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

Time stills, and it’s like she’s knocked all the air out of my lungs.

I’m in free-fall.

Why does she say shit like this?

She says she doesn’t want to hurt me.

And yet…

My eyes stay glued to hers, because in spite of what she’s just said, Ana’s my life raft, and I’m drowning in a wave of uncertainty that I don’t understand or know how to process.

I can’t do this.

I don’t want to think about the past.

It’s been. It’s done.

It’s too painful.

My gaze drifts to her hand in mine and to the red mark around her wrist. It’s a stark reminder of what I did to her yesterday.

I hurt her.

“Say something,” she whispers.

I need to get out of here. “Let’s go.”

In the street, feeling adrift and unsure of myself, I reach for her hand once more. “Where do you want to go?” I ask, but it’s more to distract myself from what’s hovering at the edge of my memory. Whatever it is, it’s dredging up these unwanted and unsettling…feelings.

She smiles. “I’m just glad you’re still speaking to me.”

Only just! You mentioned “love” and the crack whore in the same sentence.

“You know I don’t like talking about all that shit. It’s done. Finished.”

I’m expecting her to sulk or berate me, but as I watch a kaleidoscope of emotions cross her face, what settles in her gaze is love.

Her love.

For me.

I think.

All the wrongs right themselves, and my world spins on its proper axis once more. I fold my arm around her and she slips her hand into my back pocket, her palm against my ass. It’s a possessive gesture, and I live for it.

We walk down one of the cobbled streets, stalked by our security, when a fine jeweler’s store catches my eye. We pause outside, and I have a sudden urge to buy Ana a piece. Grasping her free hand, I rub my thumb along the red wheal left by the handcuff yesterday. “It’s not sore,” Ana says, correctly interpreting my look of concern. I shift so Ana has no choice but to take her other hand out of my pocket. Around that wrist, she’s wearing my wedding gift to her, which I purchased in the crazy rush to buy our rings from Astoria Fine Jewelry. It’s a white gold Omega De Ville with diamonds; I had it inscribed.

Anastasia

You Are My More

My Love, My Life

Christian

And that was never truer than now.

Yet beneath the strap lies a red mark.

That I gave her.

And all those hickeys, too.

Because I was pissed at her.

Damn. Releasing her, I gently grasp her chin and raise her eyes to mine. She stares back at me, as guileless as ever, and with the same look of love.

“They don’t hurt,” she whispers, and I take her hand again, and plant a soft kiss on her wrist.

I’m sorry, Ana.

“Come.” We head into the shop because there’s a Chanel bracelet that’s caught my eye in the window. Once inside, I waste no time and purchase it. I know if I ask Ana, she’ll politely refuse. It’s pretty—white gold with small diamonds—and it’ll look lovely on her.

“Here.” I fasten it around her wrist. It covers the red line. “There, that’s better,” I mutter.

“Better?” Her brow creases a little.

“You know why.”

“I don’t need this.” She rotates her wrist and the diamonds on the bracelet sparkle in the sunlight, throwing little rainbows around the store.

“I do,” I whisper.

It’s an apology. I just don’t know how to do this, Ana.

“No, Christian, you don’t. You’ve given me so much already. A magical honeymoon, London, Paris, the Côte d’Azur, and you. I’m a very lucky girl.”

“No, Anastasia, I’m a very lucky man.”

“Thank you.” She stretches up and puts her arms around my neck and kisses me, properly. In front of everyone.

Oh, baby.

I love you.

“Come. We should head back,” I murmur against her lips. She slips her hand into my back pocket again, and together we make our way back to the car.

The Mercedes cruises back to Cannes. Taylor is in the passenger seat up front and Ferreux is driving, but we’re hampered by the traffic. I stare out of the window, trying to figure out why I’m so agitated.

It can’t have just been my dream.

My argument with Ana, yesterday?

The fact that I’ve marked her?

I don’t understand why this feels so weird. I’ve marked women before. Not permanently. Fuck, no. Never! That’s not my scene. Two of my submissives hated it, so that was fine, and I didn’t do it. And, of course, I never marked Elena. That was impossible. She was married. And then there was Susannah. She loved that shit. Whenever she was marked, she liked me to photograph her.

Ana grips my hand, distracting me from my thoughts. She’s wearing a short skirt that exposes her legs. I look across at her and caress her knee. She has such lovely legs.