Fifty Shades Freed (15 page)

Trust Kate to be on the trail of this story. I roll my eyes and shut Skype down before Christian sees the chat. He wouldn’t appreciate the ex-Dom comment, and I’m not sure he’s entirely ex . . .

I sigh loudly. Kate knows everything, since our tipsy evening three weeks before the wedding when I finally succumbed to the Kavanagh inquisition. It was a relief to finally talk to someone.

I glance at my watch. It’s been about an hour since dinner, and I am missing my husband. I head back on deck to see if he’s finished his work.

I am in the Hall of Mirrors and Christian is standing beside me, smiling down at me with love and affection.
You look like an angel
. I beam back at him, but when I glance into the looking glass, I’m standing on my own and the room is gray and drab.
No!
My head whips back to his face, to find his smile is sad and wistful. He tucks my hair behind my ear. Then he turns wordlessly and walks away slowly, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the mirrors as he paces the enormous room to the ornate double doors at the end . . . a man on his own, a man with no reflection . . . and I wake, gasping for air, as panic seizes me.

“Hey,” he whispers from beside me in the darkness, his voice filled with concern.

Oh, he’s here. He’s safe.
Relief courses through me.

“Oh, Christian,” I mumble, trying to bring my pounding heartbeat under control. He wraps me in his arms, and it’s only then that I realize I have tears streaming down my face.

“Ana, what is it?” He strokes my cheek, wiping away my tears, and I can hear his anguish.

“Nothing. A silly nightmare.”

He kisses my forehead and my tearstained cheeks, comforting me. “Just a bad dream, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. I’ll keep you safe.”

Drinking in his scent, I curl around him, trying to ignore the loss and devastation I felt in my dream, and in that moment, I know that my deepest, darkest fear would be losing him.

I stir, instinctively reaching for Christian only to feel his absence. Shit! I wake instantly and look anxiously around the cabin. Christian is watching me from the small, upholstered armchair by the bed. Stooping down, he places something on the floor, then moves and stretches out on the bed beside me. He’s dressed in his cut-offs and a gray T-shirt.

“Hey, don’t panic. Everything’s fine,” he says, his voice gentle and soothing—like he’s talking to a cornered wild animal. Tenderly, he smooths the hair back from my face and I calm immediately. I see him trying and failing to hide his own concern.

“You’ve been so jumpy these last couple of days,” he murmurs, his eyes wide and serious.

“I’m okay, Christian.” I give him my brightest smile because I don’t want him to know how worried I am about the arson incident. The painful recollection of how I felt when Charlie Tango was sabotaged and Christian went missing—the hollow emptiness, the indescribable pain—keeps resurfacing; the memory nagging me and gnawing at my heart. Keeping the smile fixed on my face, I try to repress it.

“Were you watching me sleep?”

“Yes,” he says gazing at me steadily, studying me. “You were talking.”