Fifty Shades Freed (Christian & Ana)(239)

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 unceremo-niously 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 could 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 f*cker," 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."