50 shades darker

Chapter 15

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 15 

"Hey," Harry's says gently as he pulls me into his arms, "please don't cry, Lou, please," he begs. He's on the bathroom floor, and I am in his lap. I put my arms around him and weep into his neck. Cooing softly into my hair, he gently strokes my back, my head.

"I'm sorry, baby," he whispers, and that makes me cry harder and hug him tighter.

We sit like this forever. Eventually, when I'm all cried out, Harry staggers to his feet, holding me, and carries me into his room where he lays me down in the bed. In a few moments, he's beside me and the lights are off. He pulls me into his arms, hugging me tightly, and I finally drift off into a dark and troubled sleep.

I awake with a jolt. My head is fuzzy and I'm too warm. Harry is wrapped around me like a vine. He grumbles in his sleep as I slip out of his arms, but he doesn't wake. Sitting up I glance at the alarm clock. It's three in the morning. I need an Advil and a drink. I swing my legs out of bed and make my way to the kitchen in the great room.

In the fridge, I find a carton of orange juice and pour myself a glass. Hmm . . . it's delicious, and my fuzzy head eases immediately. I hunt through the cupboards looking for some painkillers and eventually come across a plastic box full of meds. I sink two Advil and pour myself another orange juice.

Wandering to the great wall of glass, I look out on a sleeping Seattle. The lights twinkle and wink beneath Harry's castle in the sky, or should I say fortress? I press my forehead against the cool window—it's a relief. I have so much to think about after all the revelations of yesterday. I place my back against the glass and slide down onto the floor. The great room is cavernous in the dark, the only light coming from the three lamps above the kitchen island.

Could I live here, married to Harry? After all that he's done here? All the history this place holds for him?

Marriage. It's almost unbelievable and completely unexpected. But then everything about Harry is unexpected. My lips quirk up with irony. Harry Styles, expect the unexpected—Fifty Shades of Fucked-Up.

My smile fades. I look like his mother. This wounds me, deeply, and the air leaves my lungs in a rush. We all look like his mom.

How the hell do I move on from the disclosure of that little secret? No wonder he didn't want to tell me. But surely he can't remember much of his mother. I wonder once more, if I should talk to Dr. Flynn. Would Harry let me? Perhaps he could fill in the gaps.

I shake my head. I feel world weary, but I'm enjoying the calm serenity of the great room and its beautiful works of art—cold and austere, but in their own way, still beautiful in the shadows and surely worth a fortune. Could I live here? For better, for worse? In sick-ness and in health? I close my eyes, lean my head back against the glass, and take a deep, cleansing breath.

The peaceful tranquillity is shattered by a visceral, primeval cry that makes every single hair on my body stand to attention. Harry! Holy fuck— what's happened? I am on my feet, running back to the bedroom before the echoes of that horrible sound have died away, my heart thumping with fear.

I flip one of the light switches, and Harry's bedside light comes to life. He's tossing and turning, writhing in agony. No! He cries out again, and the eerie, devastating sound lances through me anew.

Shit—a nightmare!

"Harry!" I lean over him, grab his shoulders, and shake him awake. He opens his eyes, and they are wild and vacant, scanning quickly round the empty room before coming back to rest on me.