"No!"

He closes his eyes again and his whole body relaxes. When he opens his eyes, I can see his pain and anguish.

"I thought-" He stops. "This is me, Ana. All of me ... and I'm all yours. What do I have to do to make you realize that? To make you see that I want you any way I can get you. That I love you."

"I love you, too, Christian, and to see you like this is ..." I choke and my tears start afresh. "I thought I'd broken you."

"Broken? Me? Oh no, Ana. Just the opposite." He reaches out and takes my hand.

"You're my lifeline," he whispers, and he kisses my knuckles before pressing my palm against his.

With his eyes wide and full of fear, he gently tugs my hand and places it on his chest over his heart-in the forbidden zone. His breathing quickens. His heart is beating a fran- tic, pounding tattoo beneath my fngers. He doesn't take his eyes off mine; his jaw is tense, his teeth clenched.

I gasp. Oh my Fifty! He's letting me touch him. And it's like all the air in my lungs has vaporized-gone. The blood is pounding in my ears as the rhythm of my heart rises to match his.

He releases my hand, leaving it in place over his heart. I fex my fngers slightly, feel- ing the warmth of his skin beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. He's holding his breath. I can't bear it. I make to move my hand.

"No," he says quickly and places his hand once more over mine, pressing my fngers against him. "Don't."

Emboldened by these two words, I shuffe closer so our knees are touching and ten- tatively raise my other hand so that he knows exactly what I intend to do. His eyes grow wider but he doesn't stop me.

Gently I start to undo the b.u.t.tons on his shirt. It's tricky with one hand. I fex my fn- gers beneath his hand and he lets go, allowing me to use both hands to undo his shirt. My eyes don't leave his as I pull his shirt open, revealing his chest.

He swallows, and his lips part as his breathing increases, and I sense his rising panic, but he doesn't pull away. Is he still in sub mode? I have no idea.

Should I do this? I don't want to hurt him, physically or mentally. The sight of him like this, offering himself to me, has been a wake-up call.

I reach up, and my hand hovers over his chest, and I stare at him ... asking his permis- sion. Very subtly he tilts his head to one side, steeling himself in antic.i.p.ation of my touch, and the tension radiates from him, but this time it's not in anger-it's in fear. I hesitate. Can I really do this to him?

"Yes," he breathes-again with the weird ability to answer my unspoken questions.

I extend my fngertips into his chest hair and lightly brush them down his sternum. He closes his eyes, and his face creases as if he's experiencing intolerable pain. It's unbearable to witness, so I lift my fngers immediately, but he quickly grabs my hand and replaces it frmly, fat on his bare chest so that the hair tickles my palm.

"No," he says, his voice strained. "I need to."

His eyes are screwed up so tightly. This must be agony. It's truly tormenting to watch.

Carefully I let my fngers stroke across his chest to his heart, marveling at the feel of him, terrifed that this is a step too far.

He opens his eyes, and they are gray fre, blazing at me.

Holy cow. His look is blistering, feral, beyond intense, and his breathing is rapid. It stirs my blood. I squirm under his gaze.

He hasn't stopped me, so I run my fngertips across his chest again, and his mouth goes slack. He's panting, and I don't know if it's from fear, or something else.

I've wanted to kiss him there for so long that I lean up on my knees and hold his gaze for a moment, making my intention perfectly clear. Then I bend and gently plant a soft kiss above his heart, feeling his warm, sweet-smelling skin beneath my lips.

His strangled groan moves me so much that I sit back on my heels, fearful of what I'll see on his face. His eyes are screwed tightly shut, but he hasn't moved.

"Again," he whispers, and I lean into his chest once more, this time to kiss one of his scars. He gasps, and I kiss another and another. He groans loudly, and suddenly his arms are around me, and his hand is in my hair, pulling my head up painfully so that my lips meet his insistent mouth. And we're kissing, my fngers knotting into his hair.

"Oh, Ana," he breathes, and he twists and pulls me down on to the foor so that I am underneath him. I bring my hands up to cup his beautiful face, and in that moment, I feel his tears.

He's crying ... no. No!

"Christian, please, don't cry. I meant it when I said I'd never leave you. I did. If I gave you any other impression, I'm so sorry . . . please, please forgive me. I love you. I will always love you."

He looms over me, gazing down into my face, and his expression is so pained.

"What is it?"

His eyes grow larger.

"What is this secret that makes you think I'll run for the hills? That makes you so de- termined to believe I'll go?" I plead, my voice tremulous. "Tell me, Christian, please ..."

He sits up, though this time he crosses his legs and I follow suit, my legs outstretched.

Vaguely I wonder if we can get off the foor? But I don't want to interrupt his train of thought. He's fnally going to confde in me.

He gazes down at me, and he looks utterly desolate. Oh s.h.i.t-it's bad.

"Ana ..." He pauses, searching for the words, his expression pained ... Oh? Where the h.e.l.l is this going?

He takes a deep breath and swallows. "I'm a s.a.d.i.s.t, Ana. I like to whip little brown- haired girls like you because you all look like the crack wh.o.r.e-my birth mother. I'm sure you can guess why." He says it in a rush as if he's had the sentence in his head for days and days and is desperate to be rid of it.

My world stops. Oh no.

This is not what I expected. This is bad. Really bad. I gaze at him, trying to understand the implication of what he's just said. It does explain why we all look the same.

My immediate thought is that Leila was right-"Master is dark."

I recall the frst conversation I had with him about his tendencies when we were in the Red Room of Pain.

"You said you weren't a s.a.d.i.s.t," I whisper, desperately trying to understand ... make some excuse for him.

"No, I said I was a Dominant. If I lied to you, it was a lie of omission. I'm sorry." He looks briefy down at his manicured fngernails.

I think he's mortifed. Mortifed about lying to me? Or about what he is?

"When you asked me that question, I had envisioned a very different relationship be- tween us," he murmurs. I can tell by his gaze that he's terrifed.

Then it hits me like a wrecking ball. If he's a s.a.d.i.s.t, he really needs all that whipping and caning s.h.i.t. Oh f.u.c.k. I put my head in my hands.

"So it's true," I whisper, glancing up at him. "I can't give you what you need." This is it-this really does mean we are incompatible.

The world starts falling away at my feet, collapsing around me as panic grips my throat. This is it. We can't do this.

He frowns. "No, No, No. Ana. No. You can. You do give me what I need." He clenches his fsts. "Please believe me," he murmurs, his words an impa.s.sioned plea.

"I don't know what to believe, Christian. This is so f.u.c.ked-up," I whisper, my throat hoa.r.s.e and aching as it closes in, choking me with unshed tears.

His eyes are wide and luminous when he looks at me again.

"Ana, believe me. After I punished you and you left me, my worldview changed. I wasn't joking when I said I would avoid ever feeling like that again." He gazes at me with pained entreaty. "When you said you loved me, it was a revelation. No one's ever said it to me before, and it was as if I'd laid something to rest-or maybe you'd laid it to rest, I don't know. Dr. Flynn and I are still in deep discussion about it."

Oh. Hope fares briefy in my heart. Perhaps we'll be okay. I want us to be okay. Don't I? "What does that all mean?" I whisper.

"It means I don't need it. Not now."

What? "How do you know? How can you be so sure?"

"I just know. The thought of hurting you ... in any real way ... it's abhorrent to me."

"I don't understand. What about rulers and spanking and all that kinky f.u.c.kery?"

He runs a hand through his hair and almost smiles but instead sighs ruefully. "I'm talking about the heavy s.h.i.t, Anastasia. You should see what I can do with a cane or a cat."

My mouth drops open, stunned. "I'd rather not."

"I know. If you wanted to do that, then fne ... but you don't and I get it. I can't do all that s.h.i.t with you if you don't want to. I told you once before, you have all the power. And now, since you came back, I don't feel that compulsion, at all." I gape at him for a moment trying to take this all in. "When we met, that's what you wanted, though?"

"Yes, undoubtedly."

"How can your compulsion just go, Christian? Like I'm some kind of panacea, and you're-for want of a better word-cured? I don't get it."

He sighs once more. "I wouldn't say cured ... You don't believe me?"

"I just fnd it-unbelievable. Which is different."

"If you'd never left me, then I probably wouldn't feel this way. You walking out on me was the best thing you ever did ... for us. It made me realize how much I want you, just you, and I mean it when I say I'll take you any way I can have you."

I gaze at him. Can I believe this? My head hurts just trying to think this all through, and deep down I feel ... numb.

"You're still here. I thought you would be out of the door by now," he whispers.

"Why? Because I might think you're a sicko for whipping and f.u.c.king women who look like your mother? Whatever would give you that impression?" I hiss at him, lashing out.

He blanches at my harsh words.

"Well, I wouldn't have put it quite like that, but yes," he says, his eyes wide and hurt.

His expression is sobering and I regret my outburst. I frown, feeling a pang of guilt.

Oh, what am I going to do? I gaze at him and he looks contrite, sincere ... he looks like my Fifty.

And unbidden I recall the photograph in his childhood bedroom, and in that moment realize why the woman in it looked so familiar. She looked like him. She must have been his biological mother.

His easy dismissal of her comes to mind: No one of consequence ... She's responsible for all this ... and I look like her ... f.u.c.k!

He stares at me, eyes raw, and I know he's waiting for my next move. He seems genu- ine. He's said he loves me, but I'm really confused.

This is all so f.u.c.ked-up. He's rea.s.sured me about Leila, but now I know with more certainty than ever how she was able to give him his kicks. The thought is wearying and unpalatable. I am so tired of all this.

"Christian, I'm exhausted. Can we discuss this tomorrow? I want to go to bed."

He blinks at me in surprise. "You're not going?"

"Do you want me to go?"

"No! I thought you would leave once you knew."

All the times he's alluded to me leaving once I knew his darkest secrets fash through my mind ... and now I know. s.h.i.t. Master is dark.

Should I leave? I gaze at him, this crazy man that I love, yes love.

Can I leave him? I left him once before, and it nearly broke me ... and him. I love him.

I know that in spite of this revelation.

"Don't leave me," he whispers.

"Oh, for crying out loud-no! I am not going to go!" I shout and it's cathartic. There, I've said it. I am not leaving.

"Really?" His eyes widen."What can I do to make you understand I will not run? What can I say?"

He gazes at me, revealing his fear and anguish again. He swallows. "There is one thing you can do."

"What?" I snap.

"Marry me," he whispers.

What? Did he really just- For the second time in less than half an hour my world stops.

Holy f.u.c.k. I stare at the deeply f.u.c.ked-up man I love. I can't believe what he's just said.

Marriage? He's proposing marriage? Is he kidding? I can't help it-a small, nervous, disbelieving giggle erupts from deep inside. I bite my lip to stop it from turning into full- scale hysterical laughter and fail miserably. I lie back fat on the foor and surrender myself to the laughter, laughing as I've never laughed before, huge healing cathartic howls of laughter.

And for a moment I am on my own, looking down at this absurd situation, a giggling, overwhelmed girl beside a beautiful f.u.c.ked-up boy. I drape my arm across my eyes, as my laughter turns to scalding tears. No, no ... this is too much.

As the hysteria subsides, Christian gently lifts my arm off my face. I turn and gaze up at him.

He's leaning over me. His mouth is twisted with wry amus.e.m.e.nt, but his eyes are a burning gray, maybe wounded. Oh no.

He gently wipes away a stray tear with the back of his knuckles. "You fnd my proposal amusing, Miss Steele?"

Oh, Fifty! Reaching up, I caress his cheek tenderly, enjoying the feel of the stubble beneath my fngers. Lord, I love this man.

"Mr. Grey ... Christian. Your sense of timing is without doubt ..." I gaze up at him as words fail me.