Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian

Chapter 239

But her face crumples in pain, and she gasps.

“Behave!” I growl, my tone harsher than I intend.

“Sorry.” She caresses my cheek and I take her hand and kiss her palm.

“Honestly, Ana, you really have no regard for your own safety.” I lift the hem of her T-shirt and rest my

fingertips on her belly.

A thrill of the unknown sharpens all my senses.

There is life. Here. Inside her.

What did she say? Flesh of my flesh.

Our child.

“It’s not just you anymore,” I whisper, and skate my fingers across her taut, warm skin. Ana tenses

beneath me, dragging air into her lungs. I know that sound. My eyes move to hers, and I lose myself in

their fathomless blue depths.

It’s Ana’s desire. I feel it, too.

Our special alchemy.

But it’s impossible. She’s hurt. Reluctantly, I lift my fingertips from her skin, tug down her T-shirt, then

tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, because I still need to touch her. But I can’t give her what we

both want. “No,” I breathe.

Ana’s face falls, her expression forlorn.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve seen the bruises. And the answer’s no.” I kiss her forehead and she

squirms beside me.

“Christian,” she moans, needling me.

“No. Get into bed.” I sit up to remove myself from temptation.

“Bed?” She looks crestfallen.

“You need rest.”

“I need you.” The whine has gone, leaving only a husky come-on in her voice.

Closing my eyes, I shake my head at her audacity and my desire.

She’s hurt. I open my eyes and glare at her. “Just do as you’re told, Ana.”

“Okay,” she mutters, with an exaggerated pout that immediately lifts my spirits and makes me want to

laugh.

“I’ll bring you some lunch.”

“You’re going to cook?” She blinks, incredulous.

“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.” She struggles to sit up but winces.

Damn it! Ana!

“Bed!” I point at the pillow, all carnal thoughts banished.

“Join me.” She makes one last-ditch attempt.

I don’t know what’s gotten into her.

Not you recently, Grey.

“Ana, get into bed. Now.” I scowl.

She answers with a scowl of her own, stands, and drops her sweatpants to the floor in a dramatic

gesture. In spite of her glower, she looks lovely. I hide my smile, and part of me is beyond pleased that

she still wants me, after all that’s transpired over the last few days.

She loves me.

I draw back the duvet. “You heard Dr. Singh. She said rest.”

Still pouting, Ana complies, sliding into bed and folding her arms, conveying her frustration. I want to

laugh, but I don’t think my mirth would be well received.

“Stay,” I order, and with the memory of her beautiful, sour face, I hurry into the kitchen to find the fabled

chicken stew Taylor mentioned this morning.

It’s good to see Ana wolfing down Mrs. Jones’s cooking. I sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed,

watching her as I devour my lunch. It’s delicious, and nourishing, too—perfect for Ana.

“That was very well heated.” She smacks her lips, looking replete and a little drowsy. I beam at her,

feeling pleased. I managed not to burn myself this time—so, yeah, it was!

“You look tired.” I place my bowl on her tray and, standing, take both from her.

“I am,” she admits.

“Good. Sleep.” I kiss her quickly. “I have some work I need to do. I’ll do it in here, if that’s okay with

you.”

She nods and closes her eyes, and seconds later she’s out.

Ros has sent me a preliminary report of her visit to Taiwan. She reassures me that while it was the right

decision for her to go, I’ll still need to travel there myself, and soon. It’s strange reading her quick

summary. It’s been days since I thought about my business, my company, the shipyard, or even the

world at large—I’ve lost track of time. My attention has been solely concentrated on my wife. I glance

over at her. She’s still fast asleep.

I read through my other e-mails, and there’s a detailed earnings projection on Geolumara, and a

remarkably upbeat e-mail from Hassan at GEH Fiber-Optics—morale there is up since my visit and

business is going well. My trip to see them was worth it.

Taylor’s gentle tap at the door disturbs my reading. “Welch is here, sir.”

I can barely hear him, he’s speaking so softly. I nod and, with another quick check on my sleeping

beauty, follow him out to the living room.

Welch is standing and admiring the view from the window. He’s grasping a large manilla envelope.

Showtime, Grey.

“Welch.”

He turns. “Mr. Grey.”

“Shall we head into my study?”

I listen to Ana’s breathing as I watch her, timing each of my breaths to hers. In. Out. In. Out. Focusing

on her means that I don’t have to focus on the photographs Welch has left with me.

Why didn’t Carrick and Grace tell me?

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