Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,147

going to be fine.

But I have to be sure.

Why the hell couldn’t she do what I needed her to do?

Just once.

Just now.

My temper simmers and I fire off a quick e-mail to her.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Angry. You’ve Not Seen Angry

Date: August 26 2011 00:42 EST

To: Anastasia Grey

Anastasia

Sawyer tells me that you are drinking cocktails in a bar when you said you wouldn’t.

Do you have any idea how mad I am at the moment?

I’ll see you tomorrow.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

Beighley announces that we will be taking off shortly. I buckle up as Taylor does the same. “You can take the bed, if you’d like to sleep,” I offer. “I think it will elude me.”

“I’m good, sir.”

Okay. I lay back and close my eyes, grateful that Beighley likes a nap and has slept all afternoon. She’s going to fly us home.

I sleep fitfully, my dreams a tangled mess of dominance and submission—standing over Ana with a cane in my hand. Elena standing with a cane over me.

It’s confusing and unsettling.

I try not to sleep.

To stay awake, I pace. Feeling like a caged animal, though that sense is exacerbated because the Gulfstream is not exactly designed for pacing.

Hell. I want to howl at the moon.

I want to be home.

I want to curl up with Ana.

The plane landing at Boeing Field wakes me from my restless sleep. Opening my eyes, which are gritty from lack of sleep and dry from the air-conditioning, I pick up my phone.

Taylor is awake. I wonder if he’s slept at all. “What’s the time?” I ask as Beighley brings the plane to a stop at the end of the runway.

“It’s ten after four.”

“That’s early. Will we be met?”

“I did e-mail Ryan. Let’s hope he got the message.” We both switch on our phones at the same time.

Shit. I have several messages. And judging by the irritating notifications coming from his phone, so does Taylor. There’s a text and missed call from Ana. I read her text first.

ANA

I’M STILL IN ONE PIECE.

I HAD A NICE TIME.

MISSING YOU—PLEASE DON’T BE MAD.

Too late, Ana.

At least she missed me.

She’s left a voice mail, which I listen to next. Her voice is breathy and anxious. “Hi. It’s me. Please don’t be mad. We’ve had an incident at the apartment. But it’s under control, so don’t worry. No one is hurt. Call me.”

What the fuck?

And my first thought is Leila has broken in again. Maybe it was her driving the Dodge. When I glance at Taylor, his face is ashen. “Hyde was caught in the apartment. Ryan took him down. He’s in police custody,” he says.

My world grinds to a screeching halt.

“Ana?” I whisper, as all the breath evaporates from my body.

“She’s fine.”

“Gail?”

“She’s fine, too.”

“What the hell?”

“Exactly.” Taylor looks as shaken as I feel. The plane taxies to a stop, and I call Ana immediately, but her phone goes straight to voice mail.

Shit.

Hyde. In the apartment? How? Why? What?

I’m trying to wrap my head around this, but exhaustion is clouding my thinking. Ana’s not answering; she must be asleep. I hope so. I’m relieved she’s okay, but I need to see her to make sure. Stephan has opened the aircraft door, and the early morning chill seeps into the main cabin and my bones. Shivering, I get up, and take my jacket from Taylor, who is first off the plane.

“Thanks, Beighley. Stephan,” I say, as I don my tux jacket to ward off the cool pre-dawn air.

“You’re welcome, sir,” she says.

“No. I mean it. Thank you. For the last-minute scramble of it all.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Get some rest.” I shake both their hands and follow Taylor out to where Sawyer is waiting with the Audi.

Sawyer gives us a debrief during the drive back to Escala. While Ana and Kate were carousing at the Zig Zag Café, Hyde, dressed in coveralls, arrived at Escala and buzzed the apartment service entrance. Ryan recognized him. Let him in. And took him down. This all happened just before Ana, Sawyer, and Prescott returned home. The police and paramedics came. Took Hyde away. They questioned everyone.

What the actual fuck!

“Was he armed?” Taylor asks.

“Yes,” Sawyer responds.

“Is Ryan okay?” I ask.

“Yes. But there was an altercation. One of the doors needs repair.”

“Altercation?” I don’t believe it!

“They fought.”

Fuck. “But Ryan’s okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Gail. She was there?” Taylor presses.

“In the panic room.”

Thank you, Ros Bailey! I glance at Taylor, who rubs his forehead, his eyes screwed shut.

Hell. Both of our women threatened by that evil motherfucker Hyde.

“Who called the police?” Taylor asks.

“I