A/N: 'We now return to our regularly scheduled programming...'
Please forgive my mess.
Christian
You should put on some real clothes so we can discuss this more effectively.
Is what I would have said if I could drag my eyes anywhere but from the erotic sight that is Anastasia licking colored sugar from her fingertips.
But then she grimaces, fiercely, and I can't help but laugh.
I can't recall the last time I laughed pre-Ana. It seems so common now, so easy to do with her.
"None for you?" Her question is biting, annoyed by my amusement in her. I push the plate back her way across the counter after she's offered it, shaking my head.
"No dessert before dinner."
"I've seen you bake and take down two dozen cookies before dinner."
"No dessert before dinner, today," I clarify.
"But you will have some?"
"I've told you, pet; I'll eat anything you want me to eat."
She eyes me quietly, a loaded stare that makes my blood pump heavy and hot.
"I suppose we should get this conversation out of the way," she purrs with the last of the sugar licked off of her fingertips. She slides her little body up against, then past me, smiling as only a minx can as she dusts me in flour. "After you."
I make it exceedingly clear—while I am capable and less-influenced—that she needs to dress before we sit down. As a man of many strengths, I know full well where I will fail. While she is off to her room, I wrap up her abomination. And I will try it, surely, but I am more than happy to be patient in sampling.
There's such a mess of the kitchen, I'm actually unsure of where to begin cleaning it all. Or if I will clean it, at all.
Flour. Sprinkles. Instruments covered in flour and sprinkles. Nothing's burned, and the oven is shut off and still warm—but the bubbled over droplets of cake dough have… life-cycled. I lament silently, in mourning of 'what could have been' had the past hour been erased; had I returned to this kitchen none the wiser of the disarray on the horizon.
The idea of Anastasia left only in her mess and her apron; on her hands and knees scrubbing my kitchen back to shape… It hardens me to a degree of pain.
Yet I survey the damage with a smile, and my sigh is far from annoyed as I gather the care package needed to clean.
This was my mess.
Anastasia's mess for me. It extracts any adversity instantly, so I clean it. Horrifically softened, overwhelmingly touched by her attempt to make something for me.
But the gravity of my situation hasn't sunken in, apparently.
The fool's smile on my face atrophies.
Anastasia has killed a man. Implausibly, by herself. And I'm not the only person who knows about it.
Suddenly my one source of joy has become an affliction, any serenity fades away in a wilt.
I don't know why. I don't know if she plans to do it again. Or whom she'll choose. It could very well be me, for whatever reason. And if it isn't me, what of our dynamic? Our norm? Knowing that she can incapacitate a man at least twice my size makes dominating her seem… contrary. Then there's dealing with the harsh reality of just how selfish my love for Ana is... The lengths I'm willing to go to...
Everything is so vexatiously up in the air that I don't know which way goes where. My mind is abuzz with so many questions, so many uncertainties.
I exhale, and it releases more as a grunt than a sigh. The only person with any answers would be back out here any second. I'm happy enough with the kitchen—I prepare a carafe for drinks and set it on the coffee table at the sofas.
...
She watches me intently as I sip from the bottle. Her eyes are focused on my hand, and when I hesitate taking another pull, her eyes snap to mine.
"How many of those do you drink per day?" she asks suddenly.
"Two. Sometimes three." I swipe my thumb under my lip, collecting the wetness. "Then water, if you're worried about my sugar intake," I rib lightly. She blinks.
"Would you be able to avoid drinking those, if you had to?"
My eyebrow raises with the question. "Would I be able to survive without drinking juice? I would hope so. What is your sudden fascination with my liquid consumption?"
"No fascination," she smirks, her eyes dropping as she smooths the fabric of her jeans over her legs. "Inquiring minds want to know, is all."
"Inquiring minds need to be just as forthcoming as their subjects, then. What is going on, Anastasia?"
A moment of deliberation passes. Then her eyes rise over me in a slow, cold scan.
"I'm limited in how much I can tell you, and even more so in what I choose to tell you; so we'll try the open-ended approach." She sighs, but doesn't look away. "You are in the center of a very delicate, very precarious investigation on this island, Christian. Unfortunately, for your safety, my objective has become ensuring your extraction. Ask your questions, but I'll answer what I answer."
God, where do I begin?
"What sort of investigation?"
Grace and Carrick keep this place immaculate. I've never so much as seen a dirty toilet in the pub, on even the wildest of nights. For a degree of a second, my mind flits through the legality of the island, the integrity of the business, but I shake it away quickly. The selection process, the vetting, the background checks, the interviews—no, I can't imagine anything seedy ever going down here. It doesn't make sense.
"I'm not at liberty to disclose that," she says, distant.
Agitation growing, "What are you at liberty to disclose, then?" I ask.
"I can assure you that it ends tomorrow… That I will be leaving tomorrow." Just as my heart drops into my lap, as my hand clenches to a weapon on the armrest, she adds, "And that you will be coming with me."
My ribcage feels abused as I exhale, a wintry rattling that threatens to fog my thoughts. The mere idea of her leaving me… I shake my head at myself, closing my eyes and centering. She's leaving, but as am I. If she hadn't said so herself… The blackness that my mind was directing me to…
Ana watches me closely as I open my eyes again. A blank slate with calculating, cataloguing eyes. When she doesn't volunteer to say anything further, I clear the disturbance in my throat.
"What else can you tell me?"
"What were you thinking of just now, Christian?"
Startled by her question, ashamed of myself, I don't answer.
Not at first... but her gaze holds me prisoner; she awaits the confession of my crimes.
"Keeping you," I exhale. I refuse to elaborate.
The way she looks at me—her decidedness—I know she has an idea already. I swallow again, forcing myself not to turn away from her inevitable shock, disgust.
But she looks away first, her eyes flickering to my open bottle on the table, then back to me with a slightly arched brow.
In a motion completely foreign on Ana, she sighs and runs her fingers through her hair. An act that makes her appear very, very human. One I'm not accustomed to. It isn't repulsion on her part, but it hits home that my behavior doesn't go totally unnoticed. Although, unnoticed could never be right for this woman. Reaction-worthy seems more apt, and infinitely more damning.
"Right. Tell me more about Grace showing you this tape."
"I was setting up your… gift, when Grace pulled me into her office to show it to me."
"Where was I in the clip?"
"I can't say I'm positive, but somewhere in the forestry. It was only a glimpse, then you were gone. But she froze the frame and I knew it was you. She may not be positive of that, however."
"Was I at the warehouse?" she persists.
"Not that I know of, no. At least, not that I was shown."
"And how did they discover the body?"
My mouth purses against my will. Not for the intention of withholding, but because it remains an astonishment that Ana has taken a life. Moreover, in that I'm not as disturbed by this as I should be.
"One guard in the area reported that his cohorts were away from their posts, and they discovered they were looking for three people not at their stations." Somehow an internal dilemma exists in how I describe this to Ana. As if I can shield her from the brutality of her own actions. I run a hand over my neck, shake the ridiculous unease off. "Blood under their cruiser. The sea-life were… feeding off of him."
She hums to herself, nodding slowly. Then the curve of her mouth lifts.
"I can't imagine I've made it any easier to get myself caught. But... screwed the pooch," she jests, smirking at me now. "Shouldn't you be concerned for your own life, Christian?"
"I… don't think so," I reply evenly. In all realities, I should have been horrified. Terrified. I shouldn't want to be around Ana knowing that she's killed someone. Or not knowing how many other people she's killed. But I have no qualms. No nagging bite in my conscience that anything is wrong.
It's never felt wrong to be around her. Especially now.
"You seem confident," she notes, her head tilting. She's teasing me. Playing with me. Making fun of my lack of rationality.
"I've arrived to the conclusion that if you wanted me dead—for the many reasons I've given you thus far—you would have already made that happen. Besides," I shrug, "you already admitted that I'm coming with you. Wherever that implies."
"Good, you're paying attention. I don't plan to explain our every next step to you, so I will trust you to keep up with me."
"I'll do my best."
She nods once, crossing her legs. "You don't know if Carrick is involved yet?"
My smile deflates at record speed. "It's only a matter of time. Grace won't keep anything this dire from him, if she hasn't told him already."
"Everyone will die tomorrow," she repeats, her eyes meeting mine. "Grace and Carrick are no exception. Our only responsibility is to live long enough to ensure that happens."
"Okay."
Her eyebrow slants. "Okay?"
I nod, "Yes. Okay."
Her following silence says what she won't. My behavior is strange. My reactions are strange.
If I give her too much time to reconsider taking me with her, I think she'll take it. I have questions, so decide to start with the ones she's expecting.
"Why did you kill that guard?"
"I've made a multitude of mistakes today," she shrugs, but despite her unruffled tone, her expression has hardened. Tightened considerably. "He found me in the warehouse and I couldn't risk him radioing me in; it would make the whole island more vigilant. Less would be my plight had I remained out of sight of Grace's lovely cameras. Nearly anything that could have gone wrong, did—in the most spectacular of fashions."
"What were you doing in the warehouse? How did you know it was there? We've never been anywhere near there."
"One at a time, please. I pried on one your prior conversations about it," she states matter-of-factly, and my eyes narrow at her coyness.
"Why?"
It is her turn not to answer. She looks right back at me, and I can see the shutters slam closed as she safeguards her secrets. Yet another impasse. I would have to get used to this, I realized. I've known from the very beginning how intriguing Anastasia is, but I would have never guessed the depth of her. How complex and intricate she is as a person. The morbid wonder of how she killed that guard still nags at me, so it comes blurting out of me with her continued stare down.
"How did you kill him?"
"I broke his neck."
With some alarm, my eyes fly about her, scanning for any hint of struggle or damage on her. She looks clean and flush, kempt and placid. Unscathed for having fought off one of the dozens of bears disguised as guards on the island. Unfortunate that the bears didn't foresee a greater predator amongst them.
"So… why me?"
Internally, I hate myself for asking. I don't genuinely need to know. I don't care, so long as Ana doesn't leave me behind. As appalling as it may be, I have no concern for the lives Ana says will be lost here tomorrow. I have no concern for any life outside of her, not that it was much of a life before her anyway. I don't want her to ever second-guess her choice, of choosing me. Of allowing me to continue pining for her in cutting silence and demanding touches and lustful kisses.
"You can be useful," she says, and I smile again. The retort is so purposely vague, and I feel as a guinea pig would inside its cage looking up at the scientist. She likes experimenting with shocking statements and watching my reactions to them. I enjoy throwing her off. "You have knowledge that I don't. I have answers you don't. If you help me just enough, I may give you a few."
"Anyone can be useful, if that's the case."
"No." She shakes her head. "I can force the truth out of anyone, sure. But there is more substance if the information is willing. Less key facts are missed. More insight gained."
Unintentionally, "Insight," I repeat in a chuckle, and she frowns at me. "So, what insight can I give you then, pet? Me, specifically."
"You'd be surprised. But let's start with your computer."
"Computer?" I remember the neglected machinery as soon as the word has left my mouth. The untouched box sitting in my study. At least, untouched since meeting Ana.
A singular eyebrow raises as she regards me, and I cannot blame her for her skepticism. There are but so many rooms in my home and the study is hardly so forgettable to someone who visits. A different tale entirely as I live here. I don't touch it anymore, now that she is here, but she couldn't know that.
"Looks like you've figured out which computer I'm talking about," she deduces.
I nod diffidently and reply, "Yes." Maybe she isn't as much of a mind reader as I am an open book.
I have never had a desire to look into the outside world. When Grace had it installed, I was tremendously averse to it. A perplexing reaction, but I had no idea why that was. Like an invisible piece of my psyche wanted nothing to do with connecting to the reality outside of this island.
So, I did not, and I have not. My desktop's connection is local only for that reason, and almost purely for watching porn or finding new instruments to add to my collection. Before Ana, its function was replying to emails back and forth with Carrick and island staff about what I need, or current progress with a sub.
But... sometimes I do wonder why I avoid it, real-world connection, so. A bead of anxiety laces my brow at the mere thought, but why?
I shake my head and exhale, dropping my head back to stare at the ceiling. That perturbing sensation, the one that feels like I am the roommate of another occupant in my own head, one I've yet to properly meet, never ceases to both fascinate and scare the shit out of me. Whoever Christian was before my current conscience took over, I feel sorry for him, despite having no idea who he is. He's a damaged human being, to the very core. However, his problems are simply not my problems.
End of.
"Pet." I call her name instinctively, dragging myself back. Again, the fog of my thoughts lift and she's right there, watching patiently. "What do you need to know about the computer?"
"What it's used for."
"Sending submissive updates, primarily. Submitting requests. Porn."
"Tell me about the submissive updating."
I shrug leisurely, necking the rest of my juice. "It's typically bi-weekly, after the first few days. After I get to understand them, their wants. Routine information such as how they're responding to the environment, any objects or desires my submissive has shown interest in, how engaged they are in play—"
"Do I have such a record?"
"No."
If she asks, I will be only so happy to prove that no such portfolio exists for her. Not a populated one, in any case. On Ana's first day I'd gone down to speak about her to Grace and Carrick, but nothing more. Since then, I've been enraptured by her. I wouldn't have dared to share even a glimpse of her with anyone else, least of all those two. Not that I had the wherewithal to do so.
A record exists, yes, but a generic one.
She must believe me. She doesn't press for any further information on that. Instead, she asks, "What of the requests you make on the computer?"
"Its intended purpose was for groceries and toiletries and the like. I can't be bothered with the faff anymore so I just call it in to staff."
"How very old-fashioned of you," she teases. "And the porn?"
"Island made. I don't get anything out of watching the other dominants so my personal brand is sub on sub."
"No other domains?"
I ponder that for a moment before shaking my head. "I don't personally have access outside of the island archives. There are thousands and thousands of tapes of every variety. Hard to get bored."
"So the island only operates on an intranet connection?"
"I'm sorry, pet," I mutter, again shaking my head. "I don't know what means."
"Okay." A shock of cool air, a thrill, runs over my skin as her vibrant eyes finally release me from their unforgiving grasp. I didn't realize the burden of their weight until they were gone but she commands me fully with those eyes. She casts me out of her thoughts entirely as she instead looks contemplatively out of the window.
I've been momentarily dismissed.
A few minutes pass in her silence. She is always tolerant of my episodes of internal lapsing so I offer the same kindness—I don't interrupt her. I take to cleaning up the carafe instead. Wiping down the condensation and disposing of my empty bottle. A trip to the restroom and a few sweets later and I rejoin her on the couch, and she welcomes me back with a slight smile that never fails to look coy. I smile in return.
"What evil schemes have you come up with while I was away?"
"I'm going to answer your question… eventually," she says. "But I'm going to lay some ground rules down first. Please agree."
"I do," I affirm, confused, wholly unaware to what I'm agreeing to.
She holds a closed fist out, then extends her pointer finger. "One—you will tell me the whole truth. At all times. I will not tolerate omissions."
There it is. That change I saw coming from the moment Grace called me to her back office. In so many short weeks, had I really become so accustomed to owning Ana so completely? Owning itself is too strong of a phrase for it. Regardless, she is breaking free now. Becoming singular again. As she was before so totally enfolding me into obsession.
This conversation is above any paltry desires I have for her. Any soul trembling need that possesses me to forsake anything for her attention. But I know what I want. What I want from her.
Everything.
Always.
And so I agree. "Yes. If I know it, you will as well."
Her features soften. The rigid perfection that is her posture eases, and as she unconsciously shifts to face me more directly, my body does the same. I want her full faith. I want her trust in me. I need it, I realize, almost more than I need her.
"Thank you. Two—" she raises a second finger, "this may be a reversal for you—but I will require your… obedience, so to speak." Bless her, she almost looks uncomfortable. As if the words bring her physical pain and internal dilemma. Does she not realize 'One' was the first demand she's made of me? That it immediately coaxed out my obedience?
I can't taper my amusement, and this seems to further dishevel her. She continues, "If I give you a task; if I tell you to speak a certain way… if I tell you what to drink or eat, it needs to be done. I won't be unreasonable, but even if I am, I suggest—mm, rather, whatever I ask of you, it's for the best you just do it."
"Agreed." My smile is small and intended to comfort her. It may be hubris on my part, but I don't want her to be worried about offending me. If this is what she needs, I will comply.
"And Three…" For the barest of seconds, she hesitates, then exhales away any chance to fluster. "Three—Don't change." She must see the question in my eyes, so she elaborates. "We're going to go through a few… bumps, shall we say. There is a reason we were coupled. I'm not the woman you met on your doorstep. I am much more dangerous. But... the other aspects of our relationship don't need to change, if we decide they won't."
I blink.
And blink again.
"You said..? What?"
She shifts, a slight movement that only requires a few muscles to work, but she oozes her magnetism now, just that quickly. She's unleashed the full force of her dastardly eyes on me and grins to show all of her lovely teeth, her head tilting only so slightly.
"I think you appreciate a submissive with my tolerance; and I don't mind you that much."
"Out with it then, pet," I hiss, anxious.
"You know a little bit more now about me, sir, but I'm the same woman that takes those beatings and orgasms to choking... with you. None of that has to change... You understand?"
Fuck.
This is love, isn't it?
This feeling of eruption? Of volcanic fury that's ribboning through my bloodstream and strangulating my heart? It must be love. Why else would being with her, around her, cause me so much pain? Such blinding, unfettered pain that burns when I breathe, when all I want is to inhale her, exhale her.
Inhale again.
And just… burn.
"Christian," she prompts quietly, evenly. This time the haze breaks but the pain—the burning, my brutish yearning for her—remains.
My throat itches. It aches, damn near. I can't wet it enough on my own—I reach for the bottle that was once on the table and encounter a glass of water instead, empty as I reset it on the carafe. Something is happening to me, for her. Love is punishing me, testing my mettle. Testing my devotion to her.
More gruff, more forceful than I could have ever intended with the level of veneration I feel for her at this moment, I ask, "You'd still like for me to be your dominant? When we leave?"
I must have misunderstood her. Twisted her words with my unhealthy fascination. She is a super-spy who can break the neck of 200-pound men and still wants me to have an ounce of control after we leave this place? I truly must have lost it, now, because that can't have been her meaning.
But…
The look she gives me is steady. Endless.
"Yes, sir," she murmurs softly.
"Come here, pet. On your knees."
The elegance and poise of a house cat, she obeys, nestling between my knees. I shape my hands around her cheeks, touch her lips, stroke her hairline. I cradle the crown of her head and fist her hair in both hands, arching her neck. Fastening our gazes. Bleeding my love down into her. Pouring it so deeply that I hope her soul overflows and drenches her heart as thoroughly as mine.
"I agree to all your damn rules. You have my word. Instead of a shake, kiss me for it, Anastasia."
Her face softens, her expression cool but her blue eyes almost aglow. This is a victory for the both of us, but she can never fathom how much more I gain than she will. More tender than I rightfully deserve, she presses her soft lips to my lowered ones. Chaste, unhurried.
Inside, I break and I break all over again.
I urge her off of the floor, onto my lap. I want to be close and closer still. Impossibly and inextricably linked to her in the form on skin-to-skin contact; until she is able to tolerate anything more. Until she's ever ready for that.
If I will ever be ready for that.
"Now," she purrs into my ear, "are you ready for those evil schemes? I have your first assignment."
…
Anastasia
The moment my eyes snap open I'm out of the bed and crouching to the doorframe. The hallway is dark and barely lit by the center garden. I quickly scan the hall towards Christian's study, then the den. Surely, I am being paranoid but paranoid keeps you alive.
I creep out of the room, and my gaze connects with every black silhouette it touches before flying to the next. I briefly contemplate retrieving my handgun in the closet but just hope I won't need it. If this turned out to be nothing, I have no way to explain myself out of a firearm.
When I've just about finished my rounds, I peer into Christian's room, and he is there, standing out on his balcony. The bang had likely been him closing the sliding door. His return from my task is sooner than expected, but at least he hadn't come barreling down my door with bad news.
Which means he's done it.
Finally I relax, the threat of imminent danger subsiding; but only after having a thorough inspection at the front entrance for surprises.
It occurs to me; I shouldn't need a reason to explain away a gun at this stage in the game.
He knows everything now.
Well, everything he needs to know; even some he doesn't.
He does, however, also need to know how to defend himself. If he doesn't already. I have so many guns around that were meant only for my own protection, but they would prove convenient now that the circumstances have changed.
Learning how to handle a gun is simple enough; shooting, however, can be a different manner if his aim isn't all there. Tomorrow morning will be dedicated to educating him. With luck, no one will be shooting back.
I very nearly decide to grab him now. Doubtful either of us would be getting any decent rest; and the last thing I need is dead weight slowing me down if the island's defenses suddenly spike. Having someone to watch my back in the ordeal can possibly prove useful…
If he actually ends up watching my back, and not putting a bullet in it.
I watch Christian a while longer, and when I resolve against joining him and returning to bed he turns to me. For a beat, neither of us moves, and then he beckons me to him.
He slides the door open for me, closes it behind me. The waning sliver of the moon hangs luminous in the pitch of night, and throws the looming shadows of palm and mangrove across the beach. Salt and palm are strong on the wind, mingling with the clean, masculine scent of Christian as he watches me.
"You aren't resting?" he asks quietly.
"I thought about it," I lie smoothly, leaning my weight against the deck railing, "but I should be rested enough by now. You look very tired yourself." My gaze clings to the darkening lines above his cheeks, and he smiles wearily as I reach his eyes, studying me a while.
"No time to sleep when I've got such a party to plan," he says by way of explanation.
"No rest for the wicked. I've put a lot on your plate."
"It's not a fraction of what you've been dealing with. I'll live."
My smile is dark and humorless as I look to him. There is nothing to complain about for me, but I can't argue with his logic. "No. Not even a fraction; but I've had a long time to meditate on my situation."
Christian turns his attentions back to the night surrounding us, as serene as I've ever seen him.
"I don't need long for this; if you think about it, there just isn't much to think about. Not like you gave me much time anyway, right?"
Not much to think about? Everyone around him is dying and he doesn't have much to think about?
"Why?" Frustration—a new and distractingly commonplace block of exasperation—steals any hope I have of being detached. I don't clarify my outburst but he doesn't need me to.
"Why?" he repeats, knowing my meaning. His eyes connect with mine. "Because it's a choice between you and everything but you; meaning there is no choice at all."
I am used to an attitude like this from the people that I associate with, back in the states. From other agents. From Syndicate affiliates. From targets, killers, smugglers. One objective—one mind. No splintering paths and no deviations.
But not from people meant to be innocent.
Christian refuses to even pretend to feel sympathy for them.
Any run of the mill inculpable would feel something—horror, guilt, disgust—for people they've known for years. Lived around and built a community with for years. With the decade of experience I have, even I cannot say I haven't felt a twinge of something; a fact that will never surface past my own lips with even the most thorough of tortures...
Yet he blinks so smoothly. Smiles so easily at me.
I look up at Christian, a futile attempt to reach into his thoughts and extract the foggy information he possesses. I don't understand him, and I don't know if I ever will.
"It's done though, Ana." He doesn't elaborate this time, and he doesn't need to. "This, and anything else you need from me going forward, can be considered done. You have my word."
A different sort of thrill passes over me in his ardent vow. An almost chilling heat. A foreboding one. I haven't begun to breach the surface of Grey, and already he's showing me too much, too many sides. The pragmatism of a soldier and the ruthless expertise of a trained sadist—a combination that could raise fine hairs.
"How long do we have then? Until your little party?"
"Little?" he gasps, grief stricken.
"Not so little, then?" I clarify with a chuckle.
"Not little at all. And it's your party. That was meant to be a surprise."
"You weren't very clever in keeping it a secret, to be fair."
"No," he grins. "I wasn't. The pub should be ready in 3 hours, give or take. I've worked hard on it; thankfully, it didn't take much to have things sped up to be ready on time tonight. I think you'll like it."
"I've never been one for parties," I state plainly.
"I know," he sighs, full of regret. He smiles at the impact of my hand against his arm. "But I hope you can enjoy whatever time we have while we're there."
"Tell me about some of the people here. They'll be going, won't they?" I shouldn't engage in this line of questioning. Doubtful it will bring me any more information than what Kavanagh has already gleamed.
But the words have already left me, floating up to Christian as his eyebrows draw together in thought. If I can understand his view on his neighbors, maybe I can align his perspective with his thought processes. Perhaps unlock some hidden empathy.
"I know very little about them," he says, but it's what isn't said that intrigues me.
"Such as?" I persist.
"Such as who they are as people."
He shrugs stiffly. His body language has taken on a message nothing like it was prior.
"I don't know them; I know of them."
"How long have you been here, again?"
"Nearly a decade," he answers, mock-contemplative as his eyes go to the sky and he nods sagely. I clutch his chin and force his gaze back to mine.
"So you've lived on an island for nearly a decade and only know of your neighbors?"
"Look..." He exhales edgily, takes a moment to collect his thoughts. "Without the reminder of how abnormal I am as a man, no, Ana; I don't know anything about my neighbors."
He reaches for me; his hands landing on my hips and encircling. The warmth of his skin burns me, burns through me. The muscles of his bare chest contract and expand with his deep breaths, and there is no misreading that I can hear his heartbeat as well I feel it. It pounds beneath my palm as my hand comes to rest over the organ. He looks down at me with such confidence, such surety.
But his embrace is a restraint.
A confinement.
"And I don't know you," he murmurs gently, mindful of his volume, "but you've reminded me that everyone here will perish more than a few times now. I don't want to assume, but whatever I can do to help you, please know that I will, pet."
I return his steady gaze with a blink, knowing full well how passive I come across.
In his arms however, I've stiffened; and he must have noticed.
I am so used to pulling my defensive layering about me, fading into the scenery and playing a part, that I didn't see this coming. Didn't see Christian Grey being able to read through the cracks of my façade and expose them. To myself. To the world.
What else can he see?
"You're imagining things." My mouth has moved, blessedly, before I've told it to. The insubordination of my mouth has given me the practiced moment to readjust my mask. To slide back into the cold and heartless camouflage Christian can't keep from rattling. I exhale just lightly enough to center myself as I trail my hands up his neck, over his jaw, my thumbs stroking over his stubbled chin. "But I do need your help."
"Anything."
"Tell me about your neighbors."
His jaw clenches. Tics. As challenging of a mark, he may be, Christian Grey is a mark nonetheless. The sooner he comes to understand that conceding is less taxing than fighting me, the better. It always hurts less when they stop struggling.
"What do you want to know?"
"How many people are here besides yourself?"
"Thirty… one, which includes you."
"How many dominants?"
"Five, excluding myself." At the question on my brow, Christian elaborates. "Many sign-ups ask for the authentic slave experience. A few dominants have two or even three submissives rotating in one household."
"I listened to your conversation at the pub the night that you took me there," I confess. Christian's eyes narrow, then widen in shock as realization sinks in. "Carrick alluded that it was rare for more than one sub in a household."
"That is correct," Christian nods, his tone admonishing, "however, what Carrick suggested was a permanent rehousing. The rotations are scheduled and still hold their given assignments. How did you—"
"Irrelevant," I smile. He doesn't let the matter go willingly, but doesn't fight to hang on to it either. "Come with me. Let's get ready."
My fingers ride the hard lines and taut skin of his arms until they entwine with his own, and I lead him through the villa, into my bedroom. I don't hide my surprise as Christian pulls away from my hold and glares down at me suddenly.
"Christian?"
"There is a camera outside of your window."
I blink through the chill dripping through my veins as I tighten my hold on the doorknob. My logical mind knows Christian hasn't set me up but I can't help but wonder why he wouldn't have mentioned this sooner. How did my debugger miss something so close? What couldn't the camera have picked up in all this time without my knowledge?
"One of Grace's?" I inquire evenly.
"I had no idea it was there until earlier," he says, and if he is lying he is a master of deception. "I'm going to smash the fucking thing—"
"No," I assert levelly, whirling around to face him. "You will not." Christian turns back to me puzzled, either by the directive or by whom issued it.
"But it—"
"Draws attention to us if you destroy it. It isn't pointed into the bedroom, is it?"
"No."
"Then we move on," I press, proffering my hand again. "We had an agreement."
The anger dissipates in waves as he reconsiders. Still, he draws the curtains closed swiftly, muting the natural light and casting us in darkness. When he returns his hand to mine we step into my wardrobe and I close the door behind us.
As I hit the light switch, our eyes meet in the long mirror on the wall and attach. The atmosphere grows three inches thick as his gaze darkens on me, his fingers turning to a manacle as he draws me into him.
"Did you need help finding something to wear to bed?" he asks silkily, his attention dropping to my chest beneath my camisole. "My sheets would be more comfortable than anything hanging in here."
"No." I dance out of his approaching reach and towards the wardrobe, ignoring the incessant flush riding through my skin. I lower to my hands, my knees as I reach beneath the heavy wood, and as Christian's footsteps loom towards me, I slide the handgun out of its hiding place and point it at Christian's heart.
He freezes instantly, almost unnaturally, as if he has turned to stone in the breadth of a second. And then he does turn to stone, ironically, as I look down to see the creeping pitch of his erection knocking against the front of his trousers.
My head tilts with the question I don't quite ask when Christian steps closer, and the mouth of the gun is pressed to his skin directly. He reaches down, gripping my arm, slowly guiding me to vertical, but keeps the gun trained to himself. His fingers trace fire up my forearm, over my elbow, down my sides.
"You look like you know how to use that, pet," he notes quietly, honey and husk.
"Would you like to find out if I do?"
"My answer might confuse you," he chuckles, and he grips my hips as he nestles his growing arousal against my belly with a strained groan. He licks his lips and considers his next question carefully. His throat bobs before words leave his barely opened mouth. "I'll help you, if you help me."
With an eyebrow slant and a disbelieving chuckle, I allow myself the moment's amusement at his request.
"When did this turn into a bargaining?"
"When you dragged me into this closet knowing what you do to me."
"Are you always so easily distracted?"
"Only since knowing you."
"What is this offer, then? And do remember there is a gun pointed at one of your most vital of organs."
"I don't think I can possibly forget," he says, chuckling again and roasting my insides. The corners of his mouth turn downward after a moment, and his eyes bore into mine as he sobers. His brow knits in consternation, puckering the lightly golden skin there. I drum my fingers against the handle of the handgun, waiting, avoiding my uselessly base urges toward the man.
He seems to be hyper-prone to distraction, but so far Grey is dependable to act. I don't see any downside to, at least, hearing him out. I indulge him, because perhaps unburdening his mind inhibits focus.
"Go on then," I prod gently. "How can I help you help me?"
He clears his throat.
"I'm going to do anything—everything—that you ask of me," he voices, "as we've already discussed my agreeance to your earlier rules." He lifts a hand to count off on his fingers, then replaces them on my skin. "I won't lie. I will obey. I will not change."
With those hands on my hips, he backs me up so my bottom hits the edge of the wardrobe. He eclipses me wholly, sum totally. My traitorous body craves to have all of the most unnecessary reactions to his touch—gasping, panting, sighing his name and running my fingers through the tousled mass of his hair.
But I don't. Years of schooled reflexes and deliberate awareness forbid me. My past and my instructors and the only other man in the world who can derail me, forbid it.
Instead I breathe deeply, slowly, and ignore that all of him is infused in my oxygen. "And in exchange of that, you want…?" I whisper in askance.
Then he stills. I do, too.
"Just you. Please… don't leave me, Anastasia."
Taken aback, "I've already told you you're coming with me, Christian," I mutter.
"No," he hums low with a sad smile. But his eyes are chillingly dark and his expression is grave. "Ever. Don't ever leave me."
It sounds like he's joking. His tone suggests he's joking... My retort sounds as befuddled as I am. "That's not very reasonable," I say.
"It's not. So… promise you'll kill me, instead."
For a split second, for a hairsbreadth of a heartbeat, I imagine my heart restarting. And I must have imagined it restarting, because such an impossible and unexpected reaction has never happened to me before.
"If it comes to it," Christian reiterates, his face falling and setting to stone, "you will be the one to do it," and there is no mistaking his severity. The pressure of his fingers sear now, and I feel trapped in the burning cage of his grasp. "Shoot me before you make me go through this alone, baby," he whispers. "If you give me that… I'll give you everything."
I can't curb something I couldn't see coming.
Christian's eyes bleed into me. A tormented deluge of lost, of listlessness. His sadness blankets me and pulls me under; it's blinding.
In the arresting of my senses, I forget myself. His vulnerability catches my breath and holds it there, so he does all the breathing for the both of us.
This man, this situation, has become so dangerous and alarming that it's ultraviolet. I don't want to save Christian Grey anymore. I don't want to be on this island, forced to operate under this disturbing, taciturn sadist with a thoughtful mind and honeyed tongue. With every passing hour he batters against my ice, digs at the cracks until they're chipped and raw—and he invades.
Like an infection, a disease, a sore—he clings to my defenses and weakens them, overloads my system, wracks me from the inside out.
What's wrong with him? Why can he interfere with over a decade worth of practice and expertise? How can I let him?
What's wrong with me?
What do I say?
I don't look away from those sorrow filled eyes as I lower the gun and place it on the wardrobe's surface behind me. I maneuver his hands so that my breasts sit in his palms, and his lowered eyes snap back to mine for confirmation before he massages me slowly, indulgently, through thin fabric.
"I… I don't..." He's rendered me speechless. My vision narrows as my eyes droop—an unnerving effect of his ministrations. The slight pressure of his hands have turned harsh as he squeezes me roughly. Pinches my stimulated nipples between his long fingers. "You're with me until the end, Christian… What—"
"Promise me," his rumbling voice forces, and all of him overwhelms me now. His gravity could crush me right here in the closet as his presence replaces where the walls should be.
"I—"
"Promise it, Ana,"
"Yes…" I murmur back, broken, battered at again. "I promise."
"Only you, pet," he growls, and I gasp as the tearing of my camisole rips through the air. "Only you, ever."
A/N: Christian can be very strange, can't he?
I do apologize for wait, and for the over-indulgence in this chapter, but I love giving them faulty flesh. I've missed you all, and I've missed them ❤ I hope you enjoyed, please leave me your thoughts :)