thought. You know how I feel about you not eating. Come.” Standing, I hold out my hand, and my mood softens. “Let me feed you.”

  “Feed me?”

  I guide Ana over to the kitchen, and I
grab a barstool and drag it around to the other side of the island. “Sit.”

  “Where’s Mrs. Jones?” Ana perches on the stool.

  “I’ve given her and Taylor the night off.”

  “Why?” She looks incredulous.

  They deserve an evening off after last night. “Because I can.” Simple.

  “So you’re going to cook?” Now she sounds incredulous.

  “Oh, ye of little faith, Mrs. Grey. Close your eyes.”

  She looks at me askance, still unsure.

  “Close them!”

  With a withering look, she complies.

  “Hmm. Not good enough.” From my back pocket I pull out the scarf I bought earlier, and I’m pleased to see it’s a good match for her dress. She raises a brow. “Close. No peeking.”

  “You’re going to blindfold me?” Her voice is soft and high-pitched.

  “Yes.”

  “Christian—” She’s about to object, but I gently press a finger to her lips.

  “We’ll talk later. I want you to eat now. You said you were hungry.” I skim my lips over hers, then place the scarf over her eyes, tying it behind her head. “Can you see?”

  “No,” she grumbles, lifting her head in that way she does when she rolls her eyes. It makes me chuckle. She’s so predictable sometimes.

  “I can tell when you’re rolling your eyes, and you know how that makes me feel.”

  She huffs and purses her lips. “Can we just get this over and done with?”

  “Such impatience, Mrs. Grey. So eager to talk.”

  “Yes!”

  “I must feed you first.” I place a soft kiss on her temple. She has no idea how hot she looks perched primly on the stool, blindfolded and with her hair restrained in its bun. I’m almost tempted to grab my camera.

  But I must feed her.

  From the fridge I extract a bottle of Sancerre and the various serving dishes into which Gail has transferred the Greek deli food; the lamb is in a Pyrex bowl.

  Shit. How long do I cook this for?

  I pop it in the microwave and set it to heat for five minutes on full power. That should be enough. I place two pitas in the toaster.

  “Yes. I am eager to talk,” Ana says, and the way she’s tilting her head, it’s obvious she’s listening to what I’m doing. I grab the bottle of wine and a corkscrew as Ana shifts in her chair.