Пятьдесят оттенков серого
Chapter 23
Doesitbotherme?Maybeitshould…shouldit?No,itdoesn’t.Ileanbackandlookupathim,andhegazesdownatme,hiseyesasoftcloudygray.
“No,notatall.”
Hesmirks.“Good.Let’shaveabath.”
Heuncurlsfromaroundme,placingmeonthefloorashemakestostand.Ashedoes,Inoticeagainthesmall,roundwhitescarsonhischest.Theyarenotchickenpox,Imuseabsentmindedly.Gracesaidhewashardlyaffected.Holyshit…theymustbeburns.Burnsfromwhat?Iblanchattherealization,shockandrevulsioncoursingthroughme.Fromcigarettes?Mrs.Robinson,hisbirthmother,who?Whodidthistohim?Maybethere’sareasonableexplanation,andI’moverreacting—wildhopeblossomsinmychest,hopethatIamwrong.
“Whatisit?”Christian’sfaceiswide-eyedwithalarm.
“Yourscars,”Iwhisper.“They’renotfromchickenpox.”
Iwatchasinasplitsecondheclosesdown,hisstancechangingfromrelaxed,calm,andateasetodefensive—angryeven.Hefrowns,hisfacedarkening,andhismouthpressesintoathin,hardline.
“No,they’renot,”hesnaps,buthedoesnotelaboratefurther.Hestands,holdshishandoutforme,andhaulsmetomyfeet.
“Don’tlookatmelikethat.”Hisvoiceiscolderandscoldingasheletsgoofmyhand.
Iflush,chastened,andstaredownatmyfingers,andIknow,IknowthatsomeonestubbedcigarettesoutonChristian.Ifeelsick.
“Didshedothat?”IwhisperbeforeIcanstopmyself.
Hesaysnothing,soI’mforcedtolookathim.He’sglaringatme.
“She?Mrs.Robinson?She’snotananimal,Anastasia.
