Fifty Shades Freed: Book Three of the Fifty Shades Trilogy Read online

  “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.

  “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.”

  “And Kate?”

  “Kate was there?”

  “Briefly, yes. She’s mad at you, too.”

  I turn in his lap. “Stop with the everyone is mad at Ana crap, okay?”

  “Just telling you the truth,” Christian says, bemused by my outburst.

  “Yes, it was reckless, but you know, your sister was in danger.”

  His face falls. “Yes. She was.” Switching off the hairdryer, he puts it down on the bed beside him. He grasps my chin.

  “Thank you,” he says, surprising me. “But no more recklessness. Because next time, I will spank the living shit out of you.”

  I gasp.

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “I would.” He’s serious. Holy cow. Deadly serious. “I have your stepfather’s permission.” He smirks. He’s teasing me! Or is he? I launch myself at him, and he twists so that I fall onto the bed and into his arms. As I land, pain from my ribs shoots through me and I wince.

  Christian pales. “Behave!” he admonishes, and for a moment he’s angry.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, caressing his cheek.

  He nuzzles my hand and kisses it gently. “Honestly, Ana, you really have no regard for your own safety.” He tugs up the hem of my T-shirt then rests his fingers on my belly. I stop breathing. “It’s not just you anymore,” he whispers, trailing his fingertips along the waistband of my sweats, caressing my skin. Desire explodes unexpected, hot, and heavy in my blood. I gasp and Christian tenses, halting his fingers and gazing down at me. He moves his hand up and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

  “No,” he whispers.

  What?

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve seen the bruises. And the answer’s no.” His voice is firm, and he kisses my forehead.

  I squirm. “Christian,” I whine.

  “No. Get into bed.” He sits up.

  “Bed?”

  “You need rest.”

  “I need you.”

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head as if it’s a great effort of will. When he opens them again, his eyes are bright with his resolve. “Just do as you’re told, Ana.”

  I’m tempted to take off all my clothes, but then I remember the bruises and know I won’t win that way.

  Reluctantly, I nod. “Okay.” I deliberately give him an exaggerated pout.

  He grins, amused. “I’ll bring you some lunch.”

  “You’re going to cook?” I nearly expire.

  He has the grace to laugh. “I’m going to heat something up. Mrs. Jones has been busy.”

  “Christian, I’ll do it. I’m fine. Jeez, I want sex—I can certainly cook.” I sit up awkwardly, trying to hide my flinch from my smarting ribs.

  “Bed!” Christian’s eyes flash, and he points to the pillow.

  “Join me,” I murmur, wishing I were wearing something a little more alluring than sweatpants and a T-shirt.

  “Ana, get into bed. Now.”I scowl, stand up, and let my pants drop unceremoniously to the floor, glaring at him the whole time. His mouth twitches with humor as he pulls the duvet back.

  “You heard Dr. Singh. She said rest.” His voice is gentler. I slip into bed and fold my arms in frustration. “Stay,” he says clearly enjoying himself.

  My scowl deepens.

  Mrs. Jones’s chicken stew is, without doubt, one of my favorite dishes. Christian eats with me, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed.

  “That was very well heated.” I smirk and he grins. I’m replete and sleepy. Was this his plan?

  “You look tired.” He picks up my tray.

  “I am.”

  “Good. Sleep.” He kisses me. “I have some work I need to do. I’ll do it in here if that’s okay with you.”

  I nod . . . fighting a losing battle with my eyelids. I had no idea chicken stew co
uld be so exhausting.

  It’s dusk when I wake. Pale pink light floods the room. Christian is sitting in the armchair, watching me, gray eyes luminous in the ambient light. He’s clutching some papers. His face is ashen.

  Holy cow! “What’s wrong?” I ask immediately, sitting up and ignoring my protesting ribs.

  “Welch has just left.”

  Oh shit. “And?”

  “I lived with the fucker,” he whispers.

  “Lived? With Jack?”

  He nods, eyes wide.

  “You’re related?”

  “No. Good God, no.”

  I shuffle over and pull the duvet back, inviting him into bed beside me, and to my surprise he doesn’t hesitate. He kicks off his shoes and slides in alongside me. Wrapping one arm around me, he curls up, resting his head in my lap. I’m stunned. What’s this?

  “I don’t understand,” I murmur, running my fingers through his hair and gazing down at him. Christian closes his eyes and furrows his brow as if he’s straining to remember.

  “After I was found with the crack whore, before I went to live with Carrick and Grace, I was in the care of Michigan State. I lived in a foster home. But I can’t remember anything about that time.”

  My mind reels. A foster home? This is news to both of us.

  “For how long?” I whisper.

  “Two months or so. I have no recollection.”

  “Have you spoken to your mom and dad about it?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps you should. Maybe they could fill in the blanks.”

  He hugs me tightly. “Here.” He hands me the papers, which turn out to be two photographs. I reach over and switch on the bedside light so I can examine them in detail. The first photo is of a shabby house with a yellow front door and a large gabled window in the roof. It has a porch and a small front yard. It’s an unremarkable house.

  The second photo is of a family—at first glance, an ordinary blue-collar family—a man and his wife, I think, and their children. The adults are both dressed in dowdy, overwashed blue T-shirts. They must be in their forties. The woman has scraped-back blond hair, and the man a severe buzz-cut, but they are both smiling warmly at the camera. The man has his hand draped over the shoulders of a sullen teenage girl. I gaze at each of the children: two boys—identical twins, about twelve—both with sandy blond hair, grinning broadly at the camera; there’s another boy, who’s smaller, with reddish blond hair, scowling; and hiding behind him, a copper-haired gray-eyed little boy. Wide-eyed and scared, dressed in mismatched clothes, and clutching a child’s dirty blanket.

  Fuck. “This is you,” I whisper, my heart lurching into my throat. I know Christian was four when his mother died. But this child looks much younger. He must have been severely malnourished. I stifle a sob as tears spring to my eyes. Oh, my sweet Fifty.

  Christian nods. “That’s me.”

  “Welch brought these photos?”

  “Yes. I don’t remember any of this.” His voice is flat and lifeless.

  “Remember being with foster parents? Why should you? Christian, it was a long time ago. Is this what’s worrying you?”

  “I remember other things, from before and after. When I met my mom and dad. But this . . . It’s like there’s a huge chasm.”

  My heart twists and understanding dawns. My darling control freak likes everything in its place, and now he’s learned he’s missing part of the jigsaw.

  “Is Jack in this picture?”

  “Yes, he’s the older kid.” Christian’s eyes are still screwed shut, and he’s clinging to me as if I’m a life raft. I run my fingers through his hair while I gaze at the older boy who is glaring, defiant and arrogant, at the camera. I can see it’s Jack. But he’s just a kid, a sad eight- or nine-year-old, hiding his fear behind his hostility. A thought occurs to me.

  “When Jack called to tell me he had Mia, he said if things had been different, it could have been him.”

  Christian closes his eyes and shudders. “That fucker!”

  “You think he did all this because the Greys adopted you instead of him?”

  “Who knows?” Christian’s tone is bitter. “I don’t give a fuck about him.”

  “Perhaps he knew we were seeing each other when I went for that job interview. Perhaps he planned to seduce me all along.” Bile rises in my throat.

  “I don’t think so,” Christian mutters, his eyes now open. “The searches he did on my family didn’t start until a week or so after you began your job at SIP. Barney knows the exact dates. And, Ana, he fucked all his assistants and taped them.” Christian closes his eyes and tightens his grip on me once more.

  Suppressing the tremor that runs through me, I try to recall my various conversations with Jack when I first started at SIP. I knew deep down he was bad news, yet I ignored all my instincts. Christian’s right—I have no regard for my own safety. I remember the fight we had about me going to New York with Jack. Jeez—I could have ended up on some sordid sex tape. The thought is nauseating. And in that moment I recall the photographs Christian kept of his submissives.

  Oh shit. “We’re cut from the same cloth.” No, Christian, you’re not, you’re nothing like him. He’s still curled around me like a small boy.

  “Christian, I think you should talk to your mom and dad.” I am reluctant to move him, so I shift and slide back into the bed until we are eye to eye.

  A bewildered gray gaze meets mine, reminding me of the child in the photograph.

  “Let me call them,” I whisper. He shakes his head. “Please.” I beg. Christian stares at me, pain and self-doubt reflected in his eyes as he considers my request. Oh, Christian, please!

  “I’ll call them,” he whispers.

  “Good. We can go and see them together, or you can go. Whichever you prefer.”

  “No. They can come here.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want you going anywhere.”

  “Christian, I’m up for a car journey.”

  “No.” His voice is firm, but he gives me an ironic smile. “Anyway, it’s Saturday night, they’re probably at some function.”

  “Call them. This news has obviously upset you. They might be able to shed some light.” I glance at the radio alarm. It’s almost seven in the evening. He regards me impassively for a moment.

  “Okay,” he says as if I’ve issued him with a challenge. Sitting up, he picks up the bedside phone.

  I wrap my arm around him and rest my head on his chest as he makes the call.

  “Dad?” I register his surprise that Carrick has answered the phone. “Ana’s good. We’re home. Welch has just left. He found out the connection . . . the foster home in Detroit . . . I don’t remember any of that.” Christian’s voice is almost inaudible as he mutters the last sentence. My heart constricts once more. I hug him, and he squeezes my shoulder.

  “Yeah . . . You will? . . . Great.” He hangs up. “They’re on their way.” He sounds surprised, and I realize that he’s probably never asked them for help.

  “Good. I should get dressed.”

  Christian’s arm tightens around me. “Don’t go.”

  “Okay.” I snuggle into his side again, stunned by the fact that he’s just told me a great deal about himself—entirely voluntarily.

  As we stand at the threshold to the great room, Grace wraps me gently in her arms.

  “Ana, Ana, darling Ana,” she whispers. “Saving two of my children. How can I ever thank you?”

  I blush, touched and embarrassed in equal measure by her words. Carrick hugs me, too, kissing my forehead.

  Then Mia grabs me, squashing my ribs. I wince and gasp, but she doesn’t notice. “Thank you for saving me from those assholes.”

  Christian scowls at her. “Mia! Careful! She’s in pain.”

  “Oh! Sorry.”

  “I’m good,” I mutter, relieved when she releases me.

  She looks fine. Impeccably dressed in tight black jeans and a pale pink frilly blouse. I’m gl
ad I’m wearing my comfortable wrap dress and flats. At least I look reasonably presentable.

  Racing over to Christian, Mia curls her arm around his waist.

  Wordlessly, he hands Grace the photo. She gasps, her hand flying to her mouth to contain her emotion as she instantly recognizes Christian. Carrick wraps his arm around her shoulder as he, too, examines it.

  “Oh, darling.” Grace caresses Christian’s cheek.

  Taylor appears. “Mr. Grey? Miss Kavanagh, her brother, and your brother are coming up, sir.”

  Christian frowns. “Thank you, Taylor,” he mutters, bemused.

  “I called Elliot and told him we were coming over.” Mia grins. “It’s a welcome-home party.”

  I sneak a sympathetic glance at my poor husband as both Grace and Carrick glare at Mia in exasperation.

  “We’d better get some food together,” I declare. “Mia, will you give me a hand?”

  “Oh, I’d love to.”

  I usher her toward the kitchen area as Christian leads his parents into his study.

  Kate is apoplectic with righteous indignation that’s aimed at me, Christian, but most of all Jack and Elizabeth.

  “What were you thinking, Ana?” she shouts as she confronts me in the kitchen, causing all eyes in the room to turn and stare.

  “Kate, please. I’ve had the same lecture from everyone!” I snap back. She glares at me, and for one minute I think I’m going to be subjected to a Katherine Kavanagh how-not-to-succumb-to-kidnappers lecture, but instead she folds me in her arms.

  “Jeez—sometimes you don’t have the brains you were born with, Steele,” she whispers. As she kisses my cheek, there are tears in her eyes. Kate! “I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “Don’t cry. You’ll set me off.”

  She stands back and wipes her eyes, embarrassed, then takes a deep breath and composes herself. “On a more positive note, we’ve set a date for our wedding. We thought next May? And of course I want you to be my matron of honor.”

  “Oh . . . Kate . . . Wow. Congratulations!” Crap—Little Blip . . . Junior!