Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian

Chapter 224

I pale, knowing that he’s trying to reassure me, but it’s not working. “Why is she still unconscious?” My

voice is a whisper.

“The doctors should be able to determine that when we arrive.”

Mia stirs, mumbling incoherently. She’s coming around. It’s obvious she’s been drugged. But at least

she’s calm. I grasp her hand and squeeze. “It’s okay, Mia. We’re here.”

She mumbles something, but still hasn’t opened her eyes, but she squeezes my hand in return and

relaxes back into what I hope is sleep.

My sister, my wife, my unborn child. I should have killed Hyde when I had the chance. Impotent rage

curdles in my stomach once more and I screw up my eyes, trying to dispel it. I want to weep. I want to

howl to release this pain, but I can’t.

Hell. I’m wrung out. The last words I exchanged with Ana…

“You’re leaving me?”

“No!”

“It’s for you. For your family. Please. Don’t.”

I told her I would always love her. At least I did that.

Please wake up, Ana.

Nagging me, deep down, is concern for the baby. Was Ana really ill, or did she make that up? This…

stress, fuck. It can’t be good for him.

Junior. Is he okay?

Finally, we reach the ER, and I’m immediately sidelined as the paramedics swing into action.

Mom and Dad are there, waiting. They rush to the gurney carrying my sleeping or unconscious sister.

Grace takes one look at Mia and tears spring to her eyes. She takes her hand. “I love you, baby,” she

wails, as the paramedics whisk Mia toward the double doors where Dad can’t follow. He stands aside

and watches as Mom follows them through into the ER triage.

A nurse and doctor take Ana’s gurney.

“Careful with my wife. She’s pregnant.” My voice is hoarse and hushed with worry. This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org - ©.

“We’ll take good care of her,” the attending says. I release Ana’s hand, and they wheel her through

after Mia.

Carrick joins me, ashen-faced, looking every inch his age.

We stare at each other. “Dad,” I whisper, my voice cracking.

“Oh, son.” Carrick opens his arms and for the first time in my life I step into them, and he holds me. I

swallow my welling emotion and grip his jacket, beyond grateful for his quiet strength, his reassuring

presence, his familiar scent, but most of all his love. “It’s going to be okay, son. They’re both going to

be okay.”

“They’re going to be okay,” I repeat like a mantra, while my throat burns with my suppressed anguish.

“They’re going to be okay.”

But he doesn’t know that for sure.

I just pray it’s true.

I pull back, suddenly conscious that we’re two grown men hugging at the entrance of the ER. Carrick

smiles and squeezes my shoulder. “Let’s go to the waiting room. You can tell me what’s happened, and

we can get you cleaned up.”

“Sure.” I nod and look down at my hands. Shit! They’re still stained with that cocksucker’s blood.

Ana is pale, except for the bruise on her cheek where the motherfucker must have hit her. Her eyes are

closed as if she’s merely asleep, but she’s still unconscious. She looks heartbreakingly young and

small. Numerous tubes wind into and out of her body. My heart clenches and twists in fear, but Dr.

Bartley is calm as she looks down at my broken wife.

“Her ribs are bruised, Mr. Grey, and she has a hairline fracture to her skull, but her vital signs are stable

and strong.”

“Why is she still unconscious?”

“Mrs. Grey has had a major contusion to her head. But her brain activity is normal, and she has no

cerebral swelling. She’ll wake when she’s ready. Just give her some time.”

“And the baby?” I whisper.

“The baby’s fine, Mr. Grey.”

“Oh, thank God.” Relief crashes through me like a cyclone.

Thank God.

“Mr. Grey. Do you have any further questions?”

“Can she hear me?”

Dr. Bartley’s smile is benign. “Who knows? If she can, I’m sure she’d love to hear your voice.”

I’m not so sure. She’ll be mad. I thought she was leaving me.

“My colleague Dr. Singh will look in on your wife later.”

“Thank you,” I mutter, and she leaves.

Pulling up a chair I sit down beside Ana. Tenderly I take her hand, glad to find it’s warm. I squeeze it

gently, hoping to rouse her. “Wake up, baby, please,” I whisper. “Be mad at me, but be awake, please.”

Leaning forward, I brush my lips against her knuckles. “I’m sorry. Sorry for everything. Please wake

up.”

Please. I love you.

I cup her hand in both of mine and press my forehead to my fingers and pray.

Please, God. Please. Bring my wife back to me.

Ana sleeps, her room shrouded in darkness, save for the pool of light from her bedside lamp and the

faint illumination from beneath the door. Using my jacket as a blanket, I doze in my chair, fighting sleep.

I want to be awake when she comes back to me.

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