Ros is continuing to talk, but I ignore her. The man looks familiar. He’s sporting the beach-bum look: long blond hair, tanned. Recognition and apprehension hit me at once.
It’s Ethan Kavanagh.
Shit. Who let Ana into the apartment?
“Ros, I have to go,” I bark into the phone as fear grips my chest.
Ana.
I fly out of the car. “Taylor, follow me,” I shout, and we rush toward Ethan Kavanagh, who’s about to put the key in the lock. He turns in alarm to see us barreling toward him.
“Kavanagh. I’m Christian Grey. Ana’s upstairs with someone who could be armed. Wait here.” There’s a spark of recognition in his expression, but wordlessly—confused I think—he relinquishes hold of the key. I’m through the door and running up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.
I burst into the apartment and there they are.
A face-off.
Ana and Leila.
And Leila’s holding a gun.
No. No. No. A fucking gun.
And Ana is here. Alone. Vulnerable. Panic and fury burst inside me.
I want to lunge at Leila. Take the gun. Bring her down. But I freeze and check Ana. Her eyes are wide with fright and something I can’t name. Compassion, maybe? But to my relief, she’s unharmed.
The sight of Leila is a shock. Not only does she have her fingers wrapped around a gun, but she’s lost so much weight. She’s filthy. Her clothes are in tatters and her clouded brown eyes are expressionless. A lump forms in my throat and I don’t know if it’s fear or empathy.
But my biggest concern is that she’s still holding a gun with Ana in the room.
Does she mean to harm her?
Does she mean to harm me?
Leila’s eyes are on me. Her stare intensifies, no longer lifeless. She’s drinking in every detail, as if she can’t believe I’m real. It’s unnerving. But I stand my ground and return her look.
Her eyelashes flutter as she collects herself. But her grip tightens around the gun.
Shit.
I wait. Ready to pounce. My heart thumping, the metallic taste of fear in my mouth.
What are you going to do, Leila?
What are you going to do with that gun?
She stills and lowers her head a fraction, but her eyes stay on me, gazing at me through her dark lashes.
I sense a movement behind me.
Taylor.
I hold up my hand, warning him to be still.
He’s agitated. Furious. I can feel it. But he doesn’t move.
My eyes never leave Leila.
She looks like a wraith; there are dark circles beneath her eyes, her skin is translucent like parchment, and her lips are chapped and flaking.
Christ, Leila, what have you done to yourself?
Time passes. Seconds. Minutes. And we stare at each other.
Slowly, the light in her eyes changes; the brightness increases, from dull brown to hazel. And I see a flash of the Leila I knew. There’s a spark of connection. A kindred spirit who enjoyed everything we shared. Our old bond, it’s there. I sense it between us.
She’s giving this to me.
Her breathing quickens and she licks her chapped lips, yet her tongue leaves no moisture.
But it’s enough.
Enough to tell me what she needs. What she wants.
She wants me.
Me at what I do best.
Her lips part, her chest rises and falls, and a trace of color appears in her cheeks.
Her eyes brighten, her pupils enlarging.
Yes. This is what she wants.
To cede control.
She wants a way out.
She’s had enough.
She’s weary. She’s mine.
“Kneel,” I whisper, for her ears only.
She drops to her knees like the natural submissive she is. Immediate. Unquestioning. Her head bowed. The gun falls from her hand and skids across the wooden floor with a clatter that breaks the silence around us.
Behind me I hear Taylor breathe a sigh of relief.
And it’s echoed in mine.
Oh, thank God.
Slowly I move toward her and pick up the gun, slipping it into my jacket pocket.
Now that she’s no longer an immediate threat, I need to get Ana out of the apartment and away from her. Deep down I know I will never forgive Leila for this. I know she’s unwell—broken, even. But to threaten Ana?
Unforgivable.
I stand over Leila, putting myself between her and Ana. Still not taking my eyes off Leila as she kneels with quiet grace on the floor.
“Anastasia, go with Taylor,” I say.
“Ethan?” she whispers, and there’s a tremor in her voice.
“Downstairs,” I inform her.
Taylor is waiting for Ana, who doesn’t move.
Please, Ana. Go.
“Anastasia,” I prompt.
Go.
She remains rooted to the floor.
I step beside Leila—and still Ana won’t move. “For the love of God, Anastasia, will you do as you’re told for once in your life and go!” Our eyes lock and I implore her to leave. I can’t do this with her here. I don’t know how stable Leila is; she needs help, and she might hurt Ana.
I try to convey this to Ana with my beseeching look.
But she’s ashen. She’s in shock.
Shit. She’s had a fright, Grey. She can’t move.
“Taylor. Take Miss Steele downstairs. Now.”
Taylor nods and makes a move to Ana.
“Why?” Ana whispers.
“Go. Back to the apartment. I need to be alone with Leila.”
Please. I need you out of harm’s way.
She looks from me to Leila.
Ana. Go. Please. I need to take care of this problem.
“Miss Steele. Ana.” Taylor holds his hand out to Anastasia.
“Taylor,” I urge. Without hesitation, he scoops Ana into his arms and leaves the apartment.
Thank fuck.
I let out a deep breath and caress Leila’s filthy, matted hair as the door to the apartment closes.
We are on our own.
I step back. “Get up.”
Awkwardly, Leila rises to her feet, but her eyes remain on the floor.
“Look at me,” I whisper.
Slowly, she lifts her head, and her pain is visible on her face. Tears spring to her eyes and start to trickle down her cheeks.
“Oh, Leila,” I whisper, and I embrace her.
Fuck.
The smell.
She stinks of poverty and neglect and homelessness.
And I’m back in a small, badly lit apartment above a cheap liquor store in Detroit.
She smells of him.
His boots.
His unwashed body.
His squalor.
Saliva pools in my mouth and I gag. Once. It’s hard to bear.
Hell.
But she doesn’t notice. I hold her as she weeps and weeps and weeps, snot-sobbing all over my jacket.
I hold her.
Trying not to retch.
Trying to banish the stench.
A stench so achingly familiar. And so unwelcome.
“Hush,” I whisper. “Hush.”
When she’s gasping for air and her body is racked with dry sobs, I release her. “You need a bath.”
Taking her hand, I lead her to Kate’s bedroom and the ensuite. It’s roomy like Ana said. There’s a shower, a bath, and a selection of expensive toiletries on display. I shut the door and I’m tempted to lock it; I don’t want her to run. But she stands, meek and quiet, as she shudders with each dry sob. “It’s okay,” I murmur. “I’m here.”