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“What?” I ask with my mouth full.

“I like to watch you eat,” he says. But I don’t think that’s what he’s smirking about. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” I mutter between mouthfuls.

“I’ve never seen you eat like this.”

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I glance up at him, and my heart sinks. We have to address the very tiny ele-phant in the room. “It’s because I’m pregnant, Christian.” He snorts, and his mouth twists into an ironic smile. “If I knew getting you knocked up was going to make you eat, I might have done it earlier.”

“Christian Grey!” I gasp and set the oatmeal down.

“Don’t stop eating,” he warns.

“Christian, we need to talk about this.”

He stills. “What’s there to say? We’re going to be parents.” He shrugs, desperately trying to look nonchalant, but all I can see is his fear. Pushing the tray aside, I crawl down the bed to him and take his hands in mine.

“You’re scared,” I whisper. “I get it.”

He gazes at me, impassive, his eyes wide and all his earlier boyishness stripped away.

“I am, too. That’s normal,” I whisper.

“What kind of father could I possibly be?” His voice is hoarse, barely audible.

“Oh, Christian.” I stifle a sob. “One that tries his best. That’s all any of us can do.”

“Ana—I don’t know if I can . . .”

“Of course you can. You’re loving, you’re fun, you’re strong, you’ll set boundaries. Our child will want for nothing.” He’s frozen, staring at me, doubt etched on his beautiful face.

“Yes, it would have been ideal to have waited. To have longer, just the two of us. But we’ll be three of us, and we’ll all grow up together. We’ll be a family. Our own family. And your child will love you unconditionally, like I do.” Tears spring to my eyes.

“Oh, Ana,” Christian whispers, his voice anguished and pained. “I thought I’d lost you. Then I thought I’d lost you again. Seeing you lying on the ground, pale and cold and unconscious—it was all my worst fears realized. And now here you are—brave and strong . . . giving me hope. Loving me after all that I’ve done.”

“Yes, I do love you, Christian, desperately. I always will.” Gently taking my head between his hands, he wipes my tears away with his thumbs. He gazes into my eyes, gray to blue, and all I see is his fear and wonder and love.

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“I love you, too,” he breathes. And he kisses me sweetly, tenderly like a man who adores his wife. “I’ll try to be a good father,” he whispers against my lips.

“You’ll try, and you’ll succeed. And let’s face it; you don’t have much choice in the matter, because Blip and I are not going anywhere.”

“Blip?”

“Blip.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I had the name Junior in my head.”

“Junior it is, then.”

“But I like Blip.” He smiles his shy smile and kisses me once more.

“Much as I’d like to kiss you all day, your breakfast is getting cold,” Christian murmurs against my lips. He gazes down at me, now amused, except his eyes are darker, sensual. Holy cow, he’s switched again. My Mr. Mercurial.

“Eat,” he orders, his voice soft. I swallow, a reaction to his smoldering look, and crawl back into bed, avoiding snagging my IV line. He pushes the tray in front of me. The oatmeal is cold, but the pancakes under the cover are fine—in fact, they’re mouthwatering.

“You know,” I mutter between mouthfuls, “Blip might be a girl.” 460/551

Christian runs his hand through his hair. “Two women, eh?” Alarm flashes across his face, and his dark look vanishes.

Oh crap. “Do you have a preference?”

“Preference?”

“Boy or girl.”

He frowns. “Healthy will do,” he says quietly clearly disconcerted by the question. “Eat,” he snaps, and I know he’s trying to avoid the subject.

“I’m eating, I’m eating . . . Jeez, keep your hair on, Grey.” I watch him carefully. The corners of his eyes are crinkled with worry. He’s said he’ll try, but I know he’s still freaked out by the baby. Oh, Christian, so am I. He sits down in the armchair beside me, picking up the Seattle Times .

“You made the papers again, Mrs. Grey.” His is tone bitter.

“Again?”

“The hacks are just rehashing yesterday’s story, but it seems factually accur-ate. You want to read it?”

I shake my head. “Read it to me. I’m eating.” He smirks and proceeds to read the article aloud. It’s a report on Jack and Elizabeth, depicting them as a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde. It briefly covers Mia’s kidnapping, my involvement in Mia’s rescue, and the fact that both Jack and I are in the same hospital. How does the press get all this information? I must ask Kate.

When Christian finishes, I say, “Please read something else. I like listening to you.”

He obliges and reads me a report about a booming bagel business and the fact that Boeing has had to cancel the launch of some plane. Christian frowns as he reads. But listening to his soothing voice as I eat, secure in the knowledge that I am fine, Mia is safe and my Little Blip is safe, I feel a precious moment of peace despite all that has happened over the last few days.

I understand that Christian is scared about the baby, but I don’t understand the depth of his fear. I resolve to talk to him some more about this. See if I can put his mind at ease. What puzzles me is that he hasn’t lacked for positive role models as parents. Both Grace and Carrick are exemplary parents, or so they seem.

Maybe it was the Bitch Troll’s interference that damaged him so badly. I’d like to think so. But in truth I think it goes back to his birth mom, though I’m sure Mrs.

Robinson didn’t help. I halt my thoughts as I nearly recall a whispered 461/551

conversation. Damn! It hovers on the edge of my memory from when I was unconscious. Christian talking with Grace. It melts away into the shadows of my mind. Oh, it’s so frustrating.

I wonder if Christian will ever volunteer the reason he went to see her or if I’ll have to push him. I’m about to ask when there’s a knock on the door.

Detective Clark makes an apologetic entry into the room. He’s right to be apologetic—my heart sinks when I see him.

“Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey. Am I interrupting?”

“Yes,” snaps Christian.

Clark ignores him. “Glad to see you’re awake, Mrs. Grey. I need to ask you a few questions about Thursday afternoon. Just routine. Is now a convenient time?”

“Sure,” I mumble, but I do not want to relive Thursday’s events.

“My wife should be resting.” Christian bristles.

“I’ll be brief, Mr. Grey. And it means I’ll be out of your hair sooner rather than later.”

Christian stands and offers Clark his chair, then sits down beside me on the bed, takes my hand, and squeezes it reassuringly.

Half an hour later, Clark is done. I’ve learned nothing new, but I have recounted the events of Thursday to him in a halting, quiet voice, watching Christian go pale and grimace at some parts.

“I wish you’d aimed higher,” Christian mutters.

“Might have done womankind a service if Mrs. Grey had.” Clark agrees.

What?

“Thank you, Mrs. Grey. That’s all for now.”

“You won’t let him out again, will you?”

“I don’t think he’ll make bail this time, ma’am.”

“Do we know who posted his bail?” Christian asks.

“No sir. It was confidential.”

Christian frowns, but I think he has his suspicions. Clark rises to leave just as Dr. Singh and two interns enter the room.