Chapter Four
　　I’m restless. Christian has been holed up in the onboard study for over an
　　hour. I have tried reading, watching TV, sunbathing—fully dressed
　　sunbathing!—but I can’t relax and I can’t rid myself of this edgy feeling. After
　　changing into shorts and a T-shirt, I remove the ludicrously expensive bangle
　　and go to find Taylor.
　　“Mrs. Grey,” he says, startled from his Anthony Burgess novel. He’s sitting in
　　the small salon outside Christian’s study.
　　“I’d like to go shopping.”
　　“Yes ma’am.” He stands.
　　“I’d like to take the Jet Ski.”
　　His mouth drops open. “Erm.” He frowns, lost for words.
　　“I don’t want to bother Christian with this.”
　　He flushes. “Mrs. Grey . . . um . . . I don’t think Mr. Grey would be very
　　comfortable with that, and I’d like to keep my job.”
　　Oh, for heaven’s sake! I want to roll my eyes at him, but I narrow them
　　instead, sighing heavily and expressing, I think, the right amount of frustrated
　　indignation that I am not mistress of my own destiny. Then again, I don’t want
　　Christian mad at Taylor—or me, for that matter. Striding confidently past him,
　　I knock on the study door and enter. Christian is on his BlackBerry, leaning
　　against the mahogany desk. He gazes at me.
　　“Andrea, hold please,” he mutters down the phone, his expression serious.
　　He gazes at me, politely expectant. Shit. Why do I feel like I’ve entered the
　　principal’s office? This man had me in handcuffs yesterday. I refuse to be
　　intimidated by him, he’s my husband damn it. I square my shoulders and give
　　him a broad smile.
　　“I’m going shopping. I’ll take security with me.”
　　“Sure, take one of the twins and Taylor, too,” he says. And I know that
　　whatever’s happening is serious because he doesn’t question me further. I
　　stand staring at him, wondering if I can help.
　　“Anything else?” he asks. He wants me gone. Crap.
　　56 | P a g e
　　E L JAMES
　　“Can I get you anything?” I ask. He smiles his sweet shy smile.
　　“No, baby, I’m good,” he says. “The crew will look after me.”
　　“Okay.” I want to kiss him. Hell, I can—he’s my husband. Strolling purposefully
　　forward, I plant a kiss on his lips, surprising him.
　　“Andrea, I’ll call you back,” he mutters. He puts the BlackBerry down on the
　　desk behind him, pulls me into his embrace, and kisses me passionately. I
　　am breathless when he releases me. His eyes are dark and needy.
　　“You’re distracting me. I need to sort this, so I can get back to my
　　honeymoon.” He runs an index finger down my face and caresses my chin,
　　tilting my face up.
　　“Okay. I’m sorry.”
　　“Please don’t apologize, Mrs. Grey. I love your distractions.” He kisses the
　　corner of my mouth.
　　“Go spend some money.” He releases me.
　　“Will do.” I smirk at him as I exit his study. My subconscious shakes her head
　　and purses her lips. You didn’t tell him you were going on the Jet Ski, she
　　chastises me in her singsong voice. I ignore her . . . Harpy.
　　Taylor is patiently waiting.
　　“That’s all cleared with high command . . . can we go?” I smile, trying to keep
　　the sarcasm out of my voice. Taylor doesn’t hide his admiring smile.
　　“Mrs. Grey, after you.”
　　Taylor patiently talks me through the controls on the Jet Ski and how to ride it.
　　He has a calm, gentle authority about him; he’s a good teacher. We are in
　　the motor launch, bobbing and weaving on the calm waters of the harbor
　　beside the Fair Lady. Gaston looks on, his expression hidden by his shades,
　　and one of the Fair Lady’s crew is at the controls of the motor launch. Jeez—
　　three people with me, just because I want to go shopping. It’s ridiculous.
　　Zipping up my life jacket, I give Taylor a beaming grin. He holds out his hand
　　to assist me as I climb onto the Jet Ski.
　　“Fasten the strap of the ignition key around your wrist, Mrs. Grey. If you fall
　　off, the engine will cut out automatically,” he explains.
　　57 | P a g e
　　Fifty Shades Freed
　　“Okay.”
　　“Ready?’
　　I nod enthusiastically.
　　“Press the ignition when you’ve drifted about four feet away from the boat.
　　We’ll follow you.”
　　“Okay.”
　　He pushes the Jet Ski away from the launch, and it floats gently into the main
　　harbor. When he gives me the okay sign, I press the ignition button and the
　　engine roars into life.
　　“Okay, Mrs. Grey, easy does it!” Taylor shouts. I squeeze the accelerator.
　　The Jet Ski lurches forward then stalls. Crap! How does Christian make it
　　look so easy? I try again, and once again, I stall. Double crap!
　　“Just steady on the gas, Mrs. Grey,” Taylor calls.
　　“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mutter under my breath. I try once more, very gently
　　squeezing the lever, and the Jet Ski lurches forward—but this time it keeps
　　going. Yes! It goes some more. Ha ha! It still keeps going!
　　I want to shout and squeal in excitement, but I resist. I cruise gently away from
　　the yacht into the main harbor. Behind me, I hear the throaty roar of the motor
　　launch. When I squeeze the gas further, the Jet Ski leaps forward, skating
　　across the water. With the warm breeze in my hair and a fine sea spray on
　　either side of me, I feel free. This rocks! No wonder Christian never lets me
　　drive.
　　Rather than head for the shore and curtail the fun, I veer around to do a circuit
　　of the stately Fair Lady. Wow—this is so much fun. I ignore Taylor and the
　　crew behind me and speed around the yacht for a second time. As I
　　complete the circuit, I spot Christian on deck. I think he’s gaping at me,
　　though it’s difficult to tell. Bravely, I lift one hand from the handlebars and
　　wave enthusiastically at him. He looks like he’s made of stone, but finally he
　　raises his hand in the semblance of a stiff wave. I can’t work out his
　　expression, and something tells me I don’t want to, so I head to the marina,
　　speeding across the blue water of the Mediterranean that shimmers in the
　　late afternoon sun. At the dock, I wait and let Taylor pull up ahead of me. His
　　expression is bleak, and my heart sinks, though Gaston looks vaguely
　　amused. I wonder briefly if something has happened to chill GallicAmerican
　　relations, but deep down I suspect the problem is probably
　　58 | P a g e
　　E L JAMES
　　me. Gaston leaps out of the motorboat and ties it to the moorings while
　　Taylor directs me to come alongside. Very gently I ease the Jet Ski into
　　position beside the boat and line up beside him. His expression softens a
　　little.
　　“Just switch off the ignition, Mrs. Grey,” he says calmly, reaching for the
　　handlebars and holding out a hand to help me into the motorboat. I nimbly
　　climb aboard, impressed that I don’t fall in.
　　“Mrs. Grey,” Taylor blinks nervously, his cheeks pink once more.
　　“Mr. Grey is not entirely comfortable with you riding on the Jet Ski.”
　　He’s practically squirming with embarrassment, and I realize he’s had an
　　irate call from Christian. Oh my poor, pathologically overprotective
　　husband, what am I going to do with you?
　　I smile serenely at Taylor. “I see. Well, Taylor, Mr. Grey is not here, and if he’s
　　not entirely comfortable, I’m sure he’ll give me the courtesy of telling me
　　himself when I’m back on board.”
　　Taylor winces. “Very good, Mrs. Grey,” he says quietly, handing me my
　　purse.
　　As I climb out of the boat, I catch a glimpse of his reluctant smile, and it
　　makes me want to smile, too. I cannot believe how fond I am of Taylor, but I
　　really don’t appreciate being scolded by him—he’s not my father or my
　　husband.
　　Crap, Christian’s mad—and he has enough to worry about at the moment.
　　What was I thinking? As I stand on the dock waiting for Taylor to climb up, I
　　feel my BlackBerry vibrate in my purse and fish it out. Sadé’s “Your Love is
　　King” is my ring tone for Christian—only for Christian.
　　“Hi,” I murmur.
　　“Hi,” he says.
　　“I’ll come back on the boat. Don’t be mad.”
　　I hear his small gasp of surprise. “Um . . .”
　　“It was fun, though,” I whisper.
　　He sighs. “Well, far be it for me to curtail your fun, Mrs. Grey. Just be careful.
　　Please.”
　　Oh my! Permission to have fun! “I will. Anything you want from town?”
　　“Just you, back in one piece.”
　　“I’ll do my best to comply, Mr. Grey.”
　　59 | P a g e
　　Fifty Shades Freed
　　“I’m glad to hear it, Mrs. Grey.”
　　“We aim to please,” I respond with a giggle.
　　I hear his smile in his voice. “I have another call—laters, baby.”
　　“Laters, Christian.”
　　He hangs up. Jet Ski crisis averted, I think. The car is waiting, and Taylor
　　holds the door open for me. I wink at him as I climb in, and he shakes his
　　head in amusement.
　　In the car, I fire up the e-mail on my BlackBerry.
　　From: Anastasia Grey
　　Subject: Thank You
　　Date: August 17, 2011 16:55??
　　To: Christian Grey
　　For not being too grouchy.
　　Your loving wife
　　xxx
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Trying to Stay Calm
　　Date: August 17, 2011 16:59
　　To: Anastasia Grey
　　You’re welcome.
　　Come back in one piece.
　　This is not a request.
　　x
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO & Overprotective Husband, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　His response makes me smile. My control freak.
　　60 | P a g e
　　E L JAMES
　　Why did I want to come shopping? I hate shopping. But deep down I know
　　why, and I walk determinedly past Chanel, Gucci, Dior, and the other
　　designer boutiques and eventually find the antidote to what ails me in a
　　small, overstocked, touristy store. It’s a little silver ankle bracelet with small
　　hearts and little bells. It tinkles sweetly and it costs five euros. As soon as I’ve

　　bought it, I put it on. This is me—this is what I like. Immediately I feel more
　　comfortable. I don’t want to lose touch with the girl who likes this, ever. Deep
　　down I know that I’m not only overwhelmed by Christian himself but also by
　　his wealth. Will I ever get used to it?
　　Taylor and Gaston follow me dutifully through the late afternoon crowds, and I
　　soon forget they are there. I want to buy something for Christian, something
　　to take his mind off what’s happening in Seattle. But what do I buy for the
　　man who has everything? I pause in a small modern square surrounded by
　　stores and gaze at each one in turn. When I spy an electronics store, our visit
　　to the gallery earlier today and our visit to the Louvre come back to me. We
　　were looking at the Venus de Milo at the time . . . Christian’s words echo in
　　my head, “We can all appreciate the female form. We love to look whether
　　in marble or oils or satin or film.”
　　It gives me an idea, a daring idea. I just need help choosing the right one,
　　and there’s only one person who can help me. I wrestle my BlackBerry out of
　　my purse and call José.
　　“Who . . . ?” he mumbles sleepily.
　　“José, it’s Ana.”
　　“Ana? Do you have any idea what time it is?” he says grumpily. Holy crap— I
　　thought I had a better handle on the time zones.
　　“Sorry.”
　　“Where are you? You okay?” He sounds more alert now, concerned.
　　“I’m in Cannes in the South of France, and I’m fine.”
　　“South of France, huh? You in some fancy hotel?”
　　“Um . . . no. We’re staying on a boat.”
　　“A boat?”
　　“A big boat.” I clarify, sighing.
　　61 | P a g e
　　Fifty Shades Freed
　　“I see.” His tone chills. . . Shit, I should not have called him. I don’t need this
　　right now.
　　“José, I need your advice.”
　　“My advice?” He sounds stunned. “Sure,” he says, and this time he’s much
　　more friendly. I tell him my plan.
　　Two hours later, Taylor helps me out of the motor launch onto the steps up to
　　the deck. Gaston is helping the deckhand with the Jet Ski. Christian is
　　nowhere to be seen, and I scurry down to our cabin to wrap his present,
　　feeling a childish sense of delight.
　　“You were gone some time.” Christian startles me just as I am applying the
　　last piece of tape. I turn to find him standing in the doorway to the cabin,
　　watching me intently. Holy shit! Am I still in trouble over the Jet Ski? Or is it
　　the fire at his office?
　　“Everything in control at your office?” I ask tentatively.
　　“More or less,” he says, an annoyed frown flitting across his face.
　　“I did a little shopping,” I murmur, hoping to lighten his mood, and praying his
　　annoyance is not directed at me. He smiles warmly, and I know we’re okay.
　　“What did you buy?”
　　“This,” I put my foot up on the bed and show him my ankle chain.
　　“Very nice,” he says. He steps over to me and fondles the tiny bells so that
　　they jingle sweetly around my ankle. He frowns again at the mark left by the
　　cuffs and runs his fingers lightly along the line, sending tingles up my leg.
　　“And this.” I hold out the box, hoping to distract him.
　　“For me?” he asks in surprise. I nod shyly. He takes the box and shakes it
　　gently. He grins his boyish, dazzling smile and sits down beside me on the
　　bed. Leaning over, he grasps my chin and kisses me.
　　“Thank you,” he says with shy delight.
　　“You haven’t opened it yet.”
　　“I’ll love it, whatever it is.” He gazes down at me, his eyes glowing.
　　“I don’t get many presents.”
　　“It’s hard to buy you things. You have everything.”
　　“I have you.”
　　“You do.” I grin at him. Oh, you so do, Christian.
　　62 | P a g e
　　E L JAMES
　　He makes short work of the wrapping paper. “A Nikon?” He glances up at
　　me, puzzled.
　　“I know you have your compact digital camera but this is for . . . um . . .
　　portraits and the like. It comes with two lenses.”
　　He blinks at me, still not understanding.
　　“Today in the gallery you liked the Florence D’elle photographs. And I
　　remember what you said in the Louvre. And of course, there were those
　　other photographs.” I swallow, trying my best not to recall the images I found
　　in his closet.
　　He stops breathing, his eyes widening as realization dawns, and I continue
　　hurriedly before I lose my nerve.
　　“I thought you might, um . . . like to take pictures of . . . me.”
　　“Pictures. Of you?” He gapes at me ignoring the box on his lap. I nod,
　　desperately trying to gauge his reaction. Finally he gazes back down at the
　　box, his fingers tracing over the illustration of the camera on the front with
　　fascinated reverence.
　　What is he thinking? Oh, this is not the reaction I was expecting, and my
　　subconscious glares at me like I’m a dumb domesticated farm animal.
　　Christian never reacts the way I expect. He looks back up at me, his eyes
　　filled with what, pain? Shit . . . what now?
　　“Why do you think I want this?” he asks, bemused.
　　No, no, no! You said you’d love it . . .
　　“Don’t you?” I ask, refusing to acknowledge my subconscious who is
　　questioning why anyone would want erotic photographs of me. Christian
　　swallows and runs a hand through his hair, and he looks so lost, so confused.
　　He takes a deep breath.
　　“For me, photos like those have usually been an insurance policy, Ana. I
　　know I’ve objectified women for so long,” he says and pauses awkwardly.
　　What? Where the fuck is this going?
　　“And you think taking pictures of me is . . . um, objectifying me?
　　Oh.” All the air leaves my body, and the blood drains from my face. He
　　scrunches up his eyes. “I am so confused,” he whispers. When he opens his
　　eyes again, they are wide and wary, full of some raw emotion.
　　Shit. What has brought this on—Me? My questions earlier about his birth
　　mom? The fire at his office?
　　63 | P a g e
　　Fifty Shades Freed
　　“Why do you say that?” I whisper, panic rising in my throat. I thought he was
　　happy. I thought we were happy. I thought I made him happy. I don’t want to
　　confuse him. Do I? My mind starts racing. What’s brought about this sea
　　change? He hasn’t seen Flynn in nearly three weeks. Is that it? Is that the
　　reason he’s unraveling? Shit, should I call Flynn? And in a possibly unique
　　moment of extraordinary depth and clarity, it comes to me—the fire, Charlie
　　Tango, the Jet Ski . . . He’s scared, he’s scared for me, and seeing these
　　marks on my skin must bring that home. He’s been fussing about them all
　　day, confusing himself because he’s not used to feeling uncomfortable about
　　inflicting pain. The thought chills me.
　　He shrugs and once more his eyes move down to my wrist where the bangle
　　he bought me this afternoon used to be. Bingo!
　　“Christian, these don’t matter.” I hold up my wrist, revealing the fading welt.
　　“You gave me a safe word. Shit—yesterday was fun. I enjoyed it. Stop
　　brooding about it—I like rough sex, I’ve told you that before.” I flush scarlet as
　　I try to quash my rising panic. He gazes at me intently, and I have no idea
　　what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s measuring my words. I stumble on.
　　“Is this about the fire? Do you think it’s connected somehow to Charlie
　　Tango? Is this why you’re worried? Talk to me, Christian—
　　please.”
　　He stares at me, saying nothing and the silence expands between us again
　　like it did this afternoon. Holy fucking crap! He’s not going to talk to me, I
　　know.
　　“Don’t overthink this Christian,” I scold quietly, and the words echo, disturbing
　　a memory from the recent past—his words to me about his stupid contract. I
　　reach over, take the box from his lap, and open it. He watches me passively
　　as if I’m a fascinating alien creature. Knowing that the camera is prepped by
　　the overly helpful salesman in the store, and ready to go, I fish it out of the box
　　and remove the lens cap. I point the camera at him so his beautiful anxious
　　face fills the frame. I press the button and keep it pressed, and ten pictures of
　　Christian’s alarmed expression are captured digitally for posterity.
　　“I’ll objectify you then,” I murmur, pressing the shutter again. On the final still
　　his lips twitch almost imperceptibly. I press again, and this time he smiles . . .
　　a small smile, but a smile nevertheless. I hold
　　64 | P a g e
　　E L JAMES
　　down the button once more and see him physically relax in front of me and
　　pout—a full-on, posed, ridiculous, “blue steel” pout, and it makes me giggle.
　　Oh, thank heavens. Mr. Mercurial is back—and I’ve never been so pleased
　　to see him.
　　“I thought it was my present,” he mutters sulkily, but I think he’s teasing.
　　“Well, it was supposed to be fun, but it’s ended up as a symbol of women’s
　　oppression.” I snap away, taking more pictures of him, and watch the
　　amusement grow on his face in super close-up. Then his eyes darken, and
　　his expression changes to predatory.
　　“You want to be oppressed?” he murmurs silkily.
　　“Not oppressed. No,” I murmur back, snapping again.
　　“I could oppress you big time, Mrs. Grey,” he threatens, his voice husky.
　　“I know you can, Mr. Grey. And you do, frequently.”
　　He blinks at me as his face falls. Shit. I lower the camera and stare at him.
　　“What’s wrong, Christian?” My voice oozes frustration. Tell me!
　　He says nothing. Gah! He’s so infuriating. I lift the camera to my eye again.
　　“Tell me,” I insist.
　　“Nothing,” he says and abruptly disappears from the viewfinder. In one swift,
　　smooth move, he reaches over, sweeps the camera box onto the cabin floor,

　　and grabs me, pushing me down onto the bed. He sits astride me.
　　“Hey!” I exclaim and take more photographs of him, smiling down at me with
　　dark intent. He grabs the camera by the lens, and the photographer
　　becomes the subject as he points the Nikon at me and presses the shutter
　　down.
　　“So, you want me to take pictures of you, Mrs. Grey?” he says, amused. All I
　　can see of his face is his unruly hair and a broad grin on his sculptured
　　mouth. “Well, for a start, I think you should be laughing,” he says, and he
　　tickles me ruthlessly under my ribs, making me squeal and giggle and squirm
　　beneath him until I grasp his wrist in a vain attempt to make him stop. His
　　grin widens, and he renews his efforts while snapping pictures.
　　“No! Stop!” I scream.
　　65 | P a g e
　　Fifty Shades Freed
　　“Are you kidding?” he growls and puts the camera down beside us so that he
　　can torture me with both hands.
　　“Christian!” I splutter and gasp my laughing protest. He has never, ever
　　tickled me before. Fuck—stop! I thrash my head from side to side, trying to
　　wiggle out from under him, giggling and pushing both of his hands away, but
　　he’s unrelenting—grinning down at me, enjoying my torment.
　　“Christian, stop!” I plead and he stops suddenly. Grabbing both of my hands,
　　he holds them down on either side of my head while looming over me. I am
　　panting and breathless with laughter. His breathing mirrors mine, and he
　　gazes down at me with . . . what? My lungs stop functioning. Wonder? Love?
　　gazes down at me with . . . what? My lungs stop functioning. Wonder? Love?
　　Reverence? Holy cow. That look!
　　“You. Are. So. Beautiful,” he breathes.
　　I stare up at him, at his dear, dear pine face; bathed in the intensity of his
　　gaze, and it’s as if he’s seeing me for the first time. Leaning down, he closes
　　his eyes and kisses me, enraptured. His response is a wake-up call to my
　　libido . . . seeing him like this, undone, by me. Oh my. He releases my hands
　　and curls his fingers around my head and into my hair, holding me gently in
　　place, and my body rises and fills with my arousal, responding to his kiss.
　　And suddenly the nature of his kiss alters, no longer sweet, reverential and
　　admiring, but carnal, deep and devouring—his tongue invading my mouth,
　　taking not giving, his kiss possessing a desperate needy edge. As desire
　　courses through my blood, awakening every muscle and sinew in its wake, I
　　feel a frisson of alarm.
　　Oh Fifty, what’s wrong?
　　He inhales sharply and groans. “Oh, what you do to me,” he murmurs, lost
　　and raw. He moves suddenly, lying down on top of me, pressing me into the
　　mattress—one hand cupping my chin, the other skimming over my body, my
　　breast, my waist, my hip, and around my behind. He kisses me again,
　　pushing his leg between mine, raising my knee, and grinding against me, his
　　erection straining against our clothes and my sex. I gasp and moan against
　　his lips, losing myself to his fervent passion. I dismiss the distant alarm bells
　　in the back of my mind, knowing that he wants me, that he needs me, and
　　that when it comes to communicating with me, this is his favorite form of
　　self
　　66 | P a g e
　　E L JAMES
　　expression. I kiss him with renewed abandon, running my fingers through his
　　hair, fisting my hands, holding tight. He tastes so good and smells of
　　Christian, my Christian.
　　Abruptly, he stops, stands up, and pulls me off the bed so that I am standing
　　in front of him, dazed. He undoes the button on my shorts and kneels quickly,
　　yanking them and my panties down, and before I can breathe again, I am
　　back on the bed beneath him and he’s unbuttoning his fly. Holy cow, he’s not
　　taking off his clothes or my T-shirt. He holds my head and with no preamble
　　whatsoever he thrusts himself inside me, making me cry out—more in
　　surprise than anything else—
　　but I can still hear the hiss of his breath forced through his clenched teeth.
　　“Yessss,” he breathes close to my ear. He stills, then swivels his hips once,
　　pushing deeper, making me groan.
　　“I need you,” he growls, his voice low and husky. He runs his teeth along my
　　jaw, nipping and sucking, and then he’s kissing me again, hard. I wrap my
　　legs and arms around him, cradling and holding him hard against me,
　　determined to wipe out whatever’s worrying him, and he starts to move . . .
　　move like he’s trying to climb inside me. Over and over, frantic, primal,
　　desperate, and before I lose myself in the insane rhythm and pace he’s
　　setting, I briefly wonder once more what’s driving him, worrying him. But my
　　body takes over, obliterating the thought, climbing and building so I am
　　awash with sensation, meeting him thrust for thrust. Listening to his harsh
　　breathing, labored and fierce at my ear. Knowing that he’s lost in me. . . I
　　groan loudly, panting. It’s so erotic—his need, his need for me. I am reaching
　　. . . reaching . . . and he’s driving me higher, overwhelming me, taking me,
　　and I want this. I want this so much . . . for him and for me.
　　“Come with me,” he gasps, and he rears up over me so I have to break my
　　hold around him.
　　“Open your eyes,” he orders. “I need to see you.” His voice is urgent,
　　implacable. My eyes flicker open momentarily, and the sight of him above
　　me—his face taut with ardor, his eyes raw and glowing with need. His
　　passion and his love is my undoing, and on cue I come, throwing my head
　　back as my body pulses around him.
　　“Oh, Ana,” he cries and he joins my climax, driving into me, then stilling and
　　collapsing onto me. He rolls over so that I’m sprawled on
　　67 | P a g e
　　Fifty Shades Freed
　　top of him, and he’s still inside me. As I surface from my orgasm and my
　　body steadies and calms, I want to make some quip about being objectified
　　and oppressed, but hold my tongue, uncertain of his mood. I glance up from
　　Christian’s chest to examine his face. His eyes are closed and his arms are
　　wrapped around me, clinging tight. I kiss his chest through the thin fabric of
　　his linen shirt.
　　“Tell me, Christian, what’s wrong?” I ask softly and wait anxiously to see if
　　even now, sated by sex, he’ll tell me. I feel his arms tighten around me further,
　　but it’s his only response. He’s not going to talk. Inspiration hits me.
　　“I give you my solemn vow to be your faithful partner in sickness and in health,
　　to stand by your side in good times and in bad, to share your joy as well as
　　your sorrow,” I murmur.
　　He freezes. His only movement is to open wide his fathomless eyes and
　　gaze at me as I continue my wedding vows.
　　“I promise to love you unconditionally, to support you in your goals and
　　dreams, to honor and respect you, to laugh with you and cry with you, to
　　share my hopes and dreams with you, and bring you solace in times of
　　need.” I pause, willing him to talk to me. He watches me, his lips parted, but
　　says nothing.
　　“And to cherish you for as long as we both shall live.” I sigh.
　　“Oh, Ana,” he whispers and moves again, breaking our precious contact so
　　that we’re lying side by side. He strokes my face with the back of his
　　knuckles.
　　“I solemnly vow that I will safeguard and hold dear and deep in my heart our
　　union and you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse . “I promise to love you
　　faithfully, forsaking all others, through the good times and the bad, in
　　sickness or in health, regardless of where life takes us. I will protect you, trust
　　you, and respect you. I will share your joys and sorrows and comfort you in
　　times of need. I promise to cherish you and uphold your hopes and dreams
　　and keep you safe at my side. All that is mine is now yours. I give you my
　　hand, my heart, and my love from this moment on for as long as we both shall
　　live.”
　　Tears spring to my eyes. His face softens as he gazes at me.
　　“Don’t cry,” he murmurs, his thumb catching and dispatching a stray tear.
　　“Why won’t you talk to me? Please, Christian.”
　　68 | P a g e
　　E L JAMES
　　He closes his eyes as if in pain.
　　“I vowed I would bring you solace in times of need. Please don’t make me
　　break my vows.”
　　He sighs and opens his eyes, his expression bleak. “It’s arson,” he says
　　simply, and he looks suddenly so young and vulnerable. Oh fuck.
　　“And my biggest worry is that they are after me. And if they are after me—”
　　He stops, unable to continue.
　　“. . . They might get me,” I whisper. He blanches and I know that I have finally
　　uncovered the root of his anxiety. Reaching up, I caress his face.
　　“Thank you,” I murmur.
　　He frowns. “What for?”
　　“For telling me.”
　　He shakes his head and a ghost of a smile touches his lips. “You can be very
　　persuasive, Mrs. Grey.”
　　“And you can brood and internalize all your feelings and worry yourself to
　　death. You’ll probably die of a heart attack before you’re forty, and I want you
　　around far longer than that.”
　　“Mrs. Grey, you’ll be the death of me. The sight of you on the Jet Ski—I nearly
　　had a coronary.” He flops back on the bed and puts his hand over his eyes,
　　and I feel him shudder.
　　“Christian, it’s a Jet Ski. Even kids ride Jet Skis. Can you imagine what you’ll
　　be like when we visit your place in Aspen and I go skiing for the first time?”
　　He gasps and turns to face me, and I want to laugh at the horror on his face.
　　“Our place,” he says eventually.
　　I ignore him. “I’m a grown-up, Christian, and much tougher than I look. When
　　are you going to learn this?”
　　He shrugs and his mouth thins. I decide to change the subject.
　　“So, the fire. Do the police know about the arson?”
　　“Yes.” His expression is serious.
　　“Good.”
　　“Security is going to get tighter,” he says matter-of-factly.

　　69 | P a g e
　　Fifty Shades Freed
　　“I understand.” I glance down his body. He’s still wearing his shorts and his
　　shirt, and I still have my T-shirt on. Jeez—talk about wham, bam, thank you
　　ma’am. The thought makes me giggle.
　　“What?” Christian asks, bemused.
　　“You.”
　　“Me?”
　　“Yes. You. Still dressed.”
　　“Oh.” He glances down at himself, then back at me, and his face erupts into
　　an enormous smile.
　　“Well, you know how hard it is for me to keep my hands off you, Mrs. Grey—
　　especially when you’re giggling like a schoolgirl.”
　　Oh yes—the tickling. Gah! The tickling. I move quickly so that I’m straddling
　　him, but immediately understanding my evil intent, he grabs both of my
　　wrists.
　　“No,” he says and he means it.
　　I pout at him but decide that he’s not ready for this.
　　“Please don’t,” he whispers. “I couldn’t bear it. I was never tickled as a child.”
　　He pauses and I relax my hands so he doesn’t have to restrain me.
　　“I used to watch Carrick with Elliot and Mia, tickling them, and it looked like
　　such fun, but I . . . I . . .”
　　I place my index finger on his lips.
　　“Hush, I know,” I murmur and plant a soft kiss on his lips where my finger has
　　just been, then curl up on his chest. The familiar painful ache swells inside
　　me, and the profound sadness that I hold in my heart for Christian as a little
　　boy seizes me once more. I know I would do anything for this man because I
　　love him so.
　　He puts his arms around me and presses his nose into my hair, inhaling
　　deeply as he gently strokes my back. I don’t know how long we lie there, but
　　eventually I break the comfortable silence between us.
　　“What is the longest you’ve gone without seeing Dr. Flynn?”
　　“Two weeks. Why? Do you have an incorrigible urge to tickle me?”
　　“No.” I chuckle. “I think he helps you.”
　　Christian snorts. “He should; I pay him enough.” He pulls my hair gently,
　　turning my face to look up at him. I lift my head and he gazes at me.
　　“Are you concerned for my well-being, Mrs. Grey?” he asks softly.
　　70 | P a g
　　e
　　E L JAMES
　　“Every good wife is concerned for her beloved husband’s wellbeing, Mr.
　　Grey,” I admonish him teasingly.
　　“Beloved?” he whispers, and it’s a poignant question hanging between us.
　　“Very much beloved.” I scoot up to kiss him, and he smiles his shy smile.
　　“Do you want to go ashore to eat, Mrs. Grey?”
　　“I want to eat wherever you’re happiest.”
　　“Good.” He grins. “Aboard it is where I can keep you safe. Thank you for my
　　present.” He reaches over and grabs the camera, and holding it at arm’s
　　length, he snaps the two of us in our post tickling, postcoital, post
　　confessional embrace.
　　“The pleasure is all mine,” I smile and his eyes light up.
　　~o0o~
　　We wander through the opulent, gilt splendor of the eighteenth century
　　Palace of Versailles. Once a humble hunting lodge, it was transformed by the
　　Roi Soleil into a magnificent, lavish seat of power, but even before the
　　eighteenth century ended it saw the last of those absolute monarchs.
　　The most stunning room by far is the Hall of Mirrors. The early afternoon light
　　floods through windows to the west, lighting up the mirrors that line the east
　　wall and illuminating the gold leaf décor and the enormous crystal
　　chandeliers. It’s breathtaking.
　　“Interesting to see what becomes of a despotic megalomaniac who isolates
　　himself in such splendor,” I murmur to Christian as he stands at my side. He
　　gazes down and cocks his head to one side, regarding me with humor.
　　“Your point, Mrs. Grey?”
　　“Oh, merely an observation, Mr. Grey.” I wave my hand airily at the
　　surroundings. Smirking, he follows me to the center of the room where I stand
　　and gawk at the view—the spectacular gardens reflected in the looking glass
　　and the spectacular Christian Grey, my husband, reflected back at me, his
　　gaze bright and bold.
　　“I would build this for you,” he whispers. “Just to see the way the light
　　burnishes your hair, right here, right now.” He tucks a strand of
　　71 | P a g e
　　Fifty Shades Freed
　　hair behind my ear. “You look like an angel.” He kisses me just below my
　　earlobe, takes my hand in his, and murmurs, “We despots do that for the
　　women we love.”
　　I flush at his compliment, smiling shyly, and follow him through the vast room.
　　~o0o~
　　“What are you thinking about?” Christian asks softly, taking a sip of his afterdinner
　　coffee.
　　“Versailles.”
　　“Ostentatious, wasn’t it?” He grins. I glance around the more understated
　　grandeur of the Fair Lady’s dining room and purse my lips.
　　“This is hardly ostentatious,” Christian says, a tad defensively.
　　“I know. It’s lovely. The best honeymoon a girl could want.”
　　“Really?” he says, genuinely surprised. And he smiles his shy smile.
　　“Of course it is.”
　　“We’ve only got two more days. Is there anything you’d like to see?
　　Anything you’d like to do?”
　　“Just be with you,” I murmur. Rising from the table, he comes around and
　　kisses me on the forehead.
　　“Well, can you do without me for about an hour? I need to check my e-mails,
　　find out what’s happening at home.”
　　“Sure,” I say brightly, trying to hide my disappointment that I’ll be without him
　　for an hour. Is it freaky that I want to be with him all the time? My
　　subconscious presses her lips into a narrow, unattractive line and nods
　　vigorously.
　　“Thank you for the camera,” he murmurs and heads for the study.
　　Back in our cabin I decide to catch up on my correspondence and open my
　　laptop. There are e-mails from my mom and from Kate, giving me the latest
　　gossip from home and asking how the honeymoon is going. Well, great, until
　　someone decided to burn down GEH Inc. . . . As I finish my response to my
　　mom, an e-mail from Kate hits my inbox.
　　72 | P a g e
　　E L JAMES
　　From: Katherine L. Kavanagh
　　Date: August 17, 2011 11:45 PST
　　To: Anastasia Grey
　　Subject: OMG!!!!
　　Ana, just heard about the fire at Christian’s office. Do you think it’s arson?
　　K xox
　　Rose is online! I jump on to my newfound toy—Skype messaging—
　　and see that she’s available. I quickly type a message.
　　Ana: Hey are you there?
　　Kate: YES, Ana! How are you? How’s the honeymoon? Did you see
　　my e-mail? Does Christian know about the fire?
　　Ana: I’m good. Honeymoon’s great. Yes, I saw your e-mail. Yes,
　　Christian knows.
　　Kate: I thought he would. News is sketchy on what happened. And
　　Elliot won’t tell me anything. ??
　　Ana: Are you fishing for a story?
　　Kate: You know me too well.
　　Ana: Christian hasn’t told me much.
　　Kate: Elliot heard from Grace!
　　Oh no—I’m sure Christian doesn’t want this broadcast all over Seattle. I try
　　my patented distract-tenacious-Kavanagh technique. Ana: How are Elliot
　　and Ethan?
　　Kate: Ethan has been accepted into the psych course at Seattle for
　　his master’s degree. Elliot is adorable. Ana: Way to go, Ethan.
　　Kate: How’s our favorite ex-dom?
　　Ana: Kate!
　　Kate: What?
　　Ana: YOU KNOW WHAT!
　　Kate: K. Sorry
　　73 | P a g e
　　Fifty Shades Freed
　　Fifty Shades Freed
　　Ana: He’s fine. More than fine. ??
　　Kate: Well, as long as you’re happy, I’m happy.
　　Ana: I’m blissfully happy.
　　Kate: ?? I have to run. Can we talk later?
　　Ana: Not sure. See if I am online. Time zones suck!
　　Kate: They do. Love you, Ana.
　　Ana: Love you, too. Laters. x
　　Kate: Laters.
　　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.
　　~o0o~
　　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. Reaching up, 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 74 | P a g
　　e
　　E L JAMES
　　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.
　　75 | P a g e
　　Fifty Shades Freed