Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian (Fifty Shades 6)

“You smell of hard liquor.”

“Yes. Bour. Bon.” Oh shit—the room is a carousel again. To keep myself anchored to the bed, I rest my hands on Ana, and the spinning slows. Her nightgown is warm and soft, augmenting her body heat. “I like the feel of this fabric on you, Anastay-shia. You should always be in satin or silk.”

Of course. It’s not just her now. I jerk her closer. I want to talk to Junior. We need to set some ground rules. “And we have an invader in here. You’re going to keep me awake, aren’t you?”

Ana’s hands are in my hair. I raise my face up to her. My Madonna. Mother of my child. And in that moment, I tell her my darkest fear. “You’ll choose him over me.”

“Christian, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t be ridiculous—I am not choosing anyone over anyone. And he might be a she.”

“A she. Oh God.”

A girl?

A baby girl?

No. The room won’t stop spinning and I fall back on the bed…

Baby Mia, with her shock of dark hair and watchful dark eyes. Ana holds her. There’s a light breeze on my face. It’s cooling in the sunshine. We’re in the orchard. Ana’s face radiates with love as she smiles down at Mia, then aims sad eyes to me. She walks away, not turning back to look, as I stand watching her. She doesn’t look back. She continues and disappears into the garage at The Heathman. She doesn’t look back. Every sinew, every bone, every atom of my marrow is aching. No. I want to call out. But I can’t speak. I have no words. I’m curled on the floor. Bound. Gagged. Aching. Everywhere. The clip of red heeled stilettos echoes off the flagstones. So, you got drunk. Again. Elena’s wearing a strap-on and wielding a long, thin cane. No. No. This will be hard to take. I’m sorry. I didn’t say you could speak. Her tone is clipped. Formal. I brace myself. Digging deep. She trails the cane down my spine, and suddenly it disappears from my skin, offering me a brief respite before she strikes me across my back. I take a deep breath as I embrace its fiery bite across my skin. She pokes the tip of the cane at my skull. Pain radiates through my head. The door crashes open and his bulk fills the frame. Elena screams. And screams. And screams. The sound splitting my head in two. He’s here. And he hits me, a good left hook to my jaw, and my skull explodes with pain. Shit.

My eyes crack open, and light slices through my brain like a scalpel. I shut them immediately. Fuck. My head—my throbbing, aching head.

What the hell?

I’m lying on top of the bed, cold and stiff.

Dressed?

Why? I open my eyes again, slowly this time, allowing the daylight to creep in. I’m home.

What happened? I struggle to remember, but something, a misdeed maybe, is chafing on my conscience.

Grey. What did you do?

Slowly, my mind draws back the curtains on last night, revealing some of my transgressions.

Drinking.

A keg full.

I sit up, too quickly—my head swims and bile rises in my throat. I force it down while I rub my temples, racking what’s left of my brain to recall what happened. Vague images of the previous evening flash fuzzy and malformed through my mind. Red wine and bourbon?

What was I thinking?

The baby. Fuck.

I lift my head to check on Ana, but she’s not here, and it’s obvious she didn’t sleep in this bed last night.

Where is she?

I take stock of myself. No injuries, but I’m still in yesterday’s clothes, and I stink.

Hell. Did I drive Ana away?

What time is it? I glance at the clock and it’s 7:05 a.m. Shakily, I get to my feet, which are bare. I don’t remember removing my socks.

I rub my forehead.

Where is my wife? Unease yawns in my gut, accompanied by a burning sense of guilt.

Damn, what did I do?

My phone is on the nightstand; I pick it up and stagger to the bathroom. Ana’s not there. Nor is she in the spare room.

Mrs. Jones is in the kitchen. She gives me a cursory glance, then returns to her work. Ana is nowhere to be seen. “Good morning, Gail. Ana?”

“I haven’t seen her, sir.” Her tone is arctic. Mrs. Jones is pissed.

At me?

Why?

Ignoring her, I check the library. Nothing.

My unease blooms.

Studiously avoiding Gail’s frosty gaze, I head back through the living room to check my study and the TV room. Ana is not in there either.

Fuck.

In spite of feeling like shit, I hurry back through the living room, bolt upstairs, and check both of the guest rooms. No Ana.

She’s gone. She’s fucking gone. I dash downstairs, ignoring the stabbing at my temples, and burst into Taylor’s office. He looks up, surprised, I think.