Chapter Twenty-four
　　“Much as I’d like to kiss you all day, your breakfast is getting cold,”
　　Christian murmurs against my lips. He gazes down at me, now amused,
　　except his eyes are darker, sensual. Holy cow, he’s switched again. My Mr.
　　Mercurial.
　　“Eat,” he orders, his voice soft. I swallow, a reaction to his smoldering look,
　　and crawl back into bed, avoiding snagging my IV
　　line. He pushes the tray in front of me. The oatmeal is cold, but the pancakes
　　under the cover are fine—in fact, they’re mouthwatering.
　　“You know,” I mutter between mouthfuls, “Blip might be a girl.”
　　Christian runs his hand through his hair. “Two women, eh?” Alarm flashes
　　across his face, and his dark look vanishes. Oh crap.
　　“Do you have a preference?”
　　“Preference?”
　　“Boy or girl.”
　　He frowns. “Healthy will do,” he says quietly clearly disconcerted by the
　　question. “Eat,” he snaps, and I know he’s trying to avoid the subject.
　　“I’m eating, I’m eating . . . Jeez, keep your hair on, Grey.” I watch him
　　carefully. The corners of his eyes are crinkled with worry. He’s said he’ll try,
　　but I know he’s still freaked out by the baby. Oh, Christian, so am I. He sits
　　down in the armchair beside me, picking up the Seattle Times.
　　“You made the papers again, Mrs. Grey.” His is tone bitter.
　　“Again?”
　　“The hacks are just rehashing yesterday’s story, but it seems factually
　　accurate. You want to read it?”
　　I shake my head. “Read it to me. I’m eating.”
　　He smirks and proceeds to read the article aloud. It’s a report on Jack and
　　Elizabeth, depicting them as a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde. It briefly
　　covers Mia’s kidnap, my involvement in Mia’s rescue, and the 447 | P a g e
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　　fact that both Jack and I are in the same hospital. How does the press get all
　　this information? I must ask Kate. Christian finishes.
　　“Please read something else. I like listening to you.”
　　He obliges and reads me a report about a booming bagel business and the
　　fact that Boeing has had to cancel the launch of some plane. Christian frowns
　　as he reads. But listening to his soothing voice as I eat, secure in the
　　knowledge that I am fine, Mia is safe and my Little Blip is safe, I feel a
　　precious moment of peace in spite of all that has happened over the last few
　　days.
　　I understand that Christian is scared about the baby, but I don’t understand
　　the depth of his fear. I resolve to talk to him some more about this. See if I
　　can put his mind at ease. What puzzles me is that he hasn’t lacked for
　　positive role models as parents. Both Grace and Carrick are exemplary
　　parents, or so they seem. Maybe it was the Bitch Troll’s interference that
　　damaged him so badly. I’d like to think so. But in truth I think it goes back to
　　his birth mom, though I’m sure Mrs. Robinson didn’t help. I halt my thoughts
　　as I nearly recall a whispered conversation. Damn! It hovers on the edge of
　　my memory from when I was unconscious. Christian talking with Grace. It
　　melts away into the shadows of my mind. Oh, it’s so frustrating.
　　I wonder if Christian will ever volunteer the reason he went to see her or if I’ll
　　have to push him. I’m about to ask when there’s a knock on the door.
　　Detective Clark makes an apologetic entry into the room. He’s right to be
　　apologetic—my heart sinks when I see him.
　　“Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey. Am I interrupting?”
　　“Yes,” snaps Christian.
　　Clark ignores him. “Glad to see you’re awake, Mrs. Grey. I need to ask you a
　　few questions about Thursday afternoon. Just routine. Is now a convenient
　　time?”
　　“Sure,” I mumble, but I do not want to relive Thursday’s events.
　　“My wife should be resting.” Christian bristles.
　　“I’ll be brief, Mr. Grey. And it means I’ll be out of your hair sooner rather than
　　later.”
　　Christian stands and offers Clark his chair, then sits down beside me on the
　　bed and takes my hand, squeezing it reassuringly. 448 | P a g e
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　　Half an hour later, Clark is done. I’ve learned nothing new, but I have
　　recounted the events of Thursday to him in a halting, quiet voice, watching
　　Christian go pale and grimace at some parts.
　　“I wish you’d aimed higher,” Christian mutters.
　　“Might have done womankind a service if Mrs. Grey had.” Clark agrees.
　　What?
　　“Thank you, Mrs. Grey. That’s all for now.”
　　“You won’t let him out again, will you?”
　　“I don’t think he’ll make bail this time, ma’am.”
　　“Do we know who posted his bail?” Christian asks.
　　“No sir. It was anonymous.”
　　Christian frowns, but I think he has his suspicions. Clark rises to leave just as
　　Dr. Singh and two interns enter the room.
　　After a thorough examination, Dr. Singh declares me fit to go home.
　　Christian sags with relief.
　　“Mrs. Grey, you’ll have to watch for worsening headaches and blurry vision. If
　　that occurs you must return to the hospital immediately.”
　　I nod, trying to contain my delight at going home.
　　As Dr. Singh leaves, Christian asks her for a quick word in the corridor. He
　　keeps the door ajar as he asks her a question. She smiles.
　　“Yes, Mr. Grey, that’s fine.”
　　He grins and returns to the room a happier man.
　　“What was all that about?”
　　“Sex,” he says, flashing a wicked grin.
　　Oh. I blush. “And?”
　　“You’re good to go.” He smirks.
　　Oh, Christian!
　　“I have a headache.” I smirk right back.
　　“I know. You’ll be off limits for a while. I was just checking.”
　　Off limits? I frown at the momentary stab of disappointment I feel. I’m not sure
　　I want to be off limits.
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　　Nurse Nora joins us to remove my IV. She glares at Christian. I think she’s
　　one of the few women I’ve met who is oblivious to his charms. I thank her
　　when she leaves with my IV stand.
　　“Shall I take you home?” Christian asks.
　　“I’d like to see Ray first.”
　　“Sure.”
　　“Does he know about the baby?”
　　“I thought you’d want to be the one to tell him. I haven’t told your mom either.”
　　“Thank you.” I smile, grateful that he hasn’t stolen my thunder.
　　“My mom knows,” Christian adds. “She saw your chart. I told my dad but no
　　one else. Mom said couples normally wait for twelve weeks or so . . . to be
　　sure.” He shrugs.
　　“I’m not sure I’m ready to tell Ray.”
　　“I should warn you, he’s mad as hell. Said I should spank you.”
　　What? Christian laughs at my appalled expression. “I told him I’d be only too
　　willing to oblige.”
　　“You didn’t!” I gasp, though a memory of a whispered conversation while I
　　was unconscious tantalizes me. Yes, Ray was here while I was laid out . . .
　　He winks at me. “Here, Taylor brought you some clean clothes. I’ll help you
　　dress.”
　　As Christian predicted, Ray is furious. I don’t ever remember him being this
　　mad. Christian has wisely decided to leave us alone together. For such a
　　taciturn man, Ray fills his hospital room with his invective, berating me for my
　　irresponsible behavior. I am twelve years old again. Oh, Dad, please calm
　　down. Your blood pressure is not up to this.
　　“And I’ve had to deal with your mother,” he grumbles, waving both of his
　　hands in exasperation.
　　“Dad, I’m sorry.”
　　“And poor Christian! I’ve never seen him like that. He’s aged. We’ve both
　　aged years over the last couple of days.”
　　“Ray, I’m sorry.”
　　“Your mother is waiting for your call,” he says in a more measured tone.
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　　I lean over and kiss his cheek, and finally he relents from his tirade.
　　“I’ll call her. I really am sorry. But thank you for teaching me to shoot.”
　　For a moment, he regards me with ill-concealed paternal pride. “I’m glad you
　　can shoot straight,” he says, his voice gruff. “Now go on home and get some
　　rest.”
　　“You look well, Dad.” I try to change the subject.
　　“You look pale.” His fear is suddenly evident. His look mirrors Christian’s
　　from last night, and I grasp his hand.
　　“I’m okay. I promise I won’t do anything like that again.”
　　He squeezes my hand and pulls me into a hug. “If anything happened to you,”
　　he whispers, his voice hoarse and low. Tears prick my eyes. I am not used to
　　displays of emotion from my stepfather.
　　“Dad, I’m good. Nothing that a hot shower won’t cure.”
　　We leave through the rear exit of the hospital to avoid the paparazzi gathered
　　at the entrance. Taylor leads us to the waiting in the SUV. Christian is quiet
　　as Sawyer drives us home. I avoid Sawyer’s gaze in the rearview mirror,
　　embarrassed that the last time I saw him was at the bank when I gave him
　　the slip. I call my mom, who sobs down the phone. It takes most of the journey
　　home to calm her down, but I succeed by promising that we’ll visit soon.
　　Throughout my conversation with her, Christian holds my hand, brushing his
　　thumb across my knuckles. He’s nervous . . . something’s happened.
　　“What’s wrong?” I ask when I’m finally free from my mother.
　　“Welch wants to see me.”
　　“Welch? Why?”
　　“He’s found something out about that fucker Hyde.” Christian’s lip curls into a
　　snarl, and a frisson of fear passes through me. “He didn’t want to tell me on
　　the phone.”
　　“Oh.”
　　“He’s coming here this afternoon from Detroit.”
　　“You think he’s found a connection?”
　　Christian nods.
　　“What do you think it is?”
　　“I have no idea.” Christian’s brow furrows, perplexed. 451 | P a g e
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　　Taylor pulls into the garage at Escala and stops by the elevator to let us out
　　before he parks. In the garage, we can avoid the attention of the waiting

　　photographers. Christian ushers me out of the car. Keeping his arm around
　　my waist, he leads me to the waiting elevator.
　　“Glad to be home?” he asks.
　　“Yes,” I whisper. But as I stand in the familiar surroundings of the elevator, the
　　enormity of what I’ve been through crashes over me, and I start to shake.
　　“Hey—” Christian wraps his arms around me and pulls me close.
　　“You’re home. You’re safe,” he says, kissing my hair.
　　“Oh, Christian.” A dam I didn’t even know was in place bursts, and I start to
　　sob.
　　“Hush now,” Christian whispers, cradling my head against his chest. But it’s
　　too late. I weep, overwhelmed, into his T-shirt, recalling Jack’s vicious attack
　　— “That’s for SIP, you fucking bitch!”— telling Christian I was leaving—
　　“You’re leaving me?”— and my fear, my gutwrenching fear for Mia, for
　　myself, and for Blip. When the doors of the elevator slide open, Christian
　　picks me up like a child and carries me into the foyer. I wrap my arms around
　　his neck and cling to him, keening quietly.
　　He carries me through to our bathroom and gently settles me on the chair.
　　“Bath?” he asks.
　　I shake my head. No . . . no . . . not like Leila.
　　I shake my head. No . . . no . . . not like Leila.
　　“Shower?” His voice is choked with concern.
　　Through my tears, I nod. I want to wash away the grime of the last few days,
　　wash away the memory of Jack’s attack. “You gold digging whore.” I sob into
　　my hands as the sound of the water cascading from the shower echoes off
　　the walls.
　　“Hey,” Christian croons. Kneeling in front of me, he pulls my hands away from
　　my tear-stained cheeks and cups my face in his hands. I gaze at him,
　　blinking away my tears.
　　“You’re safe. You both are,” he whispers.
　　Blip and me. My eyes brim with tears again.
　　“Stop, now. I can’t bear it when you cry.” His voice is hoarse. His thumbs
　　wipe my cheeks, but my tears still flow.
　　“I’m sorry, Christian. Just sorry for everything. For making you 452 | P a g e
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　　worry, for risking everything—for the things I said.”
　　“Hush, baby, please.” He kisses my forehead. “I’m sorry. It takes two to
　　tango, Ana.” He gives me a crooked smile. “Well, that’s what my mom
　　always says. I said things and did things I’m not proud of.”
　　His gray eyes are bleak but penitent. “Let’s get you undressed.” His voice is
　　soft. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand, and he kisses my forehead
　　once more.
　　Briskly he strips me, taking particular care as he pulls my T-shirt over my
　　head. But my head is not too sore. Leading me to the shower, he peels off
　　his own clothing in record time before stepping into the welcome hot water
　　with me. He pulls me into his arms and holds me, holds me for the longest
　　time, as the water gushes over us, soothing us both.
　　He lets me cry into his chest. Occasionally he kisses my hair, but he doesn’t
　　let go, he just rocks me gently beneath the warm water. To feel his skin
　　against mine, his chest hair against my cheek . . . this man I love, this selfdoubting,
　　beautiful man, the man I could have lost through my own
　　recklessness. I feel empty and aching at the thought but grateful that he’s
　　here, still here—despite everything that’s happened.
　　He has some explaining to do, but right now I want to revel in the feel of his
　　comforting, protective arms around me. And in that moment it occurs to me;
　　any explanations on his part have to come from him. I can’t force him—he’s
　　got to want to tell me. I won’t be cast as the nagging wife, constantly trying to
　　wheedle information out of her husband. It’s just exhausting. I know he loves
　　me. I know he loves me more than he’s ever loved anyone, and for now,
　　that’s enough. The realization is liberating. I stop crying and step back.
　　“Better?” he asks.
　　I nod.
　　“Good. Let me look at you,” he says, and for a moment I don’t know what he
　　means. But he takes my hand and examines the arm I fell on when Jack hit
　　me. There are bruises on my shoulder and scrapes at my elbow and wrist.
　　He kisses each of them. He grabs a washcloth and shower gel from the rack,
　　and the sweet familiar scent of jasmine fills my nostrils.
　　“Turn around.” Gently, he proceeds to wash my injured arm, then 453 | P a g
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　　my neck, my shoulders, my back, and my other arm. He turns me sideways,
　　and traces his long fingers down my side. I wince as they skate over the
　　large bruise at my hip. Christian’s eyes harden and his lips thin. His anger is
　　palpable as he whistles through his teeth.
　　“It doesn’t hurt,” I murmur to reassure him.
　　Blazing gray eyes meet mine. “I want to kill him,” he whispers. “I nearly did,”
　　he adds cryptically. I frown then shiver at his bleak expression. He squirts
　　more shower gel on the washcloth and with tender, aching gentleness, he
　　washes my side and my behind, then, kneeling, moves down my legs. He
　　pauses to examine my bruised knee. He lips brush over the bruise before he
　　returns to washing my legs and my feet. Reaching down, I caress his head,
　　running my fingers through his wet hair. He stands, and his fingers trace the
　　outline of the bruise on my ribs where Jack kicked me.
　　“Oh, baby,” he groans, his voice filled with anguish, his eyes dark with fury.
　　“I’m okay.” I pull his head down to mine and kiss his lips. He’s hesitant to
　　reciprocate, but as my tongue meets his, his body stirs against me.
　　“No,” he whispers against my lips, and he pulls back. “Let’s get you clean.”
　　His face is serious. Damn . . . He means it. I pout, and the atmosphere
　　between us lightens in an instant. He grins and kisses me briefly.
　　“Clean,” he emphasizes. “Not dirty.”
　　“I like dirty.”
　　“Me, too, Mrs. Grey. But not now, not here.” He grabs the shampoo, and
　　before I can persuade him otherwise, he’s washing my hair.
　　I love clean, too. I feel refreshed and reinvigorated, and I don’t know if it’s
　　from the shower, the crying, or my decision to stop hassling Christian about
　　everything. He wraps me in a large towel and drapes one around his hips
　　while I gingerly dry my hair. My head aches, but it’s a dull persistent pain that
　　is more than manageable. I have some painkillers from Dr. Singh, but she’s
　　asked me not to use them unless I have to.
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　　As I dry my hair, I think about Elizabeth.
　　“I still don’t understand why Elizabeth was involved with Jack.”
　　“I do,” Christian mutters darkly.
　　This is news. I frown up at him, but I’m distracted. He’s drying his hair with a
　　towel, his chest and shoulders still wet with beads of water that glint beneath
　　the halogens. He pauses and smirks.
　　“Enjoying the view?”
　　“How do you know?” I ask, trying to ignore that I’ve been caught staring at my
　　own husband.
　　“That you’re enjoying the view?” he teases.
　　“No,” I scold. “About Elizabeth.”
　　“Detective Clark hinted at it.”
　　I give him my tell-me-more expression, and another nagging memory from
　　when I was unconscious resurfaces. Clark was in my room. I wish I could
　　remember what he said.
　　“Hyde had videos. Videos of all of them. On several USB flash drives.”
　　What? I frown, my skin tightening across my forehead.
　　“Videos of him fucking her. Fucking all his PAs.”
　　Oh!
　　“Exactly. Blackmail material. He likes it rough.” Christian frowns, and I watch
　　confusion followed by disgust cross his face. He pales as his disgust turns to
　　self-loathing. Of course—Christian likes it rough, too.
　　“Don’t.” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it. His frown deepens.
　　“Don’t what?” He stills and regards me with apprehension.
　　“Don’t think you’re anything like him.”
　　Christian’s eyes harden, but he says nothing, confirming that’s exactly what
　　he was thinking.
　　“You’re not.” My voice is adamant.
　　“We’re cut from the same cloth.”
　　“No, you’re not,” I snap, though I understand why he might think so. “His dad
　　died in a brawl in a bar. His mother drank herself into oblivion. He was in
　　and out of foster homes as a kid, in and out of trouble, too—mainly
　　boosting cars. Spent time in juvie.” I recall the information Christian revealed
　　on the plane to Aspen. 455 | P a g e
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　　“You both have troubled pasts, and you were both born in Detroit. That’s it,
　　Christian.” I fist my hands on my hips.
　　“Ana, your faith in me is touching, in spite of the last few days. We’ll know
　　more when Welch is here.” He’s dismissing the subject.
　　“Christian—”
　　He stops me with a kiss. “Enough,” he breathes, and I remember the
　　promise I made to myself not to hound him for information.
　　“And don’t pout,” he adds. “Come. Let me dry your hair.” I know the subject is
　　closed
　　After dressing in sweatpants and a T-shirt, I sit between Christian’s legs as
　　he dries my hair.
　　“So did Clark tell you anything else while I was unconscious?”
　　“Not that I recall.”
　　“I heard a few of your conversations.”
　　The hairbrush stills in my hair.
　　“Did you?” he asks, his tone nonchalant.
　　“Yes. My dad, your dad, Detective Clark . . . your mom.”
　　“And Kate?”
　　“Kate was there?”
　　“Briefly, yes. She’s mad at you, too.”
　　I turn in his lap. “Stop with the everyone is mad at Ana crap, okay?”
　　“Just telling you the truth,” Christian says, bemused by my outburst.
　　“Yes, it was reckless, but you know, your sister was in danger.”
　　His face falls. “Yes. She was.” Switching off the hairdryer, he puts it down on
　　the bed beside him. He grasps my chin.
　　“Thank you,” he says, surprising me. “But no more recklessness. Because
　　next time, I will spank the living shit out of you.”

　　I gasp.
　　“You wouldn’t!”
　　“I would.” He’s serious. Holy cow. Deadly serious. “I have your stepfather’s
　　permission.” He smirks. He’s teasing me! Or is he? I launch myself at him,
　　and he twists so that I fall onto the bed and into his arms. As I land, pain from
　　my ribs shoots through me and I wince. Christian pales. “Behave!” he
　　admonishes, and for a moment he’s angry.
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　　“Sorry,” I mumble, reaching up to caress his cheek. He nuzzles my hand and
　　kisses it gently.
　　“Honestly, Ana, you really have no regard for your own safety.” He tugs up the
　　hem of my T-shirt then rests his fingers on my belly. I stop breathing. “It’s not
　　just you anymore,” he whispers, trailing his fingertips along the waistband of
　　my sweats, caressing my skin. Desire explodes unexpected, hot, and heavy
　　in my blood. I gasp and Christian tenses, halting his fingers and gazing down
　　at me. He moves his hand up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
　　“No,” he whispers.
　　What?
　　“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve seen the bruises. And the answer’s no.” His
　　voice is firm, and he kisses my forehead.
　　I squirm. “Christian,” I whine.
　　“No. Get into bed.” He sits up.
　　“Bed?”
　　“You need rest.”
　　“I need you.”
　　He closes his eyes and shakes his head as if it’s a great effort of will. When
　　he opens them again, his eyes are bright with his resolve.
　　“Just do as you’re told, Ana.”
　　I’m tempted to take off all my clothes, but then I remember the bruises and
　　know I won’t win that way. Reluctantly, I nod.
　　“Okay.” I deliberately give him an exaggerated pout. He grins, amused. “I’ll
　　bring you some lunch.”
　　“You’re going to cook?” I nearly expire.
　　He has the grace to laugh. “I’m going to heat something up. Mrs. Jones has
　　been busy.”
　　“Christian, I’ll do it. I’m fine. Jeez, I want sex—I can certainly cook.” I sit up
　　awkwardly, trying to hide my flinch from my smarting ribs.
　　“Bed!” Christian’s eyes flash and he points to the pillow.
　　“Join me,” I murmur, wishing I were wearing something a little more alluring
　　than sweatpants and a T-shirt.
　　“Ana, get into bed. Now.”
　　I scowl, stand up, and let my pants drop unceremoniously to the floor, glaring
　　at him the whole time. His mouth twitches with humor as 457 | P a g e
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　　he pulls the duvet back.
　　“You heard Dr. Singh. She said rest.” His voice is gentler. I slip into bed and
　　fold my arms in frustration. “Stay,” he says clearly enjoying himself.
　　My scowl deepens.
　　Mrs. Jones’s chicken stew is, without doubt, one of my favorite dishes.
　　Christian eats with me, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed.
　　“That was very well heated.” I smirk and he grins. I’m replete and sleepy. Was
　　this his plan?
　　“You look tired.” He picks up my tray.
　　“I am.”
　　“Good. Sleep.” He leans down and kisses me. “I have some work I need to
　　do. I’ll do it in here if that’s okay with you.”
　　I nod . . . fighting a losing battle with my eyelids. I had no idea chicken stew
　　could be so exhausting.
　　It’s dusk when I wake. Pale pink light floods the room. Christian is sitting in
　　the armchair, watching me, gray eyes luminous in the ambient light. He’s
　　clutching some papers. His face is ashen. Holy cow!
　　“What’s wrong?” I ask immediately, sitting up and ignoring my protesting
　　ribs.
　　“Welch has just left.”
　　Oh shit. “And?”
　　“I lived with the fucker,” he whispers.
　　“Lived? With Jack?”
　　He nods, eyes wide.
　　“You’re related?”
　　“No. Good God, no.”
　　I shuffle over and pull the duvet back, inviting him into bed beside me, and to
　　my surprise he doesn’t hesitate. He kicks off his shoes and slides in
　　alongside me. Wrapping one arm around me, he curls up, resting his head in
　　my lap. I’m stunned. What’s this?
　　“I don’t understand,” I murmur, running my fingers through his hair 458 | P a g
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　　and gazing down at him. Christian closes his eyes and furrows his brow as if
　　he’s straining to remember.
　　“After I was found with the crack whore, before I went to live with Carrick and
　　Grace, I was in the care of Michigan State. I lived in a foster home. But I can’t
　　remember anything about that time.”
　　My mind reels. A foster home? This is news to both of us.
　　“For how long?” I whisper.
　　“Two months or so. I have no recollection.”
　　“Have you spoken to your mom and dad about it?”
　　“No.”
　　“Perhaps you should. Maybe they could fill in the blanks.”
　　He hugs me tightly. “Here.” He hands me the papers, which turn out to be two
　　photographs. I reach over and switch on the bedside light so I can examine
　　them in detail. The first photo is of a shabby house with a yellow front door
　　and a large gabled window in the roof. It has a porch and a small front yard.
　　It’s an unremarkable house. The second photo is of a family—at first glance,
　　an ordinary bluecollar family—a man and his wife, I think, and their children.
　　The adults are both dressed in dowdy, overwashed blue T-shirts. They must
　　be in their forties. The woman has scraped-back blond hair, and the man a
　　severe buzz-cut, but they are both smiling warmly at the camera. The man
　　has his hand draped over the shoulders of a sullen teenage girl. I gaze at
　　each of the children: two boys—identical twins, about twelve—both with
　　sandy blond hair, grinning broadly at the camera; there’s another boy, who’s
　　smaller, blonder, scowling; and hiding behind him, a copper-haired grayeyed
　　little boy. Wide-eyed and scared, dressed in mismatched clothes, and
　　clutching a child’s dirty blanket.
　　Fuck. “This is you,” I whisper, my heart lurching into my throat. I know
　　Christian was four when his mother died. But this child looks much younger.
　　He must have been severely malnourished. I stifle a sob as tears spring to
　　my eyes. Oh, my sweet Fifty. Christian nods. “That’s me.”
　　“Welch brought these photos?”
　　“Yes. I don’t remember any of this.” His voice is flat and lifeless.
　　“Remember being with foster parents? Why should you? Christian, it was a
　　long time ago. Is this what’s worrying you?”
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　　“I remember other things, from before and after. When I met my mom and
　　dad. But this . . . It’s like there’s a huge chasm.”
　　My heart twists and understanding dawns. My darling control freak likes
　　everything in its place, and now he’s learned he’s missing part of the jigsaw.
　　“Is Jack in this picture?”
　　“Yes, he’s the older kid.” Christian’s eyes are still screwed shut, and he’s
　　clinging to me as if I’m a life raft. I run my fingers through his hair while I gaze
　　at the older boy who is glaring, defiant and arrogant, at the camera. I can see
　　it’s Jack. But he’s just a kid, a sad eight or nine-yearold, hiding his fear
　　behind his hostility. A thought occurs to me.
　　“When Jack called to tell me he had Mia, he said if things had been different,
　　it could have been him.”
　　Christian closes his eyes and shudders. “That fucker!”
　　“You think he did all this because the Greys adopted you instead of him?”
　　“Who knows?” Christian’s tone is bitter. “I don’t give a fuck about him.”
　　“Perhaps he knew we were seeing each other when I went for that job
　　interview. Perhaps he planned to seduce me all along.” Bile rises in my
　　throat.
　　“I don’t think so,” Christian mutters, his eyes now open. “The searches he did
　　on my family didn’t start until a week or so after you began your job at SIP.
　　Barney knows the exact dates. And, Ana, he fucked all his assistants and
　　taped them.” Christian closes his eyes and tightens his grip on me once
　　more.
　　Suppressing the tremor that runs through me, I try to recall my various
　　conversations with Jack when I first started at SIP. I knew deep down he was
　　bad news, yet I ignored all my instincts. Christian’s right—I have no regard for
　　my own safety. I remember the fight we had about me going to New York with
　　Jack. Jeez—I could have ended up on some sordid sex tape. The thought is
　　nauseating. And in that moment I recall the photographs Christian kept of his
　　submissives. Oh shit. “We’re cut from the same cloth.” No, Christian, you’re
　　not, you’re nothing like him. He’s still curled around me, like a small boy.
　　“Christian, I think you should talk to your mom and dad.” I am reluctant to
　　move him, so I shift and slide back into the bed until we are 460 | P a g e
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　　eye to eye.
　　A bewildered gray gaze meets mine, reminding me of the child in the
　　photograph.
　　“Let me call them,” I whisper. He shakes his head. “Please.” I beg. Christian
　　stares at me, pain and self-doubt reflected in his eyes as he considers my
　　request. Oh, Christian, please!
　　“I’ll call them,” he whispers.
　　“Good. We can go and see them together, or you can go. Whichever you
　　prefer.”
　　“No. They can come here.”
　　“Why?”
　　“I don’t want you going anywhere.”
　　“Christian, I’m up for a car journey.”
　　“No.” His voice is firm, but he gives me an ironic smile. “Anyway, it’s
　　Saturday night, they’re probably at some function.”
　　“Call them. This news has obviously upset you. They might be able to shed
　　some light.” I glance at the radio alarm. It’s almost seven in the evening. He
　　regards me impassively for a moment.
　　“Okay,” he says as if I’ve issued him with a challenge. Sitting up, he reaches
　　for the bedside phone.
　　I wrap my arm around him and rest my head on his chest as he makes the
　　call.

　　“Dad?” I register his surprise that Carrick has answered the phone.
　　“Ana’s good. We’re home. Welch has just left. He found out the connection . .
　　. the foster home in Detroit . . . I don’t remember any of that.” Christian’s
　　voice is almost inaudible as he mutters the last sentence. My heart constricts
　　once more. I hug him, and he squeezes my shoulder.
　　“Yeah . . . You will? . . . Great.” He hangs up. “They’re on their way.” He
　　sounds surprised, and I realize that he’s probably never asked them for help.
　　“Good. I should get dressed.”
　　Christian’s arm tightens around me. “Don’t go.”
　　“Okay.” I snuggle into his side again, stunned by the fact that he’s just told me
　　a great deal about himself—entirely voluntarily.
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　　As we stand at the threshold to the great room, Grace wraps me gently in her
　　arms.
　　“Ana, Ana, darling Ana,” she whispers. “Saving two of my children. How can I
　　ever thank you?”
　　I blush, touched and embarrassed in equal measure by her words. Carrick
　　hugs me, too, kissing my forehead.
　　Then Mia grabs me, squashing my ribs. I wince and gasp, but she doesn’t
　　notice. “Thank you for saving me from those assholes.”
　　Christian scowls at her. “Mia! Careful! She’s in pain.”
　　“Oh! Sorry.”
　　“I’m good,” I mutter, relieved when she releases me. She looks fine.
　　Impeccably dressed in tight black jeans and a pale pink frilly blouse. I’m glad
　　I’m wearing my comfortable wrap dress and flats. At least I look reasonably
　　presentable.
　　Racing over to Christian, Mia curls her arm around his waist. Wordlessly, he
　　hands Grace the photo. She gasps, her hand flying to her mouth to contain
　　her emotion as she instantly recognizes Christian. Carrick wraps his arm
　　around her shoulder as he, too, examines it.
　　“Oh, darling.” Grace caresses Christian’s cheek.
　　Taylor appears. “Mr. Grey? Miss Kavanagh, her brother, and your brother are
　　coming up, sir.”
　　Christian frowns. “Thank you, Taylor,” he mutters, bemused.
　　“I called Elliot and told him we were coming over.” Mia grins. “It’s a welcomehome
　　party.”
　　I sneak a sympathetic glance at my poor husband as both Grace and Carrick
　　glare at Mia in exasperation.
　　“We’d better get some food together,” I declare. “Mia, will you give me a
　　hand?”
　　“Oh, I’d love to.”
　　I usher her toward the kitchen area as Christian leads his parents into his
　　study.
　　Kate is apoplectic with righteous indignation that’s aimed at me, Christian,
　　but most of all Jack and Elizabeth.
　　“What were you thinking, Ana?” she shouts as she confronts me in the
　　kitchen, causing all eyes in the room to turn and stare. 462 | P a g e
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　　“Kate, please. I’ve had the same lecture from everyone!” I snap back. She
　　glares at me, and for one minute I think I’m going to be subjected to a
　　Katherine Kavanagh how-not-to-succumb-to-kidnappers lecture, but instead
　　she folds me into her arms.
　　“Jeez—sometimes you don’t have the brains you were born with, Steele,”
　　she whispers. As she kisses my cheek, there are tears in her eyes . Kate!
　　“I’ve been so worried about you.”
　　“Don’t cry. You’ll set me off.”
　　She stands back and wipes her eyes, embarrassed, then takes a deep
　　breath and composes herself. “On a more positive note, we’ve set a date for
　　our wedding. We thought next May? And of course I want you to be my
　　matron of honor.”
　　“Oh . . . Kate . . . Wow. Congratulations!” Crap—Li’l Blip . . . Junior!
　　“What is it?” she asks, misinterpreting my alarm.
　　“Um . . . I’m just so happy for you. Some good news for a change.”
　　I wrap my arms around her and pull her into a hug. Shit, shit, shit. When is
　　Blip due? Mentally I calculate my due date. Dr. Greene said I was four or five
　　weeks. So—sometime in May? Shit. Elliot hands me a glass of champagne.
　　Oh. Shit.
　　Christian emerges from his study, looking ashen, and follows his parents into
　　the great room. His eyes widen when he sees the glass in my hand.
　　“Kate,” he greets her coolly.
　　“Christian.” She is equally cool. I sigh.
　　“Your meds, Mrs. Grey.” He eyes the glass in my hand. I narrow my eyes.
　　Dammit. I want a drink. Grace smiles as she joins me in the kitchen,
　　collecting a glass from Elliot on the way.
　　“A sip will be fine,” she whispers with a conspiratorial wink at me, and lifts
　　her glass to clink mine. Christian scowls at both of us, until Elliot distracts him
　　with news of the Mariners’ latest match against the Rangers.
　　Carrick joins us, putting his arms around us both, and Grace kisses his
　　cheek before joining Mia on the sofa.
　　“How is he?” I whisper to Carrick as he and I stand in the kitchen watching
　　the family lounge on the sofa. I note with surprise that Mia 463 | P a g e
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　　and Ethan are holding hands.
　　“Shaken,” Carrick murmurs to me, his brow furrowing, his face serious. “He
　　remembers so much of his life with his birth mother; many things I wish he
　　didn’t. But this—” He stops. “I hope we’ve helped. I’m glad he called us. He
　　said you told him to.” Carrick’s gaze softens. I shrug and take a hasty sip of
　　champagne.
　　“You’re very good for him. He doesn’t listen to anyone else.”
　　I blink up at Carrick, frowning. I don’t think that’s true. The unwelcome specter
　　of the Bitch Troll looms large in my mind. I know Christian talks to Grace, too.
　　I heard him. Again I feel a moment’s frustration as I try to fathom their
　　conversation in the hospital, but it still eludes me.
　　“Come and sit down, Ana. You look tired. I’m sure you weren’t expecting all
　　of us here this evening.”
　　“It’s great to see everyone.” I smile. Because it’s true, it is great. I’m an only
　　child who has married into a large and gregarious family, and I love it. I
　　snuggle up next to Christian.
　　“One sip,” he hisses at me and takes my glass from my hand.
　　“Yes, Sir.” I bat my lashes, disarming him completely. He puts his arm around
　　my shoulders and returns to his baseball conversation with Elliot and Ethan.
　　“My parents think you walk on water,” Christian mutters as he drags off his Tshirt.
　　I’m curled up in bed watching the floorshow.
　　“Good thing you know differently.” I snort.
　　“Oh, I don’t know.” He slips out of his jeans.
　　“Did they fill in the gaps for you?”
　　“Some. I lived with the Colliers for two months while Mom and Dad waited for
　　the paperwork. They were already approved for adoption because of Elliot,
　　but the wait’s required by law to see if I had any living relatives who wanted to
　　claim me.”
　　Oh.
　　“How do you feel about that?” I whisper.
　　He frowns. “About having no living relatives? Fuck that. If they were anything
　　like the crack whore . . .” He shakes his head in disgust. Oh, Christian! You
　　were a child, and you loved your mom. 464 | P a g e
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　　He slides on his pajamas, climbs into bed, and gently pulls me into his arms.
　　“It’s coming back to me. I remember the food. I think Mrs. Collier could cook.
　　And at least we know now why that fucker is so hung up on my family.” He
　　runs his free hand through his hair. “Fuck!” he says suddenly turning to gape
　　at me.
　　“What?”
　　“It makes sense now!” His eyes are full of recognizance.
　　“What?”
　　“Baby Bird. Mrs. Collier used to call me Baby Bird.”
　　I frown. “What makes sense?”
　　“The note,” he says gazing at me. “The ransom note that fucker left. It went
　　something like ‘Do you know who I am? Because I know who you are, Baby
　　Bird.’ ”
　　This is not makes no sense to me at all.
　　“It’s from a kids book. Shit. I’ve just remembered. The Colliers had it. It was
　　called . . . ‘Are You My Mother?’ Shit.” His eyes widen. “I loved that book.”
　　Oh. I know that book. My heart lurches— Fifty!
　　“Mrs. Collier used to read it to me.”
　　I am at a loss what to say.
　　“Christ. He knew . . . that fucker knew.”
　　“Will you tell the police?”
　　“Yes. I will. Christ knows what Clark will do with that information.” Christian
　　shakes his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. “Anyway, thank you for this
　　evening.”
　　Whoa. Gear change.
　　“For what?”
　　“Catering for my family at a moment’s notice.”
　　“Don’t thank me, thank Mia and Mrs. Jones. She keeps the pantry well
　　stocked.”
　　He shakes his head as if in exasperation. At me? Why?
　　“How are you feeling, Mrs. Grey?”
　　“Good. How are you feeling?”
　　“I’m fine.” He frowns . . . not understanding my concern. Oh . . . in that case. I
　　trail my fingers down his stomach to his oh-sohappy trail. 465 | P a g e
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　　He laughs and grabs my hand. “Oh no. Don’t get any ideas.”
　　I pout, and he sighs. “Ana, Ana, Ana, what am I going to do with you?” He
　　kisses my hair.
　　“I have some ideas.” I squirm beside him, and wince as pain radiates
　　through my upper body from my bruised ribs.
　　“Baby, you’ve been through enough. Besides, I have a bedtime story for you.”
　　Oh?
　　“You wanted to know . . .” He trails off, closes his eyes and swallows. All of
　　the hair on my body stands on end . Shit. He begins in a soft voice. “Picture
　　this, an adolescent boy looking to earn some extra money so he can
　　continue his secret drinking habit.”
　　He shifts onto his side so that we’re lying facing each other and he’s gazing
　　into my eyes.
　　“So I was in the backyard at the Lincolns’, clearing some rubble and trash
　　from the extension Mr. Lincoln had just added to their place . . .”
　　Holy fuck . . . he’s talking.
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