Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,31

greens crisscrossed by roads and irrigation canals. Catching a thermal I rise above a ridge on the Beezley Hills. The sky is unencumbered, a dazzling, shimmering blue, and I’m at peace. The wind my companion. Constant. Rushing. The only sound. I am alone. Alone. Alone. I wing over again. My world turned upside down. And Ana is in front of the cockpit, her hands stretched out to the canopy, squealing with joy. And wonder. My heart is brimming. This is happiness. This is love. This is what it feels like. I bank, and suddenly I’m in a tailspin. Ana’s disappeared. I stamp my feet, but the rudder’s gone. I fight the control stick, but the ailerons don’t respond. I have no control. All I hear is the roar of the wind and someone screaming. We’re going down. Fuck. Spinning. Down. Down. Down. Shit. I’m going to hit the ground. No. No!

I wake with a start.

Fuck.

I’m wrapped around Ana, and she’s threading her fingers through my hair. Her scent is soothing and it’s filling the desperate emptiness that’s deep in my soul. “Good morning,” she says, and immediately I’m calmer. Back to earth.

“Good morning,” I whisper, confused. I normally wake before Ana.

“You were having a bad dream.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s just after seven-thirty.”

“Shit. I’m late.” I give her a brief, chaste kiss and bound out of bed.

“Christian,” she calls.

“I can’t stop. I’m late,” I mutter as I disappear into the bathroom, recalling her defiance from last night.

And I’m still pissed.

At my desk, I eye the model glider that Anastasia gave me when she left. It took me a whole day to make. Unease circles my gut; maybe it’s the echo of that dream or a reminder of the desolation I felt when she was gone. I touch the wing tip, holding the cool plastic between my thumb and forefinger; I never want to feel like that again.

Ever.

I shake off the feeling and take a sip of the espresso that Andrea has prepared, followed by a bite of fresh croissant. I glance at my iMac to see an e-mail has arrived from Ana.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Eat!

Date: July 6 2011 9:22

To: Christian Grey

My dearest husband-to-be

It is not like you to skip breakfast. I missed you.

I hope you’re not hungry. I know how disagreeable that is for you.

I hope your day is a good one.

Axxx

I’m comforted by the number of small x’s at the end of her message, but I glance at her portrait on my office wall, close the e-mail, and summon Andrea into my office to go through my schedule.

I’m still pissed.

After lunch, I’m in the elevator returning from an external meeting with Eamon Kavanagh when I check my BlackBerry. There’s another e-mail from Ana.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Are you okay?

Date: July 6 2011 14:27

To: Christian Grey

My dearest husband-to-be

It’s not like you not to reply.

The last time you didn’t reply—your helicopter went missing.

Let me know you’re okay.

Ana

Worried of SIP

Shit. A twinge of guilt flares in my stomach, especially as there is a distinct lack of kisses on her note.

For fuck’s sake.

I’m mad at you, Anastasia.

But I don’t want her to worry. I type out a brief reply.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Are you okay?

Date: July 6 2011 14:32

To: Anastasia Steele

I’m fine.

Busy.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

I press send and hope my response will alleviate her worries. Andrea eyes me warily when I exit the elevator into the outer office.

“Yes?” I snap.

“It’s nothing, Mr. Grey. I just wanted to know if you wanted any coffee?”

“Where’s Sarah?”

“She’s photocopying the reports you requested.”

“Good. And no thanks to coffee,” I add in a softer tone. Why am I being an asshole to my staff? “Get me Welch on the line.”

She nods and picks up the phone.

“Thanks,” I mumble, and head into my office. I slouch into my chair and stare despondently out of the window. The day is bright, unlike my mood.

My phone buzzes. “Grey.”

“I have Anastasia Steele on the line for you.”

Shit. Is she okay?

“Put her through.”

“Hi.” Her voice wavers, soft and breathy. She sounds uncertain and sad, and a chill grips my heart.

“What is it? Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

My relief turns to irritation. My worry is misplaced. “I’m fine, but busy.”

“Let’s talk when you get home.”

“Okay,” I reply, knowing that I’m being abrupt.

She doesn’t respond, but I hear her breathing on the other end of the line. She sounds, unsettled, and the chill I felt a moment earlier is replaced by a familiar homesickness.

What is it, Ana? What do you