Firstly, I own nothing to do with 50 Shades. Just a fan.

Thank you all so much for being so kind and supportive. It means a lot!

I know I said I wasn't going to update until after Christmas more than likely, but I was impatient to. So this will definitely be the last update until after Christmas. With that said, I hope you have a wonderful and safe Christmas.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I just want someone to love me for once...

I want you to love me...

I want for you to love me...

Those words play over and over in my head like a tape recording on repeat, making it downright impossible for me to sleep. I turn on my back, sighing heavily up at the dark ceiling in my prison.

I just can't seem to get over them. I just cannot believe he said that. So he had told me the reason he had me here wasn't for anything like ransom, or... to murder me even. Not because he likes kidnapping young women and making them suffer like some sick psychopath. But so that I actually could fall in love with him? So that I could begin to like him in that way?

Impossible.

It wasn't what I had expected at all. In fact, that reason never once registered into my mind as a possibility. Maybe it just goes to show how naive I am?

But if he expects me to be able to begin to love him while he keeps me locked up in his place like this then he is sorely mistaken. He is more deluded and insane than I first thought. How can you love someone when they are capable of doing something like this to another human being? Something that takes away your freedom, something that isolates you? Something that takes away all your sense of dignity?

I have such contempt for him inside, so constant that it feels like heartburn. Yet, at the same time, I feel so sorry for him. Sorry for what he has been through; all that abuse and the scars his mother gave him as a child. Yet most abused children don't resort to doing this to another human. They learn how to move on, how to grieve and cope properly. He clearly hasn't, despite him telling me he sees a therapist regularly.

But holy shit, he's keeping me here imprisoned. Can't he see how wrong it is? How inhumane to do this to someone? Or can he not see that at all, because he is so blinded by his own desire to make me fall in love with him?

Could I be capable of loving someone like him, who is keeping me here in his house, refusing to let me leave? I don't know. Probably not.

It wouldn't be real anyway, probably not in the way he is hoping it would be. It would be... what's it called? Stockholm Syndrome? That type of thing. It wouldn't last once I was out in the real world- if he ever even intends to let me out again, of course. I shouldn't get my hopes up that he will ever let me go.

God, how did I even get myself into this situation? Where the hell have I seen him before?

There definitely is a familiarity about him there. We haven't actually met in the real way, obviously. I think I would remember that if we have. But I have seen him before and I do recognize his eyes, his face. And his voice, I recognize his voice somehow too, even though I'm about ninety percent certain we haven't had a conversation shared between each other before.

Have I met him through Kate?

I try to search through my mind frantically, rethinking over the past few weeks.

We had just been studying like crazy in order to pass our finals and to graduate. I would do part time work at Clayton's Hardware, but that was nothing out of the ordinary for me.

About a few months before sitting our finals, I had offered to drive Kate to an interview that took place at a large building in Seattle called Grey Enterprises Holdings. She had to interview this rich guy, the founder and head of the company. She was too anxious so I had to drive there for her. I sat in the waiting room for over ten minutes while she went in to talk to the guy and record his interview for the student newsletter.

What was the guy's name? I know in the car she told me how polite and rather intimidating he was, which was a surprise for me; Kate thinking a guy intimidating for once. Usually she was the one guys were intimidated of, not the other way around. Playing the recording of the interview in the car on the drive back to our apartment, where even I could tell, just by the sound of his voice, that he spoke in a bored and mechanical way, as though it was all well-rehearsed. Like they were questions he often got asked in interviews and he was tired of it all.

As the gears in my head shift and become aligned, all those little dots forming and connecting; I realize now why that voice of his sounds familiar to me. I have heard his voice before, just not directed at me in person.

My heart racing, I sit up against the pillows, gasping in the darkness of the room.

He's him. Christian. He's him, the guy Kate interviewed for the final student newsletter.

The previous week of our conversations come back to me. He has said he wasn't doing this for monetary reasons, that he had enough to last him for the rest of his life. Could it be right? Could this Christian that is holding me now be the one Kate had interviewed two months ago for the last student newsletter of final semester? This... guy who is the founder and head of Grey Enterprises Holdings?

Christian Grey.

Christian. Same first name. Could that be him? Is that who he is or is it purely a coincidence that they have the same first name?

I suppose I should just go downstairs and ask him what his surname is, yet I find I can't be bothered right now. I don't want to be near him tonight; He's managed to piss me off in a very bad way. I'd rather be alone right now than to go downstairs and ask him. If I go downstairs, I'll just start to feel guilty again about what I said to him, that he is repulsive. It was a mean thing to do and I feel like a bitch, but it had to be said. He had to know that, no matter how much it obviously hurt him to have to hear it from me.

It just doesn't make any sense though. Wouldn't he have done this to Kate instead, rather than me? Why would he say we have met over two months ago when it was my best friend Kate that he had met? I know for sure now that I have never talked to him before, so hearing his voice on the recording somewhat explains why I find his voice familiar. That side of it makes sense.

But then how did he know about the books? About Thomas Hardy and Tess?

My phone!

My brain seems to be working extraordinarily well with me tonight for once. He has my phone, no doubt. The one I took with me to the club in my bag, which he obviously kept and still has so I couldn't even think of making the attempt to call someone. There are messages on there, texts and conversations from me and Kate. One I remember in particular, because I haven't deleted all my texts from months ago:

What are U doing Ana? Why couldn't U have come with me to the party tonight?

I'm reading.

Of course. Why did I bother asking? UR fave? Tess of the d'Urbervilles? I should have known already.

My phone, though. He must have my phone. He must have gotten that information through reading my very own private text messages. How dare he!

It isn't called meeting someone or telling them about your favorite book when you violate their privacy in order to gain that information about them. It is truly no wonder why I can't remember ever telling him about Tess then. He read it. He must have read it from my texts, not from me actually admitting it to him and speaking to him face to face. How dare he go through my text messages and gain that information! Then having the nerve to tell me right there to my face that I told him about loving the book myself!

Really, why does it surprise me?

He is already violating my sense of freewill and freedom in keeping me here against my will. Doing that, in going through my own personal private text messages is a small crime compared to what he is actually doing, in forcing me to stay here like this.

How fucking dare he though!

I wake up at six the next morning- or so the clock hanging on the wall tells me- though I don't know why. My body just chooses to be alert. I lay around for a few minutes, wishing for sleep to come to me again. Who knows? If I sleep the hours away, maybe I will get out of this hell quicker? Only, it's no good use. Sleep refuses to come to me again, so I sit up, throwing the blankets to the side off of me. Something makes me glance down, and that's when I see it.

I tense, my stomach tightening.

Blood. There is blood between my legs. Staining through my underwear, down the sides of my legs.

When I stand, peering down at the bed-sheets, with horror I see it has even leaked through. Just a small spot, but still enough to make me feel like bursting out crying, feeling sorry for myself.

Great. Even in a stressful situation like this, obviously your body doesn't just shut off and stop functioning, no matter how much you wish you could urge it to. It's like a slap in the face; I know you are in a traumatic situation right now, so I am going to test you and making it even worse by giving you your period. Enjoy!

Oh, sorry! Just because you've been held against your will in a house, it doesn't mean you'll get a months exemption on your menstrual cycle!

"You have got to be kidding me," I growl through my teeth helplessly, staring down at the stickiness between my legs again.

Trying to be proactive instead of stressing, I rush over to the dresser, rummaging through them for any sanitary items. I find nothing. No pads or tampons. Just various different clothes that are unnervingly the correct size, like fancy underwear and socks. Hardly caring about covering myself up, I pull open the door, darting straight into the bathroom. My search proves futile as well. There isn't any pads stocked in the bathroom cupboards. There is nothing like that there at all.

But surely he had to know about women and their monthly menstrual cycles right? Doesn't he have any females in his family that would have taught him about all that stuff?

It leaves me with only one choice. One choice to do, which is degrading and embarrassing on all levels. I'll have to ask him to go out to a grocery store to get some. I would prefer not to, but I really have no other choice right now, do I?

I know he is still home, because a few mornings of waking early has made me learn he doesn't leave for work until after seven thirty. Heading downstairs, I look around, hoping to find him. He isn't in the kitchen but as I head towards his bedroom, I see him in there, standing near his walk-in wardrobe.

Thank God! At least he hasn't left yet, otherwise I would be well and truly screwed...

I clear my throat loudly, bringing his attention to me as he buttons up a white business shirt. He turns immediately on the spot to glance back at me, appearing both strangely... startled and apprehensive, like he wasn't expecting me to be up this early while he is getting ready. I can hardly bring myself to care as I stand there shivering, wet eyed, in nothing but a top and underwear. I am beyond caring. I'm numb.

"You're up earlier than usual, Anastasia?" He remarks, slipping a tie over his neck.

It's degrading. The worst feeling in the world even, in having to ask a man to go out and get me some pads and tampons. But he put me in this situation and I really have no other choice. "Yeah, I... I need you to go to the store before you head to work." I can't even manage looking him in the eye as I say it. Instead, I glance down at my hands, folding them out in front of me, sort of hoping to subtly cover the front of my underwear, the leak and the blood. "There's something I need you to get for me before you go. Something... important."

"Important? Like what?" His voice sounds breathless with confusion.

I force myself to glance up at him miserably. He actually looks as though he is having difficulty in understanding just what I am requesting of him, which is ridiculous. His brows are furrowed, his forehead crinkled as he stares at me, waiting for me to spell it out for him. How can a full-grown man not know anything about women's bodies and the natural things they have to go through? Even a man like him should, shouldn't he?

"What? You really don't know?" Angry laughter chokes me. "I need... personal care items. Special... women items. Now do you get it?"

He obviously doesn't. He simply stares at me blankly, blinking slowly.

"Oh my God. You really don't know what I'm trying to say?" I laugh out, feeling the flush of anger roll over me in hot bursts. This is so embarrassing. "I need pads, Christian. Pads or tampons, either one."

Understanding immediately flickers over his face as he nods once, something gentle coming across his face. "Oh, of course. I'll go to the store right now."

"Or you can just take me with you and I'll get the stuff myself?" I ask shakily before I can stop myself. Wishful thinking much?

"No, no. It's better if I go by myself." Since he already has his shoes on, he strides out into the kitchen, grabbing something. I follow after him as he heads towards the elevator, swiping one of the key cards in it. "I'll be back in just a second. Is there anything else you need as well? Tylenol?"

"How about you letting me out of here?" I retort bitterly once the doors open. "I mean, I've been here long enough, haven't I? A week already?"

I have an impulse to get into the elevator, to scurry in there. Only my chance is gone. A second's hesitation is a second too much. He says nothing in response to my words. I just watch his face as the doors close. He glances down at the wallet he is holding in his hands, as though looking at me may be too much for him right now. And then, he's gone. Vanished, riding down the elevator to a lower floor.

Asshole. Why can't he just let me leave?

I don't bother waiting for him to come back. Instead, I make myself busy in heading upstairs, yanking the stained bed-sheet off. I have no idea where clean ones are to replace it with or where he puts his dirty laundry so I leave it there on the floor in a messy pile until he arrives back to tell me. When he does eventually get back, he comes up to the room, knocking on the wall outside the room before entering to give me warning that he has returned, I guess.

When I glance back at him, I see he is carrying two grocery bags.

"I didn't know which ones you prefer," he says, sounding strained. He places both bags on the floor, lifting a hand to scratch his forehead with his fingers in a stressed way. "I just got every different one I saw. Hopefully they are right though."

When I come closer to peer inside the plastic bags, I realize he has two bags completely full of both pads and tampons. Different brands, different sizes; Regular, overnights. He still won't meet my gaze, I realize; I think he's too embarrassed.

"That's a lot?" I breathe in shock. "Don't you think you've gone a bit overboard? All of these could last me about twelve months." As soon as I senselessly say it, I realize my mistake. My stomach sinks, a heavy feeling of despair there. Holy shit. Does he expect me to be here for that long? A whole long year?

No, no. He can't keep me here for a whole year. I'll die if he expects me to stay here for that long.

Thinking about that really isn't helping. I shouldn't think about it. Anything, but that, otherwise I'll get too depressed.

"Also, I'll need to do some laundry," I say hesitatingly. "I have some stuff I'll need to wash. Like the bed-sheets."

"That's fine, Anastasia. I can always do that when I-"

"-No, you won't," I burst out, a lot harsher than intended. "I don't want you doing my laundry for me, Christian. I want some dignity left, and I think I have a right to wash my own blood stained sheets!"

He recoils from me, glancing down at his hands. "All right," he says quietly, stunned by my outburst. "Of course you can wash your own sheets. You can do whatever you like, Anastasia."

"Except leave? Then why can't I do that, too?"

He closes his eyes for a moment, his head falling downwards towards his chest. He knows this is wrong, he has to. I can tell. He is obviously just as miserable as I am right now, so why can't he just let me go?

His eyes reopen but he doesn't return them to me. He fixes on a spot on his shoes, gritting his teeth, like he is steeling himself mentally. The tendons in his jaw twitches. "There's a room downstairs where I do laundry. You'll know which room it is once you get in there because it has a washing machine and a dryer. You can't miss it."

"You'll go to jail for this, Christian," I mutter furiously through my teeth. "You know that, don't you? Kidnap is a serious crime. You'll go to jail for years."

I may as well be talking to a deaf man. He shows no outwards sign of fear over that reality. His face is composed and closed-off.

"I don't want that for you, despite what you are doing to me," I try again desperately, trying to get some reaction out of him, some form of pity. "I can see you are a very... sad and lonely person and in some ways, I do feel sorry for you. What your mother did to you, it was... terrible and no child should ever go through that." I step closer towards him, despite every fiber of my being telling me to stay away, to retreat. "I'm so sorry that she did that to you, but if you really think you can use your childhood as an excuse for what you are doing to me, then... then it's bullshit, Christian!"

His mouth parts and I think he is about to say something to me. Only it doesn't come. He is forcing himself to keep quiet, to not say anything.

"What you said, last night, about wanting me to love you, it won't happen." Finally, he glances up, meeting my gaze. He looks all things at once as his eyes scan my face. Apprehensive. Fearful. Conflicted. "Not in here, never while you have me here."

He opens his mouth, about to say something, only he stops himself again. He compresses his lips into a thin line, glancing away for a second, giving his head a shake. When he meets my eyes again, he isn't emotionless this time around. There is anger there blaring in his gray eyes, in the way his mouth tightens, way his eyes bunch up at the corners. I hear him swallow loudly as I wait desperately. I need for him to say it. I need for him to say that he knows and that he'll let me go free. Now.

"I'm not going to apologize for what I said last night, about me finding you repulsive. Because I do, but not due to the way you look, or because of the... the scars on your body." I'm like a hen, picking and picking, regardless of whatever consequences it will bring. "It's your actions that make you repulsive, Christian. The fact that you can keep me here like this while ignoring my requests for you to let me go. I can't love a man who can be perfectly fine in doing this to another human being. It's just... it's something I can never do, so you have already failed there, because I can't-"

"- You're not even trying!" At last, he speaks. I can tell he is trying to reign his temper in. It's in the way his body trembles, the way he goes to such effort to keep his voice low. "You aren't even trying to give it a chance. I want for us to get to know each other and yet, you are always saying this and saying that, about me letting you go!"

"Then what can I do, Christian? What can I do?" I come closer, standing so near that our bodies are almost touching. I hardly care that I am invading his personal space or that its a risky move. I have no idea what he is going to do, what he will do, but I need him to be honest with me. I need to know.

Using another tactic in all my desperation, my hands spring out before I am fully conscious of what I am doing. I catch his face between my hands, clasping tightly with my fingers, even when he tries to pull back, to get free. When he sees its hopeless and that I have no intentions to stop holding his face between my hands anytime soon, his eyes clench closed and a sharp intake of breath leaves him, his breathing low and ragged.

I see the disgust in his expression, the fear, yet I don't know if its me touching him that he is disgusted by or the fact that anyone is bothering to touch him in general.

"What, you don't like me touching you?" I squeeze out between clenched teeth in confusion. "I thought you said that you wanted me to-"

"-Don't touch me." His voice is a soft whisper, a plead. "I'm not worthy of that yet."

He's not worthy of that yet? "Your not worthy of what?"

"You... you wouldn't understand." He takes in a deep inhale through his nostrils, going still, rigid.

"So let me understand! Anything it takes!"

Startling me, his hands curl around each of my wrists, squeezing down tight. He tries to move my hands away, to shove me back, but with all my might, I don't budge. Moving my hand, I run my fingers down the side of his jaw, feeling hot skin, wiry stubble.

"What? You think you aren't worthy of a compassionate, gentle touch because of the way your mother treated you?" I think that's it. That's clearly it. "You say you want me to love you and yet you can't even accept the slightest touch?"

I lean up on tiptoes, enough to press my mouth against his, our noses touching. He makes a deep and throaty noise, protesting.

It's hot and awkward, because he is obviously resistant. The stubble around his lips scratch at my skin as we both breathe heavily. I don't even know what has gotten into me. I suppose I'm doing it, because I haven't tried it as yet, and I want him to let me go. Like in a fairy-tale, I guess. Kiss the frog, and it turns into a handsome prince. Kiss the damaged man and he'll see enough sense to let you go, showing his compassionate side.

His fingers tighten over my wrists bruisingly to the point of pain and then we're stumbling backwards, my back colliding roughly with the wall as he pins me against it with my arms above my head, shoving his face away from me into his shoulder so I can see nothing but his hair. One leg is between mine, his shoe just narrowly avoiding clomping over my bare toes.

Everything is silent and strange for about a minute. All I hear is him breathing loudly, his face turned away from me as he uses all his body weight to keep me pinned to the wall. He lifts his head to meet my gaze, so close over me that our faces are almost touching, something similar to excitement and arousal there in his eyes. Sucking in a deep, shaky breath, his frenzied eyes drift downwards before running up over my face again. He likes this. He actually likes this; Dominance and control, having me restrained with all his body weight to the point where I cannot move the slightest bit because he is so heavy and strong. Then he makes another noise, a guttural one that sounds like he is on the verge of crying. It wrenches at my gut.

"I... I told you I'm not worthy yet, Anastasia," he pants quietly, releasing my wrists. He moves away in a slow and drained way, like he is exhausted, careful not to show anything but his back to me.

My legs giving way, I slide down the wall, watching as he retreats slowly out of the room, sniffling loudly.

Then I'm alone again.

HOPE THIS ONE WAS OKAY? I am so nervous about this one.

Thank you so much for being so kind and for the alerts I have received. I honestly didn't expect that. :) Don't worry, Christian will make the ultimate good act towards Ana eventually. We just have a couple of more chapters to get to it, if you don't mind waiting?
Hoping you have an amazing Christmas and New years!