Fifty Shades Darker (book 5) novel Chapter 7

I should never have chased her.

The waiter arrives with the wine as we stare with incredulity at each other.

Maybe I should have done a better job of explaining it to her.

Damn it, Grey. Eliminate the negative.

Yes. It’s irrelevant now. I’m going to try a relationship her way, if she’ll let me.

The irritating prick takes too much time opening the bottle. Jesus. Is he trying to entertain us? Or is it just Ana he wants to impress? He finally pops the cork and pours a taste for me. I take a quick sip. It needs to breathe, but it’s passable.

“That’s fine.” Now go. Please. He fills our glasses and leaves.

Ana and I haven’t taken our eyes off each other. Each trying to discern what the other is thinking. She’s the first to look away, and she takes a sip of wine, closing her eyes as if seeking inspiration. When she opens them, I see her despair. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Sorry for what?” Hell. Is she done with me? Is there no hope?

“Not using the safe word,” she says.

Oh, thank God. I thought it was over.

“We might have avoided all this suffering,” I mutter in response, and also in an attempt to hide my relief.

“You look fine.” There’s a tremor in her voice.

“Appearances can be deceptive. I’m not fine. I feel like the sun has set and not risen for five days, Ana. I’m in perpetual night here.”

Her gasp is just audible.

How did she think I’d feel? She left me when I’d almost begged her to stay. “You said you’d never leave, yet the going gets tough and you’re out the door.”

“When did I say I’d never leave?”

“In your sleep.” Before we went soaring. “It was the most comforting thing I’d heard in so long, Anastasia. It made me relax.”

She inhales sharply. Her open and honest compassion is written all over her lovely face as she reaches for her wine. This is my chance.

Ask her, Grey.

Ask her the one question I haven’t allowed myself to think about because I know I’ll dread her answer, whatever it is. But I’m curious. I need to know.

“You said you loved me,” I whisper, almost choking on the words. She can’t feel that way about me still. Can she? “Is that now in the past tense?”

“No, Christian, it’s not,” she says, as if in the confessional again. I’m unprepared for the relief that rushes through me. But it’s relief mixed with fear. It’s a confounding combination because I know she shouldn’t love a monster.

“Good,” I mumble, confused. I want to stop thinking about that right now, and with impeccable timing, the waiter returns with our meal.

“Eat,” I demand. The woman needs feeding.