Fifty Shades of Grey

down at me, his eyes a soft cloudy gray.

“No, not at all.”

He smirks.

“Good. Let’s have a bath.”

He uncurls from around me, placing me on the floor as he makes to stand. As he does, I notice again the small, round, white scars on his chest. They are not chicken pox, I muse absentmindedly. Grace said he was hardly affected. Holy shit… they must be burns.

Burns from what? I blanch at the realization, shock and revulsion coursing through me.

From cigarettes? Mrs. Robinson, his birth mother, who? Who did this to him? Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation, and I’m over-reacting – wild hope blossoms in my chest

– hope that I am wrong.

“What is it?” Christian’s face is wide-eyed with alarm.

“Your scars,” I whisper. “They’re not from chicken pox.”

I watch as in a split second he closes down, his stance changing from relaxed, calm, and at ease, to defensive – angry, even. He frowns, his face darkening, and his mouth presses into a thin, hard line.

“No, they’re not,” he snaps, but he does not elaborate further. He stands, holds his hand out for me, and hauls me to my feet.

“Don’t look at me like that.” His voice is colder and scolding as he lets go of my hand.

I flush, chastened, and stare down at my fingers, and I know, I know that someone stubbed cigarettes out on Christian. I feel sick.

“Did she do that?” I whisper before I can stop myself.

He says nothing, so I’m forced to look at him. He’s glaring at me.

“She? Mrs. Robinson? She’s not an animal, Anastasia. Of course she didn’t. I don’t understand why you feel you have to demonize her.”

He’s standing there, naked, gloriously naked, with my blood on him… and we’re finally having this conversation. And I’m naked too – neither of us has anywhere to hide, except perhaps the bath. I take a deep breath, move past him, and step down into the water.

It is deliciously warm, soothing, and deep. I melt into the fragrant foam and stare up at him, hiding among the bubbles.

“I just wonder what you would be like if you hadn’t met her. If she hadn’t introduced you to your… um, lifestyle.”

He sighs and steps down into the bath opposite me, his jaw clenched with tension, his eyes frosty. As he gracefully submerges his body beneath the water, he’s careful not to touch me. Jeez – have I made him that mad?

He stares impassively at me, his face unreadable, saying nothing. Again the silence stretches between us, but I hold my counsel. It’s your turn Grey – I am not caving this time.

My subconscious is nervous, anxiously biting her nails – this could go either way. Christian and I stare at each other, but I am not backing down. Eventually, after what seems like a millennium, he shakes his head, and he smirks.

“I would probably have gone the way of my birth mother, had it not been for Mrs.

Robinson.”

Oh! I blink at him. Crack addict or whore? Possibly both?

“She loved me in a way I found… acceptable,” he adds with a shrug.

What the hell does that mean?

“Acceptable?” I whisper.

“Yes.” He stares intently at me. “She distracted me from the destructive path I found myself following. It’s very hard to grow up in a perfect family when you’re not perfect.”

Oh no. My mouth dries as I digest his words. He gazes as me, his expression unfathomable. He’s not going to tell me any more. How frustrating. Inside, I’m reeling – he sounds so full of self- loathing. And Mrs. Robinson loved him. Holy shit… does she still?

I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach.

“Does she still love you?”

“I don’t think so, not like that.” He frowns as if he hasn’t thought about the idea. “I keep telling you it was a long time ago. It’s in the past. I couldn’t change it even if I wanted to, which I don’t. She saved me from myself.” He’s exasperated and runs a wet hand through his hair. “I’ve never discussed this with anyone.” He pauses, “Except Dr.

Flynn, of course. And the only reason I’m talking about this now, to you, is because I want you to trust me.”

“I do trust you, but I do want to know you better, and whenever I try to talk to you, you distract me. There’s so much I want to know.”

“Oh for pity’s sake, Anastasia. What do you want to know? What do I have to do?” His eyes blaze, and though he doesn’t raise his voice, I know he’s trying to rein in his temper.