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As I dry my hair, I think about Elizabeth.

“I still don’t understand why Elizabeth was involved with Jack.”

“I do,” Christian mutters darkly.

This is news. I frown up at him, but I’m distracted. He’s drying his hair with a towel, his chest and shoulders still wet with beads of water that glint beneath the halogens. He pauses and smirks.

“Enjoying the view?”

“How do you know?” I ask, trying to ignore that I’ve been caught staring at my own husband.

“That you’re enjoying the view?” he teases.

“No,” I scold. “About Elizabeth.”

“Detective Clark hinted at it.”

I give him my tell-me-more expression, and another nagging memory from when I was unconscious resurfaces. Clark was in my room. I wish I could remember what he said.

“Hyde had videos. Videos of all of them. On several USB flash drives.” What? I frown, my skin tightening across my forehead.

“Videos of him fucking her and fucking all his PAs.” Oh!

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“Exactly. Blackmail material. He likes it rough.” Christian frowns, and I watch confusion followed by disgust cross his face. He pales as his disgust turns to self-loathing. Of course—Christian likes it rough, too.

“Don’t.” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

His frown deepens. “Don’t what?” He stills and regards me with apprehension.

“You aren’t anything like him.”

Christian’s eyes harden, but he says nothing, confirming that’s exactly what he’s thinking.

“You’re not.” My voice is adamant.

“We’re cut from the same cloth.”

“No, you’re not,” I snap, though I understand why he might think so. “His dad died in a brawl in a bar. His mother drank herself into oblivion. He was in and out of foster homes as a kid, in and out of trouble, too—mainly boosting cars.

Spent time in juvie.” I recall the information Christian revealed on the plane to Aspen.

“You both have troubled pasts, and you were both born in Detroit. That’s it, Christian.” I fist my hands on my hips.

“Ana, your faith in me is touching, especially in light of the last few days.

We’ll know more when Welch is here.” He’s dismissing the subject.

“Christian—”

He stops me with a kiss. “Enough,” he breathes, and I remember the promise I made to myself not to hound him for information.

“And don’t pout,” he adds. “Come. Let me dry your hair.” And I know the subject is closed.

After dressing in sweatpants and a T-shirt, I sit between Christian’s legs as he dries my hair.

“So did Clark tell you anything else while I was unconscious?”

“Not that I recall.”

“I heard a few of your conversations.”

The hairbrush stills in my hair.

“Did you?” he asks, his tone nonchalant.

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“Yes. My dad, your dad, Detective Clark . . . your mom.”

“And Kate?”

“Kate was there?”

“Briefly, yes. She’s mad at you, too.”

I turn in his lap. “Stop with the everyone is mad at Ana crap, okay?”

“Just telling you the truth,” Christian says, bemused by my outburst.

“Yes, it was reckless, but you know, your sister was in danger.” His face falls. “Yes. She was.” Switching off the hairdryer, he puts it down on the bed beside him. He grasps my chin.

“Thank you,” he says, surprising me. “But no more recklessness. Because next time, I will spank the living shit out of you.” I gasp.

“You wouldn’t!”

“I would.” He’s serious. Holy cow. Deadly serious. “I have your stepfather’s permission.” He smirks. He’s teasing me! Or is he? I launch myself at him, and he twists so that I fall onto the bed and into his arms. As I land, pain from my ribs shoots through me and I wince.

Christian pales. “Behave!” he admonishes, and for a moment he’s angry.

“Sorry,” I mumble, caressing his cheek.

He nuzzles my hand and kisses it gently. “Honestly, Ana, you really have no regard for your own safety.” He tugs up the hem of my T-shirt then rests his fingers on my belly. I stop breathing. “It’s not just you anymore,” he whispers, trailing his fingertips along the waistband of my sweats, caressing my skin. Desire explodes unexpected, hot, and heavy in my blood. I gasp and Christian tenses, halting his fingers and gazing down at me. He moves his hand up and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

“No,” he whispers.

What?

“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve seen the bruises. And the answer’s no.” His voice is firm, and he kisses my forehead.

I squirm. “Christian,” I whine.

“No. Get into bed.” He sits up.

“Bed?”

“You need rest.”

“I need you.”

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He closes his eyes and shakes his head as if it’s a great effort of will. When he opens them again, his eyes are bright with his resolve. “Just do as you’re told, Ana.”

I’m tempted to take off all my clothes, but then I remember the bruises and know I won’t win that way.

Reluctantly, I nod. “Okay.” I deliberately give him an exaggerated pout.

He grins, amused. “I’ll bring you some lunch.”

“You’re going to cook?” I nearly expire.

He has the grace to laugh. “I’m going to heat something up. Mrs. Jones has been busy.”