Fifty Shades Darker (book 5)

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Behind me I hear Taylor breathe a sigh of relief.

And it's echoed in mine.

Oh, thank God.

Slowly I move toward her and pick up the gun, slipping it into my jacket pocket.

Now that she's no longer an immediate threat, I need to get Ana out of the apartment and away from her. Deep down I know I will never forgive Leila for this. I know she's unwell-broken, even. But to threaten Ana?

Unforgivable.

I stand over Leila, putting myself between her and Ana. Still not taking my eyes off Leila as she kneels with quiet grace on the floor. "Anastasia, go with Taylor," I say.

"Ethan?" she whispers, and there's a tremor in her voice.

"Downstairs," I inform her.

Taylor is waiting for Ana, who doesn't move.

Please, Ana. Go.

"Anastasia," I prompt.

Go.

She remains rooted to the floor.

I step beside Leila and still Ana won't move. "For the love of God, Anastasia, will you do as you're told for once in your life and go!" Our eyes lock and I implore her to leave. I can't do this with her here. I don't know how stable Leila is; she needs help, and she might hurt Ana.

I try to convey this to Ana with my beseeching look.

But she's ashen. She's in shock.

Shit. She's had a fright, Grey. She can't move.

"Taylor. Take Miss Steele downstairs. Now."

Taylor nods and makes a move to Ana.

"Why?" Ana whispers.

"Go. Back to the apartment. I need to be alone with Leila."

Please. I need you out of harm's way.

She looks from me to Leila.

Ana. Go. Please. I need to take care of this problem.

"Miss Steele. Ana." Taylor holds his hand out to Anastasia.

"Taylor," I urge. Without hesitation, he scoops Ana into his arms and leaves the apartment.

Thank fuck.

I let out a deep breath and caress Leila's filthy, matted hair as the door to the apartment closes.

We are on our own.

I step back. "Get up."

Awkwardly, Leila rises to her feet, but her eyes remain on the floor.

"Look at me," I whisper.

Slowly, she lifts her head, and her pain is visible on her face. Tears spring to her eyes and start to trickle down her cheeks. "Oh, Leila," I whisper, and I embrace her.

Fuck.

The smell.

She stinks of poverty and neglect and homelessness.

And I'm back in a small, badly lit apartment above a cheap liquor store in Detroit.

She smells of him.

His boots.

His unwashed body.

His squalor.

Saliva pools in my mouth and I gag. Once. It's hard to bear.

Hell.

But she doesn't notice. I hold her as she weeps and weeps and weeps, snot-sobbing all over my jacket.

I hold her.

Trying not to retch..

Trying to banish the stench.

A stench so achingly familiar. And so unwelcome.

"Hush," I whisper. "Hush."

When she's gasping for air and her body is racked with dry sobs, I release her. "You need a bath."

Taking her hand, I lead her to Kate's bedroom and the ensuite. It's roomy like Ana said. There's a shower, a bath, and a selection of expensive toiletries on display. I shut the door and I'm tempted to lock it; I don't want her to run. But she stands, meek and quiet, as she shudders with each dry sob. "It's okay," I murmur. "I'm here."

I turn on the faucet and hot water buckets into the spacious bath. I squirt some bath oil into the cascade, and soon the stifling fragrance of lilies is overcoming Leila's stench.

She begins to shiver.

"Do you want a bath?" I ask.

She looks down at the foaming suds and then at me. She nods.

"Can I take off your coat?"

She nods once more. And, using only the tips of my fingers, I peel it from her body. It's beyond salvation. It'll need burning.

Beneath, her clothes hang off her. She's wearing a grubby pink blouse and a pair of grungy slacks of an indeterminate color. They're also beyond rescue. Around her wrist is a tattered, soiled bandage.

"These clothes, they need to come off. Okay?"

She nods.

"Arms up."

Dutifully she complies, and I pull off her blouse and try not to register my shock at her appearance. She's emaciated, all jutting bones and pointed angles, a sharp contrast to the Leila of old. It's sickening.

This is my fault; I should have found her earlier.

I tug down her slacks.

"Step out." I hold her hand.

She does, and I add her slacks to the pile of rags.

She's shaking.

"Hey. It's okay. We're going to get you some help. Okay?"

She nods but remains impassive.

I take her hand and undo the bandage. I think it should have been changed; the smell is putrid. I retch but don't vomit. The scar on her wrist is livid but miraculously looks clean. I discard the bandage and dressing.

"You'll need to take those off." I'm referring to her grubby underwear. She looks at me. "No. You do it," I say and turn around to give her a modicum of privacy. I hear her move, a scraping of her flats on the bathroom floor, and when she stops I turn around and she's naked.

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