50 shades darker

Chapter 8

Everything in it is entirely imaginary and intended only for entertainment; I created it for fun. I did not write 50 Shades darker or any of its characters, and I do not own them.Chapter 8 

Sawyer talks into his sleeve again.

"Taylor, Mr. Styles has entered the apartment." He flinches and grabs the earpiece, pulling it out of his ear, presumably receiving some powerful invective from Taylor.

Oh no—if Taylor is worried . . .

"Please let me go in," I plead.

"Sorry, Mr. Tomlinson. This won't take long." Sawyer holds both hands up in a defensive gesture. "Taylor and the guys are just coming into the apartment now." Oh. I feel so impotent. Standing stock-still, I listen avidly for the slightest sound, but all I hear is my aggravated breathing. It's loud and shallow, my scalp prickles, my mouth is dry, and I feel faint. Please, let Harry be okay, I pray silently.

I have no idea how much time passes, and still, we hear nothing. Surely no sound is good—there are no gunshots. I begin pacing around the table in the foyer and examine the paintings on the walls to distract myself.

I've never really looked at them before: all figurative paintings, all religious —the Madonna and child, all sixteen of them. How odd?

Harry isn't religious, is he? All of the paintings in the great room are abstracts—

these are so different. They don't distract me for long— Where is Harry?

I stare at Sawyer and he watches me impassively.

"What's happening?"

"No news, Mr. Tomlinson."

Abruptly, the doorknob moves. Sawyer spins like a top and draws a gun from his shoulder holster.

I freeze. Harry appears at the door.

"All clear," he says, frowning at Sawyer, who puts his gun away immediately and steps back to let me in.

"Taylor is overreacting," Harry grumbles as he holds out his hand to me. I stand gaping at him, unable to move, drinking in every little detail: his unruly hair, the tightness around his eyes, the tense jaw, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. I think I must have aged ten years. Harry frowns at me in concern, his eyes dark.

"It's alright, baby." He moves toward me, enveloping me in his arms, and kisses my hair. "Come on, you're tired. Bed."

"I was so worried," I murmur, rejoicing in his embrace and inhaling his sweet, sweet scent with my head against his chest.

"I know. We're all jumpy."

Sawyer has disappeared, presumably into the apartment.

"Honestly, your exes are proving to be very challenging, Mr. Styles," I mutter wryly.

Harry relaxes.

"Yes. They are."

He releases me and taking my hand, leads me across the hallway and into the great room.

"Taylor and his crew are checking all the closets and cupboards. I don't think he's here."

"Why would he be here?" It makes no sense.

"Exactly."

"Could he get in?"

"I don't see how. But Taylor is overcautious sometimes."

"Have you searched your playroom?" I whisper.

Harry glances at me, his brow creasing. "Yes, it's locked—but Taylor and I checked."