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“Come. Let me put you to bed. I don’t like sleeping here.” Reluctantly, I shift and turn to face him. “Wait,” I whisper. He blinks at me, looking all wide-eyed and innocent, and at the same time thoroughly fucked and pleased with himself.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He nods, smiling smugly like an adolescent boy. “I am now.”

“Oh, Christian,” I scold and gently stroke his lovely face. “I was talking about your nightmare.”

His expression freezes momentarily, then he closes his eyes and tightens his arms around me, burying his face in my neck.

“Don’t,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and raw. My heart lurches and twists once more in my chest, and I clutch him tightly, running my hands down his back and through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, alarmed by his reaction. Holy fuck—how can I keep up with these mood swings? What the hell was his nightmare about? I don’t want to cause him any more pain by making him relive the details. “It’s okay,” I murmur softly, desperate to bring him back to the playful boy of a moment ago. “It’s okay,” I repeat over and over soothingly.

“Let’s go to bed,” he says quietly after a while, and he pulls away from me, leaving me empty and aching as he rises from the bed. I scramble after him, keeping the satin sheet wrapped around me, and bend to pick up my clothes.

“Leave those,” he says, and before I know it, he scoops me up in his arms. “I don’t want you to trip over this sheet and break your neck.” I put my arms around him marveling that he’s recovered his composure, and nuzzle him as he carries me downstairs to our bedroom.

254/551

My eyes spring open. Something is wrong. Christian is not in bed, though it’s still dark. Glancing at the radio alarm, I see it’s three twenty in the morning. Where’s Christian? Then I hear the piano.

Quickly slipping out of bed, I grab my robe and run down the hallway to the great room. The tune he’s playing is so sad—a mournful lament that I’ve heard him play before. I pause in the doorway and watch him in a pool of light while the achingly sorrowful music fills the room. He finishes then starts the piece again.

Why such a plaintive tune? I wrap my arms around myself and listen spellbound as he plays. But my heart aches. Christian, why so sad? Is it because of me? Did I do this? When he finishes, only to start a third time, I can bear it no longer. He doesn’t look up as I near the piano, but shifts to one side so I can sit beside him on the piano bench. He continues to play, and I put my head on his shoulder. He kisses my hair but doesn’t stop playing until he’s finished the piece. I peek up at him and he’s staring down at me, warily.

“Did I wake you?” he asks.

“Only because you were gone. What’s that piece called?”

“It’s Chopin. It’s one of his preludes in E minor.” Christian pauses. “It’s called Suffocation . . .”

Reaching over I take his hand. “You’re really shaken by all this, aren’t you?” He snorts. “A deranged asshole gets into my apartment to kidnap my wife.

She won’t do as she’s told. She drives me crazy. She safe words on me.” He closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, they are stark and raw.

“Yeah, I’m pretty shaken up.”

I squeeze his hand. “I’m sorry.”

He presses his forehead against mine. “I dreamed you were dead,” he whispers.

What?

“Lying on the floor—so cold—and you wouldn’t wake up.” Oh, Fifty.

“Hey—it was just a bad dream.” Reaching up, I clasp his head in my hands.

His eyes burn into mine and the anguish in them is sobering. “I’m here and I’m cold without you in the bed. Come back to bed, please.” I take his hand and stand, waiting to see if he’ll follow me. Finally he stands, too. He’s wearing his pajama bottoms, and they hang in that way he has, and I want to run my fingers along the inside of his waistband, but I resist and lead him back to the bedroom.

255/551

When I wake he’s curled around me, sleeping peacefully. I relax and enjoy his en-veloping heat, his skin on my skin. I lie very still, not wanting to disturb him.

Boy, what an evening. I feel like I’ve been run over by a train—the freight train that is my husband. Hard to believe that the man lying beside me, looking so serene and young in his sleep, was so tortured last night . . . and so tortured me last night. I gaze up at the ceiling, and it occurs to me that I always think of Christian as strong and dominating—yet the reality is he’s so fragile, my lost boy. And the irony is that he looks upon me as fragile—and I don’t think I am. Compared to him I’m strong.