Fifty Shades Freed (Christian & Ana)(27)

"You asked me why I braid your hair," he murmurs. His tone alarms me. He looks . . . guilty.

"Yes." Oh, shit.

"The crack whore used to let me play with her hair, I think. I don't know if it's a memory or a dream."

Whoa! His birth mom.

He gazes at me, his expression unreadable. My heart leaps into my mouth.

What do I say when he says things like this?

"I like you playing with my hair." My voice is hesitant.

He regards me with uncertainty. "Do you?"

"Yes." It's the truth. I grasp his hand. "I think you loved your birth mother, Christian." His eyes widen and he stares at me impassively, saying nothing.

Holy shit. Have I gone too far? Say something, Fifty—please. But he remains resolutely mute, gazing at me with fathomless gray eyes while the silence stretches between us. He looks lost.

He glances down at my hand on his and he frowns.

"Say something," I whisper, because I cannot bear the silence any longer.

He shakes his head, exhaling deeply.

"Let's go." He releases my hand and stands. His expression guarded. Have I overstepped the mark? I have no idea. My heart sinks and I don't know whether to say anything else or just let it go. I decide on the latter and follow him dutifully out of the restaurant.

In the lovely narrow street, he takes my hand.

"Where do you want to go?"

He speaks! And he's not mad at me—thank heavens. I exhale, relieved, and shrug. "I am just glad you're still speaking to me."

"You know I don't like talking about all that shit. It's done. Finished," he says quietly .

No, Christian, it isn't. The thought saddens me, and for the first time I wonder if it will ever be finished. He'll always be Fifty Shades . . . my Fifty Shades.

Do I want him to change? No, not really—only insofar as I want him to feel loved. Peeking up at him, I take a moment to admire his captivating beauty . . .

and he's mine. And it's not just the allure of his fine, fine face and his body that has me spellbound. It's what's behind the perfection that draws me, that calls to me . . . his fragile, damaged soul.

He gives me that look, down his nose, half amused, half wary, wholly sexy then tucks me under his arm, and we make our way through the tourists toward the spot where Philippe/Gaston has parked the roomy Mercedes. I slip my hand back into the back pocket of Christian's shorts, grateful that he isn't mad. But, honestly, what four-year-old child doesn't love his mom, no matter how bad a mom she is? I sigh heavily and hug him closer. I know behind us the security team lurks, and I wonder idly if they've eaten.

Christian stops outside a small boutique selling fine jewelry and gazes in the window, then down at me. He grasps my free hand and runs his thumb across the faded red line of the handcuff mark, inspecting it.

"It's not sore." I reassure him. He twists so that my other hand is freed from his pocket. He clasps that hand, too, turning it gently over to examine my wrist.

The platinum Omega watch he gave me at breakfast on our first morning in London obscures the red line. The inscription still makes me swoon.

Anastasia

You are my More

My Love, My Life

Christian

In spite of everything, all his Fiftyness, my husband can be so romantic. I gaze down at the faint marks on my wrist. Then again, he can be savage sometimes.

Releasing my left hand, he tilts my chin up with his fingers and scrutinizes my expression, his eyes troubled.

"They don't hurt," I repeat. He pulls my hand to his lips and plants a soft apologetic kiss on the inside of my wrist.