Oh, baby.
You’re so done.
From the nightstand I grab the key and release her from each of the cuffs, rubbing her wrists and ankles as I do. I lay down beside her as she stretches out her legs, and wrap her in my arms. She sighs, a small, satisfied smile on her lips, and her breathing slows. She’s gone to sleep. I kiss her hair and cover us both.
Boy, that was intense for me, too.
Ana. What you do to me.
I wake fifteen minutes later from my doze. Ana is still in my arms, sleeping soundly. I kiss her forehead, untangle myself from her limbs, and get up to use the bathroom. She’s still out for the count when I return from my shower. I dress quickly, unlock the cabin door, and head up on deck to find the captain to discuss staying on board this evening.
She’s still asleep when I return. I put away the cuffs and grab my laptop to check through my e-mails, and also check on the brownfield sites in Detroit, just to make sure that I made the correct call with Ros earlier.
On deck and around the boat, the crew ready the Fair Lady. I hear the loud clanking of the anchor as it’s winched on board and the distant rumble of the engines as they’re fired up. We’re setting sail.
Dusk has been and gone and it’s dark outside when Ana stirs.
“Hi,” I murmur, eager to see her. I’ve missed you while you were sleeping.
“Hi.” Her voice is hesitant, and she pulls the cover up to her chin.
Has she gone all shy on me?
“How long have I been asleep?” she asks.
“Just an hour or so.”
“We’re moving?”
“I figured since we ate out last night, and went to the ballet and the casino, that we’d dine on board tonight. A quiet night à deux.”
She grins—relieved, I think, to be spending the evening on board. “Where are we going?”
“Cannes.”
“Okay.” She stretches out beside me, then gets up, grabs her robe, and slips it on.
Shit.
She has a few love-bites. It’s what I planned, but now, seeing the purple blotches on her skin, I’m not so sure it was a good idea.
This could go either way.
She ambles into the en suite bathroom and closes the door.
Hours. Minutes. Seconds. I don’t know how long she’s in there, but it takes forever. Eventually, she appears, but deliberately—it seems—she avoids eye contact with me as she darts into the closet.
This does not look good.
Maybe she’s just tired.
I wait. Again.
She’s in there for too long.
I can’t bear it. “Anastasia, are you okay?”
No answer.
Damn.
Suddenly, she bursts out of the closet, a blur of arms and hair, and hurls a hairbrush at me. Shit. I raise my arm in time to protect my head, and the hairbrush smacks me below my wrist. Ana storms out of the room and slams the cabin door.
Fuck.
She’s not impressed.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this mad. Not even over the vows, when she threatened to cancel the wedding.
Grey, what have you done?
My good humor evaporates, replaced by an anxiety I’ve not felt since before we got married. Warily, I get up, dump my laptop on the nightstand, and go in search of my furious wife.
She’s leaning on the rail at the bow, staring at the distant shore. It’s a beautiful evening and the Fair Lady, like the Queen of the Seas that she is, coasts effortlessly over the Mediterranean.
Ana looks desolate. It’s chastening.
“You’re mad at me,” I whisper.
“No shit, Sherlock!” she hisses, but she doesn’t turn to look at me.
“How mad?”
“Scale of one to ten, I think I’m at fifty. Apt, huh?”
Wow. “That mad.”
“Yes. Pushed-to-violence mad,” she seethes. Finally, she looks at me, her expression raw and angry…and I know she sees me. Sees me for who I am. You are one fucked-up son of a bitch. Her recrimination from months ago echoes in my head.
Hell. It’s been weeks since I’ve felt as shitty as this.
Flynn’s words float back to me: communicate and compromise.
Ana takes a deep breath and stands taller, squaring her shoulders. “Christian, you have to stop unilaterally trying to bring me to heel. You made your point on the beach. Very effectively, as I recall.”
“Well, you won’t take your top off again,” I grunt, and even to my own ears I sound like a petulant teen.
She glares at me. “I don’t like you leaving marks on me. Well, not this many, anyway. It’s a hard limit!” She spits at me like a cornered kitten.
“I don’t like you taking your clothes off in public. That’s a hard limit for me,” I counter.
I warned you, Ana.
“I think we’ve established that,” she continues in the same vein. “Look at me!” She tugs down her top, exposing the love-bites I’ve left on her. I count six. I didn’t know my plan would be quite so effective.
But I don’t want to fight.
I raise my hands, palms up in surrender. “Okay, I get it.”
Maybe I overreacted.
“Good!” she snaps.
I run my hand through my hair, feeling helpless.
I’m lost. What more can I do? “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.” I don’t want to fight. Ana. Please.
“You are such an adolescent sometimes.” Ana shakes her head, but she sounds more resigned than forthright. I take a step forward and tuck a loose tendril behind her ear.
“I know, I have a lot to learn.”
“We both do.” She sighs and slowly raises her hand and places it over my heart.
Ana.
I place my hand over hers and give her an apologetic smile. “I’ve just learned that you’ve got a good arm and a good aim, Mrs. Grey. I would never have figured that, but then I constantly underestimate you. You always surprise me.”
Her lips form a half smile and she arches a brow. “Target practice with Ray. I can throw and shoot straight, Mr. Grey, and you’d do well to remember that.”
“I will endeavor to do that or ensure that all potential projectile objects are nailed down and that you don’t have access to a gun.”