a soft glowing beacon in the cool cast of the moon.

“Christian, I’d like to go to church tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“I prayed you’d come back alive and you did. It’s the least I could do.”

“Okay.”

We wander hand in hand in a relaxed silence for a few moments. Then something oc-

curs to me.

“Where are you going to put the photos José took of me?”

“I thought we might put them in the new house.”

“You bought it?”

He stops to stare at me, and his voice full of concern. “Yes. I thought you liked it.”

“I do. When did you buy it?”

“Yesterday morning. Now we need to decide what to do with it,” he murmurs, relieved.

“Don’t knock it down. Please. It’s such a lovely house. It just needs some tender loving

care.”

Christian glances at me and smiles. “Okay. I’ll talk to Elliot. He knows a good archi-

tect; she did some work on my place is Aspen. He can do the remodeling.”

I snort, suddenly remembering the last time we crossed the lawn under the moonlight

to the boathouse. Oh, perhaps that’s what we’re going to do now. I grin.

“What?”

“I remember the last time you took me to the boathouse.”

Christian chuckles quietly. “Oh, that was fun. In fact . . .” He suddenly stops and

scoops me over his shoulder, and I squeal, though we don’t have far to go.

“You were really angry, if I remember correctly,” I gasp.

“Anastasia, I’m always really angry.”

“No you’re not.”

He swats my behind as he stops outside the wooden door. He slides me down his body

back to the ground and takes my head in his hands.

“No, not anymore.” Leaning down, he kisses me, hard. When he pulls away, I’m

breathless and desire is racing round my body.

He gazes down at me, and in the glow of the strip of light coming from inside the

boathouse, I can see he’s anxious. My anxious man, not a white knight or a dark knight, but

a man—a beautiful, not-quite-so-fucked-up man—whom I love. I reach up and caress his

face, running my fingers through his sideburns and along his jaw to his chin, then let my

index finger touch his lips. He relaxes.

“I’ve something to show you in here,” he murmurs and opens the door.

The harsh light of the fluorescents illuminates the impressive motor launch in the dock,

bobbing gently on the dark water. There’s a row boat beside it.

“Come.” Christian takes my hand and leads me up the wooden stairs. Opening the door

at the top, he steps aside to let me in.

My mouth drops to the floor. The attic is unrecognizable. The room is filled with flow-

ers . . . there are flowers everywhere. Someone has created a magical bower of beautiful

wild meadow flowers mixed with glowing fairy lights and miniature lanterns that glow soft

and pale round the room.

My face whips round to meet his, and he’s gazing at me, his expression unreadable.

He shrugs.

“You wanted hearts and flowers,” he murmurs.

I blink at him, not quite believing what I’m seeing.

“You have my heart.” And he waves toward the room.

“And here are the flowers,” I whisper, completing his sentence. “Christian, it’s lovely.”

I can’t think of what else to say. My heart is in my mouth as tears prick my eyes.

Tugging my hand, he pulls me into the room, and before I know it, he’s sinking to one

knee in front of me. Holy hell . . . I did not expect this!I stop breathing.

From his inside jacket pocket he produces a ring and gazes up at me, his eyes bright

gray and raw, full of emotion.

“Anastasia Steele. I love you. I want to love, cherish, and protect you for the rest of my

life. Be mine. Always. Share my life with me. Marry me.”

I blink down at him as my tears fall. My Fifty, my man. I love him so, and all I can say

as the tidal wave of emotion hits me is, “Yes.”

He grins, relieved, and slowly slides the ring on my finger. It’s beautiful, an oval dia-

mond in a platinum ring. Jeez—it’s big . . .Big, but oh-so-simple and stunning in its sim-

plicity.

“Oh, Christian,” I sob, suddenly overwhelmed with joy, and I join him on my knees,

my fingers fisting in his hair as I kiss him, kiss him with all my heart and soul. Kiss this

beautiful man, who loves me as I love him; and as he wraps his arms around me, his hands

moving to my hair, his mouth on mine. I know deep down I will always be his, and he will

always be mine. We’ve come so far together, we have so far to go, but we are made for each

other. We are meant to be.

The cigarette end glows brightly in the darkness as he takes a deep pull. He blows the

smoke out in a long exhale, finishing with two smoke rings that dissolve in front of him,

pale and ghostly in the moonlight. He shifts in his seat, bored, and takes a quick shot of

cheap bourbon from a bottle wrapped in shabby brown paper before resting it back be-

tween his thighs.

He can’t believe he’s still on the trail. His mouth twists in a sardonic sneer. The heli-

copter had been a rash and bold move. One of the most exhilarating things he’d ever done

in his life. But to no avail. He rolls his eyes ironically. Who would have thought the son-of-

a-bitch could actually fly the fucker?

He snorts.

They have underestimated him. If Grey thought for one minute he’d go whimpering

quietly into the dusk, that prick didn’t know jack shit.

It had been the same all his life. People constantly underestimating him—just a man

who reads books. Fuck that! A man with a photographic memory who reads books. Oh,

the things he’s learned, the things he knows. He snorts again— Yeah, about you, Grey. The

things I know about you.

Not bad for a kid from the gutter end of Detroit.

Not bad for the kid who won a scholarship to Princeton.

Not bad for the kid who worked his ass off through college and got into publishing.

And now all of that’s fucked, fucked because of Grey and his little bitch. He scowls

at the house as if it represents everything he despises. But there’s nothing doing. The only

drama had been the stacked, blond broad in black, teetering down the driveway in tears

before she climbed into the white CLK and fucked off.

He chuckles mirthlessly, then winces. Fuck, his ribs. Still sore from the swift kicking

Grey’s henchman delivered.

He replays the scene in his mind. “You fucking touch Miss Steele again, I’ll fucking

kill you.”

That motherfucker will get it good, too. Yeah—get what’s coming to him.

He settles back in his seat. Looks like it’s going to be a long night.He’ll stay, watch,

and wait. He takes another toke of his Marlboro red. His chance will come. His chance will

come soon.

End of Part Two . . .