Fifty Shades Darker (book 5)

Chapter 106

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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. Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

“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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