Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,6

night still rankles—his disapproval a burr chafing at my skin. Deep down, I’m worried that he’s right; maybe I’m not husband material.

Damn, I’m going to prove him wrong.

I’m not the adolescent he thinks I am.

I stare at the road ahead, deflated. My girl is beside me, we have a date for our wedding, and I should feel on top of the world, but I’m picking over the remains of my father’s angry tirade about Elena and the prenup. On the plus side, I think he knows he fucked up. He tried to make it up to me when we parted earlier but his fumbling, inadequate attempt to make amends still smarts.

Christian, I’ve always done everything in my power to protect you. And I failed. I should have been there for you.

But I didn’t want to hear him. He should have said this last night. He did not.

I shake my head. I want out of this funk.

“Hey, I have an idea.” I reach over and squeeze Ana’s knee.

Perhaps my luck is turning—there’s a parking space outside St. James Cathedral. Ana peers through the trees at the majestic building that dominates a whole block on Ninth Avenue, then turns to me, a question in her eyes.

“Church,” I offer, by way of explanation.

“This is big for a church, Christian.”

“True.”

She smiles. “It’s perfect.”

Hand in hand, we head through one of the front doors into the antechamber, then proceed onward into the nave. Out of instinct I reach toward the stoup for Holy Water to bless myself, but I stop just in time, knowing that if a bolt of lightning is going to strike, it will be now. I catch Ana’s openmouthed surprise, but look away to admire the impressive ceiling as I wait for God’s judgment.

No. No thunderbolt today.

“Old habits,” I mutter, feeling a little embarrassed, but relieved that I’ve not been rendered into a pile of ashes on the grand threshold. Ana turns her attention to the magnificent interior: the lofty ornate ceilings, the rust-colored marble columns, the intricate stained glass. Sunlight streams in a steady beam through the oculus in the transept’s dome, as if God were smiling down on the place. There’s a whispered hush that fills the nave, enveloping us in a spiritual calm that’s disturbed only by the occasional echoing cough from one of the few visitors. It’s quiet, a refuge from the hustle and bustle of Seattle. I’d forgotten just how tranquil and beautiful it is in here, but then I’ve not been inside for years. I’d always loved the pomp and ceremony of a Catholic Mass. The ritual. The responses. The smell of burning incense. Grace made sure her three children were well versed in all things Catholic, and there was a time when I would have done anything to please my new mother.

But puberty arrived and all that went to shit. My relationship with God never recovered, and it changed the relationship with my family, especially my father. We were always at odds with each other from the time I hit thirteen. I brush off the memory. It’s painful.

Now standing in the hushed splendor of the nave, I’m overwhelmed by a familiar sense of peace. “Come. I want to show you something.” We walk down the side aisle, the sound of Ana’s heels ringing over the flagstones, until we reach a small chapel. Its golden walls and dark floor are the perfect setting for the exquisite statue of Our Lady, surrounded by flickering candles.

Ana gasps when she sees her.

Without a doubt this is still one of the most beautiful shrines I’ve ever seen. The Virgin, eyes cast down at the floor in modesty, holds her child aloft. Her gold-and-blue robes shimmer in the light from the burning candles.

It’s stunning.

“My mother used to bring us here sometimes for Mass. This was my favorite place. The Shrine of the Blessed Virgin Mary,” I whisper.

Ana stands and soaks up the scene, the statue, the walls, the dark ceiling covered in gold stars. “Is this what inspired your collection? Your Madonnas?” she asks, and there’s wonder in her voice.

“Yes.”

“Motherhood,” she murmurs, and she peeks up at me.

I shrug. “I’ve seen it done well and done badly.”

“Your birth mom?” she asks.

I nod, and her eyes grow impossibly large, revealing some deep emotion that I don’t want to acknowledge.

I look away. It’s too raw.

I place a fifty-dollar bill in the offertory box and hand her a candle. Ana clasps my hand briefly in gratitude, then lights the wick from one of the