Anastasia's Point of View:

Christian's gray eyes darken as he searches my face, his grip on my chin tightening just slightly, as if grounding himself. His thumb brushes my bottom lip, his breathing shallow. The space between us hums with tension, a taut string ready to snap.

"Anastasia," he murmurs, his voice rough, weighted with something unspoken.

I swallow, my pulse pounding. "Yes Mr Grey?"

Instead of answering, he lowers his head and captures my mouth in a searing kiss, his lips urgent, possessive. Heat floods through me as I press into him, my hands clutching at his shirt. His arms snake around me, and in one smooth motion, he lifts me off the couch, pressing me flush against his body. The kiss is raw, desperate, as if he's trying to say something without words—something I'm not sure I'm ready to hear.

Christian's lips claim mine with a hunger that borders on desperation, his breath uneven, his grip tight as he pulls me against him. His body is a wall of heat, his restraint barely holding together. I feel the storm in him—frustration, fear, need—poured into every kiss, every touch, every claim.

A sharp gasp escapes me as he walks with me in his arms and lowers me onto the desk, his hands sliding up my thighs, fingers pressing in with a firm, possessive grip. His touch lingers at the waistband of my pants, fingers slipping beneath, teasing but not giving me what I need. He holds me like he needs proof that I'm here, real, his.

"You drive me fucking insane," he rasps against my lips, his voice raw, edged with something darker.

His teeth scrape along my jaw, then lower, grazing the sensitive skin of my throat. My pulse stutters, a shiver rolling through me as heat pools deep in my belly.

"You're impossible," I breathe, but my voice betrays me—already lost, already his.

Christian smirks against my skin, his breath hot as he drags his lips lower. "And yet, you're still here."

His hands roam higher, fingers toying with the button of my pants, a deliberate tease. My hips arch into him, silently begging. He knows exactly what he's doing.

His other hand captures my wrists, pinning them above my head against the desk. His grip is firm, unyielding.

"Still so stubborn," he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement, with desire.

"Christian—" My plea barely leaves my lips before his fingers dip lower—

And then, the library door slams open.

I jolt, body tensing, but Christian doesn't move right away. He stays exactly where he is, his grip still firm on my wrists, his body still pressed between my thighs. His expression? Murderous.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," comes Prescott's dry voice.

Christian exhales sharply through his nose, his forehead dropping against my shoulder. I squeeze my eyes shut, mortification heating my face. Christian pulls his hand away from my waistband.

"Prescott," Christian growls, his voice dangerously low, vibrating against my skin.

"Am I interrupting?" she asks, far too amused.

I push at Christian's shoulders, forcing him to let me up, my fingers fumbling to smooth my clothes. My skin is still flushed, my breath uneven. Christian, however, remains where he is, his jaw clenched so tightly I can hear his teeth grinding.

"You could have radioed me." I say dryly.

Prescott crosses her arms, barely restraining her smirk. "I could've radioed, but honestly? This was much more entertaining."

Christian takes a slow, deliberate step toward her, his entire frame rigid with unspent tension. "You have three seconds to explain why the hell you're here before I personally throw you out."

She doesn't even flinch. "Mia's having a fit. Apparently, I'm not you, so she refuses to calm down." Her gaze flicks to me. "Which means your little… moment here will have to wait."

Christian inhales deeply, his fingers flexing like he's seconds away from snapping.

"No," he says flatly.

I blink. "Mr Grey—"

He turns his head slightly, his gaze never leaving Prescott's. "Mia can wait."

Prescott raises an eyebrow, clearly biting back a laugh. "Oh, can she?"

"Yes," Christian says smoothly. "And if she can't, then she'll learn."

I groan, rubbing my temples. "You're unbelievable."

Prescott snorts. "You have no idea."

Christian doesn't even acknowledge the comment. His eyes are back on me, heated, determined. His fingers skim along my thigh, a deliberate reminder of exactly where we were before we were interrupted.

"I really should go—"

His grip tightens. "No."

I inhale sharply.

Prescott hums, clearly enjoying this too much. "Well, I'd love to stay and see how this plays out, but I'm going to go deal with your detail while you…" She gestures vaguely at us. "Continue whatever this is."

Christian doesn't even look at her.

Prescott grins as she steps back toward the door. "Oh, and Ana?" She winks. "Try not to get too comfortable. Wouldn't want you losing your edge."

The door clicks shut behind her, and Christian releases a slow breath, his fingers still tracing idle patterns against my hip.

"I really hate her," he mutters.

I huff out a small laugh, shaking my head. "Join the club."

His gaze snaps back to me, dark and intent. Before I can take a step, his hand is back at my waist, yanking me against him in one smooth motion.

"Now," he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear, "where were we?"

I laugh, still breathless. "Christian—"

"I was about to have you," he interrupts, his fingers already sliding along my waistband, toying with the button of my pants.

I gasp, my body responding instantly.

"You are insatiable."

Christian smirks, his eyes filled with nothing but wicked promise. "And you love it."

I don't argue. Because he's right.

But as much as I want to stay lost in Christian's touch, reality snaps me back. I pull away, breathless, placing a hand on his shoulder to still him.

"Wait," I murmur, swallowing hard.

His gray eyes flicker with frustration and something darker. "Wait?" The word drips with disbelief, his grip tightening on my hips. "Anastasia, you're testing my patience."

I place a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth, a silent apology. "I need to check on Mia first."

His expression darkens. "Mia is fine."

I sigh. "I know. But if I don't check, Prescott will assume the worst and start running her mouth about us."

Christian exhales sharply, his jaw tightening. "Let her talk," he mutters, brushing my hair back. "I don't care what anyone thinks."

I smirk. "You say that now, but people like Samantha would love nothing more than to scrutinize our every move."

He glares at me for a long moment, then exhales, his grip loosening. His fingers brush over the fabric of my pants, a lingering touch, as if reluctant to let me go. "Fine. But don't keep me waiting."

His tone is low, almost a warning, and the promise in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine. I swallow hard, nodding.

"I won't," I whisper.

I make it to the door before his voice stops me.

"But Anastasia," he calls, and I don't have to turn around to know he's smirking. "This conversation isn't over."

No, it's definitely not over.

And that's exactly what worries me.

I watch Prescott disappear down the hall, my fingers twitching with the urge to throw a knife right between her smug little eyes. But I don't. Not yet.

She wants a war? Fine.

But I don't fight messy. I fight smart.

I take a breath, steadying my pulse, and push back into Mia's room. She's still curled up on the bed, but now she's gripping the comforter instead of idly tracing patterns. Her jaw is tight, and when her eyes flick to me, they're shining with unshed tears.

"Everything okay?" she asks, her voice thick.

I school my expression into something neutral. "Yeah."

Mia's lips press together, like she knows I'm lying but doesn't have the energy to call me on it. Instead, she exhales sharply and shifts, tucking her legs beneath her. "I heard Prescott."

I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face. "She's an acquired taste."

Mia snorts, but there's no real amusement in it. "More like an acquired headache."

I smirk despite myself. "Something like that."

For a moment, the tension settles. But then Mia's fingers tighten in the blanket, and she glances down, voice quieter.

"Samantha and I had a fight," she murmurs.

I straighten slightly. "What happened?"

Mia shakes her head, her throat bobbing as she swallows hard. "She—she was acting weird all night. Distant. And when I asked her about it, she just… snapped. Said I wouldn't understand. That I'm—" Her voice catches, and she drags a hand through her hair, blinking fast. "That I'm too spoiled to get it."

I exhale slowly. "Mia—"

"She's not wrong," she cuts in bitterly, hugging her arms around herself. "I have everything, right? The name, the money, the security. But it doesn't mean people don't leave anyway."

Her voice cracks on the last word, and something twists in my chest. I move to sit beside her, leaning forward, elbows on my knees.

"Mia, having privilege doesn't mean you don't get hurt. It doesn't make it easier when people walk away."

She huffs a laugh, but it's hollow. "Then why does it feel like I should just suck it up?"

I don't have a good answer for that. So instead, I just say the only thing that matters.

"You're not a liability. And this isn't just a job for me."

She hesitates, then meets my gaze. "Then what is it?"

I think about that for a second. How do I even begin to explain?

It's not just about duty. Not just about orders. It's about the way I failed once before—how I let my guard slip, how I got captured, how it nearly broke me. It's about making damn sure that never happens again. Not to me. Not to her. Not to anyone under my protection.

"It's making sure nothing happens to you," I say finally. "No matter what."

Mia watches me, something unreadable in her eyes. Then, without warning, she throws her arms around me.

I stiffen for half a second before I force myself to relax, returning the hug.

"I don't say it enough," she mutters, voice muffled against my shoulder. "But… thank you, Ana. For everything."

Something in my chest tightens. I swallow past the lump in my throat and squeeze her just a little tighter.

"You don't have to thank me," I murmur. "Just promise me you'll listen next time I tell you to do something."

Mia exhales a shaky laugh. "No promises."

I pull back, giving her a dry look. "Mia."

She smirks weakly, but there's still hurt in her eyes. "Okay, okay. I promise."

A knock at the door—less obnoxious than Prescott's.

I tense instinctively before I hear Christian's voice.

"Anastasia."

Mia raises an eyebrow. "And here I thought I was your priority."

I roll my eyes. "You are."

Mia snorts. "Uh-huh. Go. Before he tears the whole penthouse apart looking for you."

She's teasing, but we both know it's not entirely a joke.

I stand, smoothing down my clothes, and head for the door. The second I pull it open, Christian is there—broad, tense, his gray eyes sharp and assessing.

"Is she okay?" he asks immediately.

"She's fine," I assure him.

Christian nods, exhaling, his shoulders loosening just a fraction. But his gaze flicks over me, lingering, like he's reading something beneath the surface.

I know what he's looking for. Signs. Cracks.

I step out of the room, closing the door behind me. "Christian—"

His hand is suddenly at my waist, his grip firm as he pulls me just slightly closer. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to remind me of exactly where we left off.

"Are you?" he murmurs.

The air shifts.

I know what he's asking. And it has nothing to do with Mia.

I square my shoulders, ignoring the way my pulse spikes from the heat of his touch. "I'm fine."

His eyes darken, like he doesn't quite believe me. But he doesn't push.

Instead, he dips his head slightly, his voice dropping lower. "I hate when you leave me waiting."

A shiver rolls through me, but I keep my expression neutral. "You'll live."

Christian smirks. "Debatable."

Before I can respond, his fingers skim the bare skin of my wrist, tracing over the pulse point there—light, teasing, enough to make my breath hitch.

"You're toying with me," I murmur.

His smirk deepens. "You make it too easy."

I narrow my eyes, but the effect is ruined by the way my heart slams against my ribs.

Damn him.

His grip tightens, just enough to remind me exactly how easily he could pull me back—back into the library, back into his hands, back into the heat of everything we never really finished.

But I step away.

Not because I want to.

But because I have to.

Christian exhales through his nose, watching me, his expression unreadable.

"This conversation isn't over," he says, echoing his words from earlier.

I smirk. "It never is."

I turn and walk away before I do something reckless.

Because Christian Grey might be insatiable.

But so am I.

And eventually, one of us is going to break.

The hum of the refrigerator filled the dimly lit staff kitchen, a steady, mechanical drone beneath the weight of my exhaustion. My muscles ached from the long day, and all I wanted was a hot shower. But the second I stepped inside, I knew I wasn't alone.

Prescott leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a coffee mug in hand. Her sharp eyes flicked up at me, a smirk already curling at the edges of her lips.

"Well, well," she mused, tilting her head. "If it isn't the princess herself."

I sighed inwardly. I was too exhausted for this. "Prescott." I kept my tone neutral, moving toward the door leading to the hall where our rooms are.

"You in a rush?" she taunted. "Got somewhere important to be? Or are you just running off to go play dress-up again?"

I paused, turning just enough to look at her. "I'm tired, Prescott. If you've got something to say, say it."

Her smirk widened as she pushed off the counter, stepping closer. "Fine. Let's cut the pretence. We all know why you're here, Steele. A favour from dear Uncle Jason, a well-placed connection—your little golden ticket. You didn't fight for this. You didn't bleed for it. It was handed to you on a silver platter."

I exhaled through my nose, fists tightening inside my pockets. "If that's what you need to tell yourself."

She scoffed. "Oh, come on. We both know you wouldn't be anywhere near this job if it weren't for him. Hell, you're not even on the official team. You're just… around." She shrugged, feigning innocence. "A pretty face with just enough influence to make herself useful."

I let out a slow, measured breath, refusing to let her see that she was getting to me. She has no idea.

"You're jealous," I said, my voice flat, unbothered.

That got a reaction. Prescott's smirk twitched, but she covered it quickly. "Jealous? Of you?" She let out a sharp, humourless laugh. "That's rich."

I tilted my head, watching her, reading the way her shoulders tensed. "You can't stand that I'm trusted more than you are. That I have insight no one else does. That I'm closer to the people who actually make decisions."

Her nostrils flared. "You're close because you weaseled your way in. Because you made yourself indispensable in ways that have nothing to do with actual skill." Her eyes glinted with something mean. "A conveniently timed… entanglement certainly helped, didn't it?"

I went still.

She was talking about Christian.

The casual way she threw it out, like it was nothing, like my connection to him was some ploy—it grated against something deep inside me.

"I've proven myself," I said, my voice quiet but laced with steel. "Over and over again."

Prescott snorted. "Right. You've helped. That's adorable. But tell me, how long before your luck runs out? Before someone gets hurt because you're in over your head? Before Mr Grey realizes he made a mistake—giving you too much leeway, letting you think you actually belong?"

I stepped closer, setting my bag down deliberately. "Don't talk to me like that." My voice was low, dangerous. "You have no idea what I've been through. What I've earned."

"Oh, I have a pretty good idea," she shot back. "You're playing a dangerous game, Steele. And when it catches up to you, don't expect your precious Jason or your Prince Charming to save you. Because when it comes down to it, you're just… a decoration."

Something in me snapped.

"You know what, Prescott?" My voice cut through the hum of the kitchen, sharp as a blade. She paused, glancing back over her shoulder, clearly waiting for me to take the bait.

I didn't disappoint.

"You act like you're above all of this, like you're some kind of untouchable authority," I continued, stepping forward, forcing her to turn fully toward me. "But let's be honest—you're just pissed that you'll never be more than a glorified babysitter with a superiority complex."

Her smirk vanished. "Excuse me?"

I stepped in closer, toe to toe. "You heard me."

Before I could react, she lunged.

The slap never came.

Instead, her fist drove into my cheekbone, sharp and brutal.

Pain exploded through my skull, radiating down my jaw, but I barely moved. My head only turned slightly from the force, my body absorbing it without so much as a stumble. The slow burn spread across my skin like a brand, a dull ache settling in.

A muscle in my jaw ticked. I inhaled through my nose, steady, controlled. If she wanted a reaction, she'd have to try harder.

Prescott took another step forward, emboldened. "Come on, Steele. Show me what you're really made of."

I didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just stared at her. And that, more than anything, seemed to set her off.

With a growl of frustration, she swung again—faster, wilder. This time, I caught her wrist mid-strike, my fingers locking around it like iron. Her breath hitched as she realized she wasn't getting another hit in.

I twisted her arm sharply, sending her off balance, and in one swift motion, I spun her and slammed her against the wall. The impact rattled the dishes on the counter. My forearm pressed firmly against her throat—not enough to choke her, but enough to remind her that I could.

She struggled, squirming against my grip, but I held steady, my voice low and razor-sharp.

"You think I'm nothing?" My breath was even. My pulse steady. "Then tell me—why are you struggling?"

Her nostrils flared, her chest rising and falling with fast, shallow breaths. I felt her muscles tense, preparing to fight back, but I was faster. I leaned in just enough for my words to brush against her skin.

"You act like you've got me figured out," I murmured, voice like a blade. "If that were true, you'd have known better than to throw the first punch."

Her glare was pure venom, but underneath it, there was something else—hesitation.

"Let me go." Her voice was tight, forced.

I smiled, just slightly. "You're free to move whenever you want, Samantha." I pressed the tiniest bit harder against her throat, feeling the tremor in her body. "So why aren't you?"

Her jaw clenched. She was furious. Embarrassed. And, for the first time, uncertain.

I held her there for another beat, letting the message sink in. Then, just as suddenly as I'd grabbed her, I released her and stepped back, my movements calm and effortless, as if she had never been a threat to begin with.

Prescott gasped as she stumbled forward, immediately righting herself. She rolled her shoulder, but I saw the faint tremor in her hands. She wanted to say something—to hurl another insult, to claw back some sense of control—but she couldn't.

I simply watched her, waiting.

The kitchen door slammed open.

Jason.

His sharp gaze swept over the scene—Prescott flushed and rattled, me standing untouched, completely unbothered. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes. Recognition. Understanding.

"Samantha." His voice was calm, but laced with steel. "Outside. Now."

She hesitated, nostrils flaring, but she knew better than to argue. Still, she scoffed, rolling her eyes as she straightened.

"Of course." She sneered as she brushed past me. But just before stepping out the door, she muttered under her breath, "Should've known Jason would come to your rescue."

Jason's jaw ticked, but he didn't react.

The door swung shut behind her, leaving the room thick with tension.

Jason exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "You alright?"

I flexed my fingers, the sting in my cheek already fading. "Just a misunderstanding."

He studied me for a beat, then smirked. "You didn't hit her."

It wasn't a question.

I shrugged, a ghost of a smile playing on my lips. "Didn't need to."

Jason let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "No, I guess you didn't."

Without another word, he turned, following Prescott out.

I let out a breath, rolling my shoulders.

A mistake she won't make twice.