Fifty Shades Darker(152)

"You are everything I need.

"Just seeing you with her..." My voice trails off.

"Why do you do this to me? This is not about you, Ana. It's about her." He takes a sharp breath, running his hand through his hair again. "At the moment she's a very sick girl."

"But I felt it... what you had together."

"What? No." He reaches for me, and I step back instinctively. He drops his hand, blinking at me. He looks as though he's seized with panic.

"You're running?" he whispers as his eyes widen with fear.

I say nothing as I try to collect my scattered thoughts.

"You can't," he pleads.

"Christian... I - " I struggle to collect my thoughts. What am I trying to say? I need time, time to process this. Give me time.

"No. No!" he says.

"I..."

He looks wildly around the room. For inspiration? For divine intervention? I don't know.

"You can't go. Ana, I love you!"

"I love you, too, Christian, it's just - "

"No... no!" he says in desperation and puts both hands on his head.

"Christian..."

"No," he breathes, his eyes wide with panic, and suddenly he drops to his knees in front of me, head bowed, long-fingered hands spread out on his thighs. He takes a deep breath and doesn't move.

What? "Christian, what are you doing?"

He continues to stare down, not looking at me.

"Christian! What are you doing?" My voice is high-pitched. He doesn't move. "Christian, look at me!" I command in panic.

His head sweeps up without hesitation, and he regards me passively with his cool gray gaze - he's almost serene... expectant.

Holy Fuck... Christian. The submissive.

Christian on his knees at my feet, holding me with his steady gray gaze, is the most chilling and sobering sight I have ever seen - more so than Leila and her gun. The vague alcoholic fuzziness I'm suffering from evaporates in an instant and is replaced by a prickling scalp and a creeping sense of doom as the blood drains from my face.

I inhale sharply with shock. No. No, this is wrong, so wrong and so disturbing.

"Christian, please, don't do this. I don't want this."

He continues to regard me passively, not moving, saying nothing.

Oh f*ck. My poor Fifty. My heart squeezes and twists. What the hell have I done to him? Tears prick my eyes.

"Why are you doing this? Talk to me," I whisper.

He blinks once.

"What would you like me to say?" he says softly, blandly, and for a moment I'm relieved that he's talking, but not like this - no. No.

Tears begin to ooze down my cheeks, and suddenly it is too much to see him in the same prostrate position as the pathetic creature that was Leila. The image of a powerful man who's really still a little boy, who was horrifically abused and neglected, who feels unworthy of love from his perfect family and his much-less-than perfect girlfriend... my lost boy... it's heartbreaking.

Compassion, loss, and despair all swell in my heart, and I feel a choking sense of desperation. I am going to have to fight to bring him back, to bring back my Fifty.

The thought of me dominating anyone is appalling. The thought of dominating Christian is nauseating. It would make me like her - the woman who did this to him.

I shudder at that thought, fighting the bile in my throat. No way can I do that. No way do I want that.

As my thoughts clear, I can see only one way. Not taking my eyes off his, I sink to my knees in front of him.