BOOK IV - Chapter V - Christian and Anastasia Fan Fiction

CHAPTER V

HOMECOMING

Taylor pulls into the garage at Escala, and stopping the SUV by the elevators he drops us off to avoid the photographers and reporters. I take Anastasia out of the SUV. My arms still wrapped around her waist, I usher her to the waiting elevator.

Once we’re in the elevator, I ask, “Glad to be home?”

“Yes,” she says in a whispered tone. She looks around the elevator. Neither one of us have been home since Thursday. The last time I was here was early Thursday morning before Anastasia woke up. But, finally being in our home environment, having left the danger, the kidnappings, hospital stay behind, Anastasia inexorably has a breakdown. She starts shaking violently.

“Hey-“ I say wrapping my arms around her as I pull my wife closer. “You’re home. You’re safe,” I whisper over and over again to make her realize that the danger is over. I kiss her hair.

“Oh, Christian,” she starts sobbing. The dam bursts and she weeps into my chest.

“Hush now,” I whisper, cradling her head. I nearly lost my wife, my baby, my family. The only woman who means something for me, and her sorrow immediately bring forth the protective husband in me. Worry over her well-being, and revenge in equal measure brew inside me. It’s difficult for me to see her broken like this and not be furious at those who inflicted this pain, the nearly irreparable damage. She continues to weep into my chest. The elevator door dings open and I swoop her off the floor and carry my wife into the foyer. She wraps her arms around my neck and continues to sob quietly.  

I take her into our bedroom and carry her into the bathroom, and seat her down to a chair. “Bath?” I ask.

She shakes her head No, almost violently.

“Shower?” I ask with increased concern and fear choking me. She nods. I turn the shower on, and Ana starts sobbing into her hands. The water running in the shower emulates her flooding emotions. I’m a man who is used to being in control, used to having problems solved immediately. Seeing my wife in beaten, bruised, barely back from the brink of death, having lost weight so much in a matter of couple of days, and emotionally distraught maybe for a long time kills me inside. I promised to safeguard her, protect her, care for her, and I failed.

“Hey,” I drone. I kneel in front of her, and gently pull her hands away from her face; cupping her tear-stained cheeks, I comfort her. She gazes at me, her eyes bewildered as if lost, but trying to find her focus. She blinks away her tears.

“I’m sorry, Christian. Just sorry for everything. For making you worry, for risking everything…and for the things I said,” she says as she cries more.

“Hush, baby, please,” I croon kissing her forehead. “I’m sorry, too. It takes two to tango, Ana,” I say smiling. I never thought I’d be quoting my mother. “Well, that’s what my mom always says. I said things and did things I’m not proud of,” I murmur with contrition and remorse. “Let’s get you undressed,” I murmur in a soft voice. She looks at me with red rimmed wide blue eyes, and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. I kiss her forehead again, and stand her up, and make short work of taking her clothes off. But I show particular care when I pull her t-shirt off her head, because I don’t know how sore her head feels. I take my own clothes off lightning fast, and holding her hand, I lead my wife to the shower under the hot cascading water. I pull Anastasia into my arms, and hold her there for a long time as the water washes down the dirt, sorrow, and problems of the last few days which felt like years. Holding her like this in my arms when I thought she was leaving me, and then I thought she died when I found her is both relieving as well as surreal. The worry at the hospital that she may not wake up or recover nearly killed me with anguish. I am beyond grateful for having her in my arms right now. We are home. Knowing that there are people, who mean and wish harm on me, and on the people I love without a second thought for the sake of reaching my millions, or trying to exact revenge constricts my heart, and gives me a fervent determination to protect those I love; fiercely and violently if necessary.

Heavy in Your Arms - Florence & The Machine

Anastasia cries over my chest, silently, and with heart wrenching sobs until she runs out of tears. I hold her and kiss her head as she lets out all her fears, worries and stress and let the water wash it off her. I rock her soothingly in a gentle rhythm, holding her skin against skin, her cheek rubbing my chest hair. All I want to do is to protect her, love her, and keep her safe. She finally stops crying and steps back.

“Better?” I ask cautiously and she nods in response.

“Good. Let me look at you,” I say wanting to take inventory of her injuries. She looks at me blankly but I take her hand and examine her arm, take note of the bruises on her shoulder and cuts and scrapes at her elbow and wrist. Each one breaks my heart. Jack Hyde beat my wife up, kicked her on the ground because of his hatred for me, because he wanted to have her and she denied him. I kiss each and every one of her bruises as if my kisses would make them better; heal them somehow. I take the washcloth and shower gel from the shelf and squeeze the gel onto the washcloth, lathering it. Sweet scent of jasmine fills our nostrils, but it doesn’t make me feel calm as it would have normally done after seeing my wife’s bruised up body.

“Turn around,” I ask her. I start lathering her injured arm, her neck, shoulder, her back and her other arm. When I turn her sideways, I trace her side and the large bruise where she was kicked; Anger boils in me, ready to erupt. When my fingers reach the particular bruise darkened in a purple and blue shade, she winces immediately with pain. I can see that the bruise is deep, extending into her muscles and ribs. I close my eyes as if I’m the one who is pained, and my lips turn into a thin line. Air hisses through my teeth. Anger is the least of what I feel.

“It doesn’t hurt,” she murmurs to placate me, but I have a hard time believing it. She’s trying to soothe me. I have this murderous rage rise in me. Hyde made every effort to kidnap my wife, and there is every evidence that he didn’t want to let her or Mia leave the place alive. When his first efforts failed, he made a second effort. If he was given another chance, I know he would make another attempt on her life if he had the chance. I just want to eliminate him, and the danger he created for my family. My eyes are blazing volcanoes, dangerous, meeting hers. “I want to kill him. I nearly did,” I whisper remembering how close I came to kill him. It took the police officers to pull their guns on me; but even that wouldn’t have stopped me. It was only the knowledge that my wife needed immediate medical attention and I wanted to be with her when she was getting it. My breathing increases and I try to push the memory away. I squirt a little more shower gel into the washcloth and gently, and tenderly I wash her sides, her buttocks and her back. Then I kneel before my wife as if submitting to her, and wash her legs reverently. I see the bruise on her knee, darkened, looking painful. I lean into it, and gently kiss it. Then wash her lower legs and her feet. Anastasia’s hands reach down and caress my wet hair, her fingers lacing through my wet strands. I slowly rise to my feet. As I stand up I get to take in the bruises on her ribs again.

“Oh, baby,” I groan in a tormented voice. I have to distract myself from jumping out of the shower, making my way to the hospital and finding the fucker to ending his miserable life so that he can never harm another human being again.

“I’m okay,” she soothes me. She reaches up, her hands caging my face, and pulling me down to her lips. I hesitate. Because a kiss is never just a kiss for us... Just a simple touch onto her lips will turn us both on. I can’t do that when she’s injured. Her lips mold into mine anyway full of need and desire and she starts kissing me passionately despite my hesitation. Her tongue forces its way into my mouth, and I’m lost. My tongue meets hers, caressing it in gentle but sensual strokes, reacquainting itself with her mouth. And my cock stirs, growing and pressing against her body. Oh, fuck! I can’t do that!

“No,” I whisper against her lips, and pull her back away from me. “Let’s get you clean.”

She pouts, upset at me for breaking the connection between us after seeing how serious I am about it. I don’t want to put her in danger by having sex with her. I haven’t had my wife in days, and I don’t want to lose control. Even if I’m very gentle, she might get hurt with her bruised muscles, and injured ribs. She’s mad; Feisty even. Putting her hands on her hips, she glares at me angrily like a child who is told she couldn’t have candy, her reaction makes me grin. I kiss her briefly, but break our connection to not to arouse her further.

“Clean… Not dirty,” I enunciate.

“I like dirty,” she responds.

“Me, too, Mrs. Grey. But not now, not here,” I say. Without giving her chance to say another word, I take the shampoo, squeezing some into my palm; I take it to her hair, and start washing it. She knows I mean business, and finally closing her eyes, gives herself to the gentle rubbing by my fingers, relaxing under the water. After thoroughly massaging her hair, I let the warm water run the suds out of her hair, and run over her back into the drain in lazy rivulets. Once I wash her completely, I start washing my hair, and body. She wants to wash me. I let her because I am craving her touch in any way possible. But when her hand lingers on my cock, her soapy hand gliding up and down, trying to pump me, and giving me a big hard on, I have to remove her hand, and endure the repressed desire accompanied by a pulsing painful erection.

When we come out of the shower, she somehow looks happier, energized, and relaxed. I wrap her in a large plush bath towel, and wrap one around my hips. Anastasia starts drying her hair while I’m drying mine with a towel.

“I still don’t understand why Elizabeth was involved with Jack,” she mutters confused.

“I do,” I reply darkly remembering the fucker’s hold on her.

She is completely surprised, and looks up at me. When she sees me drying my hair, my chest and shoulders still wet with glistening water, she makes a visible effort to gather her thoughts. She looks like I’m something to eat; her gaze never leaving my body. I am incredibly tempted, with her gaze having a direct line to my cock, my barely tamed erection seeking full growth again.

“Enjoying the view?” I ask.

“How do you know?” she asks trying to ignore the fact that I caught her staring. Even if I didn’t see her staring, my body has a direct connection. When we are near each other, I feel her presence, her gaze, her mood.

“That you’re enjoying the view?” I tease.

“No,” she scolds me changing the topic. “About Elizabeth.”

“Detective Clark hinted at it.”

She raises her eyebrows, in her usual manner demanding me to tell her more.

“Hyde had videos. Videos of all of them. On several USB flash drives.” She frowns, completely shocked with this information.

“Videos of him fucking her and fucking all his PAs,” I say without giving her the details. Her eyes widen with understanding.

“Exactly. Blackmail material. He likes it rough,” I say frowning. That’s sort of like me. I like it rough, and I have still images of my subs though they were made aware of the picture were being taken both for recreation at the time as well as against any exposure. It is not unlike me. I am immediately disgusted of myself, and filled with self-loathing. I have fucked harder, tried more kinky shit than Hyde can even dream of.

“Don’t!” Anastasia warns me. I frown at her, not comprehending her meaning.

“Don’t what?” I ask and regard her with uneasiness and worry. Did I do something to hurt her?

“You aren’t anything like him.”

My eyes harden. She knew what I was thinking. Of course she would. We understand each other wordlessly often.

“You’re not,” she says stubbornly.

“We’re cut from the same cloth,” I murmur with disgust.

“No, you’re not,” she snaps. How could she think that? We both have had fucked up childhoods. I don’t know my dad; his dad died in a bar brawl. My mother was a crack whore, his was a drunk, and a drug addict. I am an adopted child by the Greys, and he was in and out of foster homes. He had a troubled childhood boosting cars; I drank as a teen, and fought with everyone possible and was kicked out of three schools in one year. I could have ended up in juvie like he did had it not been for Elena focusing my attention in sex, and my parents keeping a tight leash on me. We are the same shit!

“You both have troubled pasts, and you were both born in Detroit. That’s it, Christian,” she says fisting her hands on her hips.

“Ana, your faith in me is touching, especially in light of the last few days. We’ll know more when Welch is here,” I say dismissing the topic. She isn’t going to change my views on this. I am disgusted about myself; about how I behaved and distanced my wife from me with my own disturbing behavior; I’m responsible with her falling prey to Hyde because I wasn’t trusting enough to ask her the right questions at the bank. I am lucky that she’s alive and with me today.

“Christian—“ she starts, but I cut her off with a kiss.

“Enough,” I breathe into her lips. I expect her to pester me more, but she doesn’t. She stops with a pout.

“And don’t pout,” I say. “Come. Let me dry your hair.” After she’s dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, I sit her between my legs to have full access to her hair while effectively quieting her down. Drying her hair and having this access to her relaxes us both. Once the drier is silenced, I take her to our bed, sit her in front of me and I start combing her hair with a hairbrush.

“So did Clark tell you anything else while I was unconscious?” she asks.

“Not that I recall.”

“I heard a few of your conversations,” she retorts. Which conversations did she hear? My hand with the hairbrush stills in her hair. What did she hear? How much did she hear?

“Did you?” I probe nonchalantly.

“Yes. My dad, your dad, Detective Clark…your mom,” she says. She heard just about everyone.

“And Kate?”

“Kate was there?” she asks.

“Briefly, yes. She’s mad at you, too,” I tell her.

She immediately turns in my lap. “Stop with the everyone is mad at Ana crap, okay?” she snaps.

“Just telling you the truth,” I murmur perplexed with her sudden conniption.

“Yes, it was reckless, but you know, your sister was in danger,” she says. Remembering how close they both came to dying makes my face fall again.

“Yes. She was,” I say holding her chin up.

“Thank you,” I say and register the shock in her face in the face of my gratitude for her. “But no more recklessness. Because next time, I will spank the living shit out of you,” I threatened with nothing but truth in my tone. She gasps.

“You wouldn’t!”

“I most certainly would,” I say, my tone serious. She searches my face and sees the iron determination. “I have your stepfather’s permission.” I smirk. She is trying to see if I’m kidding. She launches herself at me, and I twist so that she falls onto the bed and right into my arms. This could have led to dirtier acts, but she winces with pain. The sight of her nearly writhing in pain drains the blood out of my face. “Behave!” I censure her, angrily; both at her and at myself for giving in.

“Sorry,” she mutters, and her hand caresses my cheek.

Her touch means a lot to me, and I nuzzle into it, kissing her hand gently. “Honestly, Ana, you really have no regard for your own safety.” I tug the hem of her t-shirt and put my fingers on her belly where our baby is residing. Anastasia stops breathing.

“It’s not just you anymore,” I whisper as my fingers skate over her waistband, and her skin underneath. The wonder is that my child, our baby that we made together is growing inside my wife. But right at that moment, I feel Anastasia gasping with desire, and her body getting hot, her face getting flush with lust. I tense immediately, and stop moving my fingers and gaze down at her. I deliberately move my finger away from her belly and just tuck a lose strand of hair.

“No,” I whisper. I want nothing more right now than to have my wife, make love to her, and bury myself so deep in her for days; but we can’t. Not without hurting her, and that is something I will not do.

She gazes at me with a look laced with disappointment, intense desire, and carnal lust all bundled in one.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve seen the bruises. And the answer is no,” I say in a firm, determined voice. As I kiss her forehead, she squirms beneath me.

“Christian,” she whines.

“No. Get into bed,” I say sitting up.

“Bed?”

“You need rest.”

“I need you.”

That takes me aback and it takes all my self-control to tear myself away from her. I close my eyes and shake my head, trying to cut some of my senses off to prevent giving into her will. When I finally regain control, and make up my mind that her safety comes before her desire for me, I manage to open my eyes decidedly. “Just do as you’re told, Ana.”

She finally manages to nod, however reluctantly. “Okay,” she says pouting like a small child, making me laugh out loud. “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,” she says as she sits up clumsily and with difficulty. But I can see the pain in her eyes as she tries to hide her ache.

“Bed!” I order pointing to the pillow, my eyes flashing.

“Join me,” she murmurs, trying to entice me.

“Ana, get into the bed. Now!” I order once again. She looks at me with narrowed eyes, and then scowls. Standing up, she drops her sweatpants brusquely to the floor, managing to glare at me the entire time. I try not to smile at her antics, but it’s hard not to do it. I pull back the duvet to let her in.

“You heard Dr. Singh. She said rest,” I remind her in a gentler voice. She gets in the bed and folds her arms in exasperation. “Stay,” I command again, finally making my wife do as I order. She scowls deeper.

I go to the kitchen and heat up the chicken stew Mrs. Jones has prepared. I fix two trays; one for Ana and one for me. Taking the food to our bedroom, I sit Anastasia up in the bed so she can enjoy her food. I sit on the bed cross-legged and eat with her.

“That was very well heated,” she smirks, and I grin at her in response. When she finishes all her food, she looks full and ready to sleep.

“You look tired,” I tell her, and take her tray away from her.

“I am,” she says yawning.

“Good. Sleep,” I say kissing her. “I have some work I need to do. I’ll do it in here if that’s okay with you.”

She nods, but unable to keep awake, her eyes close.

I take the trays out to the kitchen, rinsing them; I leave the dishes in the sink. Then taking my laptop, I walk back to our bedroom, and sit on my side of the bed to work. I go through my piled up e-mails. Ros and Warren have been in Taiwan for the signing of the documents and inspecting the shipyard. She says all is going well and that they are coming back today. I go over the signed documents, and her annotations. God! There is hundreds of e-mail accumulated. I sort them by category and go over the most important ones. My Blackberry buzzes with an incoming text. It’s a message from Taylor:

*Welch is here to see you.*

This is the dreaded meeting, but one I must go through to find out the link between Hyde and I. It will give me a better understanding why the fucker is obsessed with me. I text back.

*Take him to my office. I’m coming.*

When I get to my office, Welch is sitting down and a large manila envelope is on my desk suspiciously waiting for me. He gets up to greet me, and Taylor is waiting his hands tied on his back at ease. I walk to my seat, and show him his chair again to seat him down.

“Tell me about your trip,” I start the conversation.

“My starting point for the search was at your former living quarters. The apartments are still there, but I wanted to see if the former occupants included Hyde and his mother at any point. But there were no records of your paths crossing in any way when you were with your birth mother. You haven’t gone to school, or joined in a play group. You had no known relatives. After confirming that you had no connection with Hyde while you were with the birth mother, I searched for a connection after you were taken away from the scene of death. What I discovered is interesting. Do you remember the brief time you were in foster care before your adoption was finalized by the Dr. and Mr. Grey?” he asks.

“Foster care? I was in foster care?” I ask him completely shocked.

“Yes, sir, you were. For a brief time. I want to first give you a general picture of the circumstances surrounding your adoption to help you better understand how and why you were in foster care which will greatly explain how you and Hyde were at the same place, and at the same time,” he says. I am immediately pure attention, my eyebrows rising. I’m in such a shock; he could knock me over with a feather!

“What? Did you say that I was with him at the same place and time?”

“Yes, sir, I did. I’m coming to that, but I need to explain how that occurred in the first place. According to current adoption laws, if a couple is approved for adoption already, there’s usually no waiting period for open adoptions within the individual’s home state granted that the child is also a resident of that state. But the laws were different then. I think it’s very important for me to make the adoption laws clear to you in 1987 – the year you were adopted, sir. I almost didn’t uncover that and we could have easily overlooked your foster home stay. Because the year you were adopted, there were several changes to the adoption laws. It wasn’t easy for me to uncover them, because some of them applied to your case and some didn’t, and it is incredibly difficult to locate information because the records aren’t kept in one place, and some are achieved and some are simply nonexistent. It’s a big maze, but I contacted Pella. He pointed me in the right direction with the changes to the adoption laws, state archives as well as records by different foster care agencies. In the state of Michigan, if a child is to be adopted, the child must be completely free of any legal guardian at first, and must become the ward of the state. That’s one of the primary conditions of a child’s adoptability.

If the prospective adoptive parent is married to one of the parents and the step-parent is a candidate for adoption of that child, the biological parent who is the spouse of that adoptive parent must first agree to sever his or her parental rights and the child must fully become a ward of the state for the duration of the adoption process. The rights of the biological mother or father who is being replaced with an adoptive parent must have already been severed either voluntarily or by the state. I have checked the adoption laws and that was the law at the time of your adoption. Your biological mother died, and you didn’t have a biological father in the picture. You became the ward of the state. Even if the Grey family was qualified to adopt you, the laws stated that your blood relations must be sought out. If no one came forward, then you would become adoptable. During that process the child to be adopted couldn’t live with the adoptive parents. That’s how you were placed in a foster home.”

“So, how does Hyde come in to the picture?”

“That’s the other issue. I have located the family who fostered you. Legally, the names of the minors cannot be made public knowledge to others. Apparently those laws were even stricter before. And the state social services do not have all the records. States have been working with many foster care agencies. Unfortunately their record-keeping is woefully behind times. Not all the records are available, and much of the information is missing. The court documents are nonsensical. I had to go through all of the court records to discover that you were in fact in foster care. But the name of the agency wasn’t available in the records. I had to locate an employee who worked at the time of your adoption, and she led me to the known foster care agencies of the time. One the third try I managed to get a name of the agency and from there the name of the family who fostered you,” he says solemnly.

“Who was it?” I ask in a whisper.

“Janice and Chuck Collier, and their twin sons and teenage daughter. The family took in foster children for years to supplement their income. You weren’t the first one to be fostered with them, or the last, sir,” he says. I look at him impassively, I am anything but. How does that tie in with Hyde?

“And?”

“You see, because I represent you, I can reach your records, and find out about them. But legally, we aren’t allowed to do that about Hyde. I basically hit a dead end there until I located the family. Well, Mrs. Collier, to be exact. Her husband passed away of a heart attack about two years ago. She still lives in the same house. You were placed into the Colliers’ care for two months and nine days. That’s how long the court allocated for any possible blood relative of yours to come forward to claim you, and once no one came forth, your adoption process went though. Meanwhile, you remained with the Collier family as a foster child through the conclusion of your adoption. Mrs. Collier remembers you,” he says.

“She does? What did she say?” I ask surprised.

“Mrs. Collier is about 67 years old now. She and her husband fostered tens of children over the years, but she remembers you. She said that you were four years old but looked a lot younger than your age; you were scared, and didn’t talk. She remembers you being very malnourished. She said you bonded with her and liked to sit next to her while she read to you; but never on her lap which she found odd for a child of that age. You tried to remain distant from her husband. She said that you had a very distinct and unusual fear of adult males. She told me of one story: Apparently her husband, an ex-army man liked punctuality at the dinner table, and you were playing with a small toy car. When Mr. Collier called you to come to dinner table, you got scared and hid in the cabinet under the sink, clutching to your blanket,” he says. My eyes widen and I swallow hard.

“Go on…” I ask. I remember nothing of this. It’s driving me crazy. I remember just about everything of my past, but not a shred of memory of this time.

“And before you came to live with them, the foster family had two other foster kids. One of the children was returned to her maternal grandmother just a couple of days before you were put in their care, and there was one other child still remaining in their home. A nine year old orphaned boy whose mother went to jail for drug possession. She remembers his first name, but not the last name.”

“What was the name?” I ask, unable to recognize my rough voice.

“Jack. His name was Jack.”

“She said that her family had many foster children over the years. She wouldn’t have remembered you but, two things stuck out with you: you didn’t talk, and that you were adopted by a rich family which surprised her.”

“Why would it surprise her?” I ask miffed.

“She said she liked you a lot but she assumed a very rich family like that would adopt a baby or …” he says stopping, and clearing his throat.

“Go ahead, don’t sugar coat it for me, Welch!” I order, my eyes ablaze.

“…a non-special needs child with less baggage, or better breeding. She said that she wasn’t saying it to be unkind, because she has fostered so many children, but you didn’t speak, didn’t let people to touch you, hid with the sight of an adult male, but in desperate need of care. According to her a lot of those children went unadopted including the ones she fostered. They ended up remaining in the foster system until they reached 18, or a relative claimed them which she said was also rare. That’s why she was extremely happy for you to have found a good home.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, I have couple of pictures,” he says handing me two faded pictures. The top picture is of a dilapidated small house with an oddly yellow front door and a roof window. The front porch looks worn out and paint peeled off from what I can see, and the front yard is nondescript.

I shuffle the house picture below, and bring up the other picture. It’s the picture of a family in front of the house with the yellow door. The adults in the picture look to be in their mid-40s, a husband and wife by the looks of it. The man has buzz cut, thick in the middle, and wearing worn-out clothes. The woman’s hair is scraped back and blonde; she too is wearing bedraggled, overused clothing. But, they both seem cheerful. The man has his hand draped over his irritable looking teenage daughter. His twin sons look to be about twelve years old seem cheerful and grinning.

“The Colliers?” I ask.

“Yes, sir. Chuck and Janice Collier, their twin sons and teenage daughter.” I recognize myself in the picture, hiding behind a red haired boy. My nostrils flare and my eyes widen. I gaze at my picture for two solid minutes. I look dirty, extremely malnourished, scared, dressed in mismatched clothes, clutching a dirty child’s blanket. I look like a two year old, not a four year old. I’m hiding behind a reddish blond haired, scowling boy who looks to be under ten years old.

“Who is the other boy?” I ask.

“That-“ Welch says significantly, “is Jack Hyde.”

“Is it confirmed?”

“Yes, sir. He was in the foster care system until his mother reclaimed him. Mrs. Collier didn’t remember his last name, but she remembers his first name and him being an aggressive child. She said that he got hostile towards you after your adoptive parents came to visit you about a week before your adoption went through,” he says, and that statement immediately raises alarm bells. “I had to backtrack to locate Hyde’s foster family records because he had been in a few different homes for a lot longer periods. But those records were a lot harder to find, because his state records only had one entry and some of the records were achieved and I had to pull a lot of strings and pay off workers to get access to his information. But meanwhile, I went back to the same foster care agency that placed you with the Colliers to cross check and verify the information Mrs. Collier provided and had them let me look at the records for about 15 minutes. There he was. I just took pictures of the records because I wasn’t allowed to make copies,” he says and pushes the large manila envelope towards me. “This file contains information both on you and Hyde and it puts you both in the same place with the Collier family -- between May 13^th through July 22^nd of 1987. You and Hyde shared the same foster family for two months and nine days. That’s how you two first met; that’s where he knows you from! The thumb drive in there also contains all the videos he’s made fucking his assistants and Elizabeth Morgan,” he says emphasizing.

I look at him bewildered, speechless for a moment.

“Where did you get that?”

“Let’s just say that it’s a good will gesture from the local law enforcement for our further help and cooperation.”

“What about the police investigation here? Have you heard anything other than this?”

“They’ll take a while to reconstruct the scene, sir, and the fucker is still in the hospital, but not talking. Of course Morgan woman is chirping away to save her own ass. But, I wanted you to be the first one to get the information. Do you want to submit our findings to the police?”

“Yes, to my lawyers as well. I want to make sure that the fucker doesn’t see the light of day again. This will show them that it’s not a random act of violence but rooted in the past.”

“Yes, sir. I will inform you if any new information resurfaces,” he says before he leaves. Taylor glances at me solemnly before he leads Welch out.  I look at the files Welch brought and a cold chill runs over me. I stick the thumb flash drive into the USB port, and several files open. I click on each one and note him fucking different women with different hardcore BDSM styles. The fucker likes it rough. Shit! He’s like me in more ways than one! Taking the two pictures Welch brought, I walk back to our bedroom like a zombie. Anastasia is still sleeping. I sit in the armchair watching my wife, the only person who is anchoring me to here and now.

The fucker Hyde almost killed her because of his hatred for me, for not getting who and what belongs to me. I’m shaken to my core, my face is ghastly. I am missing a chunk of my past. I don’t remember anything about it. Nothing! Not a single vision or a simple memory. Why? I remember everything else before and after. Why not this period? I look at the picture over and over again, and yet all I see is the faces of strangers. I don’t remember them. I am a man who likes to know everything; knowledge gives me control and power. Yet I don’t wield that power over my own past. It’s driving me insane. I still have to make the connection between what Hyde had written in his ransom note, and this missing information. The fact that Hyde knows something about me that I don’t, and that fucker’s wielding control over my past is tormenting me inside.

The sun is setting behind me, and the dusk is settling over Seattle sky like a blanket. It’s the magic hour. The crimson and orange lights of the sunset are slightly seeping into our bedroom. The last lights of the day in pink and crimson colors dance on Anastasia’s face. I am fixated on her as if without her I will be lost forever. She stirs in bed, removes her arm from her forehead, and blinks a few times. Upon seeing my tormented face she sits up immediately.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, wincing.

“Welch has just left,” I mutter.

“And?” she asks anxiously.

“I lived with the fucker,” I manage to whisper.

“Lived? With Jack?”

I nod in response my eyes wide, still stunned.

“You’re related?”

“No. Good God, no.”

She moves in bed, making room for me, and opens up the duvet, patting the space next to her in bed. I kick off my shoes, and immediately get in bed with her. I need to be close to her. I can’t be inside her when she’s physically hurting like this; but I still have to have physical touch. I need her desperately. I wrap one arm around her, and curl up next to her, putting my head on her lap. Her hand reaches into my hair, and she starts running her fingers through my hair soothing me. I can feel her penetrating gaze on me.

“I don’t understand,” she mutters.

I close my eyes, and strain to remember the past, furrowing my brows.

“After I was found with the crack whore, before I went to live with Carrick and Grace, I was in the care of state of Michigan. I lived in a foster home. But I can’t remember anything about that time,” I say still tormented with the lack of memory of that time.

“For how long?” she whispers her question.

“Two months or so. I have no recollection.”

“Have you spoken to your mom and dad about it?” she asks. I haven’t even thought about asking them. I don’t like asking help from anyone.

“No,” I reply simply.

“Perhaps you should. Maybe they could fill in the blanks.”

I hug her tighter, and curl up as close as possible to my wife. I extend my hand holding the pictures. “Here,” I say. Ana leans down and turns the side table lamp on to see better. She silently observes the pictures for a long time.

Finally, I hear her whispered voice: “This is you.” Her eyes teary. I nod.

“That’s me.”

“Welch brought these photos?”

“Yes. I don’t remember any of this,” I mutter in a flat, insipid and desolate voice.

“You mean remember being with foster parents? Why should you? Christian, it was a long time ago. Is this what’s worrying you?”

“I remember other things, from before and after. When I met my mom and dad. But this… I don’t remember this. This is like a huge chasm.”

Her hand caresses my hair again absently, and I lift my head up under her arm.

“Is Jack in this picture?

“Yes, he’s the older kid,” I say closing my eyes tightly shut, trying to center myself. Trying to remember and trying to forget, to shove away the bad memories. I hold onto my wife with all I’ve got, embracing her as if something is going to toss me out of her orbit, and I’ll be lost forever.

“When Jack called to tell me he had Mia, he said if things had been different, it could have been him.”

I close my eyes and spew my epitaph. “That fucker!”

Of course he would. If what Mrs. Collier said is correct about Hyde’s aggression after meeting my parents, he would think that I cheated him out of a family he could have gotten. He’s really sick in the head.

“You think he did all this because the Greys adopted you instead of him?”

“Who knows?” I say in a bitter tone. “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,” she mutters disgustedly.

“I don’t think so,” reply, finally my eyes 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,” I say holding onto Anastasia tighter.

A shiver runs through Ana. She contemplates for a minute.

“Christian, I think you should talk to your mom and dad,” she urges as she shifts in the bed, sliding back, she comes eye to eye with me. Her concerned blue gaze locks with my bewildered eyes. I am tormented that I lived with someone a very long time ago, and this person attempted to harm me, my family and business over and over again. It took me a long time to uncover this fact, and the void in my head, the lack of memories regarding that time is a black hole inside.

“Let me call them,” she whispers. I shake my head in the negative. I don’t like asking for help from anyone, even from my parents. I have learned to take care of myself, and I’ve done that all my life. “Please,” she begs. I stare at her, distress and vacillation lacing every fiber of my being, reflecting through my gaze. I don’t know if I should call my parents. I’ve not asked them for anything for years. But, Ana is my rock. Maybe they can shed some light into that time of my life.

“I’ll call them,” I whisper.

“Good. We can go and see them together, or you can go. Whichever you prefer,” she says softly. I don’t want to take her for a car ride in her injured state, or leave her alone at home. If my parents are available, they can come here. But I doubt they are.

“No. They can come here.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you going anywhere.”

“Christian, I’m up for a car ride.”

“No!” I say unyielding, but smile at her. The trip may not be necessary. “Anyway, it’s Saturday night, they’re probably at some function.” They participate in a lot of charities and attend social gatherings with their friends and colleagues.

“Call them!” she insists. “This news has obviously upset you. They might be able to shed some light,” she says. Then turns her head and looks at the alarm clock. It reads 6:54 p.m. I gaze at my wife for a moment impassively, contemplating. There’s only love and concern on her face for me. I don’t want to add worry to her already full plate. She’s pregnant, too. Stress wouldn’t be good for her or our baby.

“Okay,” I acquiesce. I sit up, and take the cordless phone sitting atop the side table. As Anastasia wraps her arm around me and rests her head on my chest, I take a deep breath and dial my parent’s home phone.

“Grey residence,” my father answers.

“Dad?” I respond completely surprised to find him home. I called him at home hoping they wouldn’t be there.

“Hi Christian! How’s Ana? Are you back at the hospital?” he asks concerned.

“Ana’s good. We’re home right now,” I say and take another shaky breath. “Welch has just left. He found out the connection…”

“Connection? With Hyde?”

“Yes. The foster home in Detroit.”

“Oh! I have totally forgotten about that!” Then he speaks to someone in a muffled voice. “It’s Christian, darling. He found the connection with the Hyde character…” then he replies my mom’s question. “The foster home in Detroit…Yes, I was surprised as well,” he says.

“I don’t remember any of that,” I say in a barely audible voice. Ana hugs me tighter, and I squeeze her shoulder in response.

“Well, your mom remembers it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, we can come and talk to you about it if you like.”

“You can? You will?”

“Yes, I suppose we can leave as soon as your mom can grab her jacket and purse.”

“Great!” I respond, hanging up. My parents are willing to drive here to explain something about my past? Why am I still surprised about it?

“They’re on their way,” I tell Ana, unable to shake off the astonishment from my voice.

“Good. I should get dressed,” Anastasia says.

I hold her tighter as if I’d lose my sun if she were to move a few feet away to get dressed. “Don’t go,” I whisper.

“Okay,” she says snuggling into my side, and holding me until the feeling of loss subsides.

*****❦ ♡ ❧*****

When my parents arrive at Escala, we meet them at the Great room’s entry. My parents beam at us. My mom makes a beeline to Anastasia and gently hugs her while my dad shakes my hand.

“Ana, Ana, darling Ana,” my mom whispers her gratitude. “Saving two of my children. How can I ever thank you?” she asks, making my wife blush. Then my dad hugs Anastasia, kissing her forehead. But my ever rambunctious sister grabs Anastasia and squeezes her tight forgetting she has bruised ribs! I see Ana gasping and wincing, as Mia mutters, “thank you for saving me from those assholes.”

“Mia!” I glower at her. “You need to be careful! She’s in pain.”

“Oh! Sorry,” Mia says chagrined.

“I’m good,” Anastasia tries to placate. But she takes a sigh of relief when Mia releases her. She takes a good look at my sister and notes her tight black jeans, pale pink frilly blouse. Then her eyes imperceptibly drift to her own clothes. She looks just wonderful in her wrap dress, and flats. I want her to be comfortable when she’s healing. Mia rushes towards me and gives me a strong hug putting her arms around my waist.

Once Mia lets go of me, my parents look at me expectantly. I hand my mom the pictures. They both lean into the pictures, and my mom gasps, her hand immediately flying to her mouth to stifle the outpour of her emotions. Her gaze is full of recognition. My dad’s face is somber as he wraps his arm around my mother to lend her strength.

“Oh, darling,” my mother caresses my cheek.

Taylor comes to the entryway and clears his throat. “Mr. Grey? Miss Kavanagh, her brother, and your brother are coming up, sir.”

What? I didn’t invite them. Not when Ana barely got home and still hurting. I frown. “Thank you, Taylor,” I mutter, completely bewildered.

“I called Elliot and told him we were coming over,” my sister says grinning. “It’s a welcome home party,” she says shrugging. So, this is all her doing. My parents glare at my sister with displeasure as Anastasia looks at me sympathetically.

“We’d better get some food together,” Ana announces. “Mia, would you give me a hand?”

“Oh, I’d love to,” she replies. As Anastasia and Mia make their way to the kitchen, I lead my parents into my study.

After my parents enter, I close the door, and show them to the chairs before my desk. I go and stand leaning onto my desk.

“I don’t remember anything of that time. In fact, this is the first time I ever heard that I was in foster care.”

“It completely escaped my mind as well. It’s been so long,” my dad says turning to my mother.

“I remember it well,” she says softly, swallowing hard. “We adopted Elliot, so we were clear as adoptive parent candidates. But since your birth mom died and there was no father name registered, the state by law had the obligation of waiting to see if any blood relatives come forward to claim you,” she says. My gaze is hard; my lips are taut and pursed into a tight line. I am so glad that no fucking family members came through from any of my blood relations. If they couldn’t be a decent family to their daughter, what good could they do for me except contribute to my fuckeduppedness?

“It was the longest two months we waited, concerned that someone might come forward and take you. Someone who may be detrimental to your well-being... I have seen a lot of children abused in the hands of their relatives; you were in greater danger, because you have already experienced that in your former home, darling.”

“Was her pimp my biological father?” I ask, bracing myself for the worst.

“No, he wasn’t,” says my dad resolutely.

“How can you be sure?”

“I’ve seen him at the police station when he was called in to give his statement. He looks nothing like you, and he adamantly denied that you were his, claiming he had a vasectomy, and he did have proof which he provided later. We’re hundred percent sure that he wasn’t related to you in any way. He claims that your biological mother didn’t know who the father was,” he says and I give a sigh of relief.

“Have you met my foster parents?” I ask wanting to confirm what Mrs. Collier stated to Welch.

“A few times. The last one being was the week before we the adoption papers were finalized,” my mom replies.

“Do you remember seeing the other boy?” I ask both of them.

“To be honest son, we weren’t paying attention to the other children in the foster family’s home. There were other kids in their home, but we didn’t know which ones were their own or if there were any other foster kids. So, obviously we didn’t want to offend them in any way by scrutinizing their children. We came and spent time with you and brought you a toy, and some basic clothing items.” I nod. I knew nothing of this! Seemingly a simple piece of information, but a missing chunk of my past. An important piece… My mind keeps going back to the possibility of what would have happened if someone did come forward. What if the fucking pimp even claimed that he was my dad and continued to abuse me? What if… what if… I’m completely unsettled, tense, and agitated as if this happened just yesterday. At this moment, I’m so fucking shaken as if I just dropped out of the sky aimlessly; I don’t feel like the domineering CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc., but a lost boy.

I shake my head. “I don’t remember any of it. I remember all the other shit from before… with the crack whore, the pimp, the abuse. Still have nightmares about them. And more after the adoption. But I don’t remember any of this! Nothing,” I whisper, my eyes wide.

My mom reaches and holds my hand in hers.

“I’m so very happy that you called us to help you remember,” she says.

“Ana told me to call you. I don’t know if I would have. She wanted me to…” I say shrugging.

“She’s a wonderful girl. She loves you, son. I don’t know what we would have done without her. She gave you back to us in so many ways, lit you up like fireworks, and now saved Mia’s life. She’ll make us grandparents, too! She’s heaven sent!” my mother gushes with tears as if Anastasia just walked on water after healing a colony of lepers all in one evening.

“I have never been so happy for having been proven wrong, Christian,” my dad says. “What Ana has done for our family cannot be repaid. She put her life, her baby’s life in danger for our daughter, and she loves you madly. She makes you communicate with us. Do you realize how long it’s been since we’ve had this kind of heart to heart or even close to it without counting the hospital?”

“That would be almost never.”

“It’s not because we didn’t try. The last time I really tried to reach you was when you left Harvard and we had that blow-up. After that you put up thicker walls around you, son. After that no matter what I did, how much I tried to connect with you, you were distant; miles away. Always cordial, respectful, but an independent entity, not as much a father-son, though I have attempted to be close to you. This,” he says gesturing around the room with his hand, “this is a first. But I am happy to know that you are close your mom. I want you to know, we…” he corrects himself, “…we want you to know that you should be able to come to us with anything without fearing or expecting of our judgment, or criticism, or apprehension,” he says as my mom nods fervently, her eyes brimming with tears, one hand clutching to mine, the other stifling a sob over her mouth.

“We only have Ana to thank for giving you back to us,” my mom whispers.

“I know mom. Do you remember anything else about my foster care?” I ask my parents.

“Well, when we visited you, the foster mom made some delicious baked goods which were amazing and offered us some and you seemed to love her pastries, and she was cooking dinner as we were getting ready to leave which smelled heavenly. She was very polite. Asked us to stay for dinner, but we didn’t want to intrude on them, and left. It’s been a long time, but I do remember that,” my mom says.

“Thank you for sharing this information mom and dad,” I say, still dismal and shaken. I stand up. My mom hands me the pictures back, and I put them on my desk. I'm reeling a million miles an hour; so much shit to sort through in my head. I show my parents out of my study in a daze. The loud sounds of visitors greet us outside the door. When I walk back to the great room after my parents, I’m still ashen, but when I see Anastasia with a glass of champagne in her hand, my eyes widen. What the hell is she thinking? She can’t have alcohol when she’s pregnant!

A Million Miles an Hour - Eastern Conference Champions

I see Katherine Kavanagh, and greet her coolly while walking towards Anastasia. “Kate.”

She responds, “Christian,” in equally cool measure. My eyes are locked on the glass Anastasia is holding. “Your meds, Mrs. Grey,” I say pointedly. She narrows her eyes on me. My mother joins us with a glass of champagne of her own.

“A sip will be fine,” she says with a wink. I scowl at them both.

“Hey bro! Did you catch the Mariners and the Rangers game?” he asks.

“No. How was it?”

“We lost 7 to 6. But it was a great game!”

“Who scored?” I ask following him to the couch.

“Well, Gentry singled to left, and Napoli scored from the Rangers first. But then Suzuki reached on infield single to shortstop, Kennedy and Ryan scored and Saunders to second…” he starts giving me play by play.

My eyes drift back to my wife who is embraced by my parents who are kissing her cheeks and talking to her. My sister sits next to Ethan Kavanagh and they’re holding hands. Ethan jumps in to the conversation.

“You did miss a great game, Christian! It was so close. I really thought we would win! Carp homered to right, and Seager scored for the Mariners but it wasn’t enough to catch up! I bet we would have won if Mariners shortstop Brendan Ryan didn’t leave the game in the top of the third inning with neck spasm!” he says excitedly.

“Come on! That shit is no biggie!” my brother says.

“Of course it is! Andrus and Hamilton of the Rangers hit back-to-back home runs in the third inning, man! We needed him…”

When my parents and Anastasia walk back into the great room, Anastasia comes and snuggles next to me with her drink still in her hand.

“One sip,” I hiss at her, and take the glass out of her hand.

“Yes, Sir,” she says completely submissively while batting her eyelashes and disarms me immediately. I put my arms around her, pulling her into me, and having my family around, turn back to my brother to continue talking about the last Mariner’s game.

After everyone has eaten, and the dishes picked up, we send my family, and the Kavanaghs off. My wife needs rest.

I hold Anastasia’s hand; walk her back to our bedroom.

“My parents think you walk on water,” I mutter as I take my shirt off. She is in bed curled up and watching me, eye-fucking me to my delight.

“Good thing you know differently,” she snorts.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say as I pull my jeans off.

“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 he wait’s required by law to see if I had any living relatives who wanted to claim me.”

“How do you feel about that?” she asks pressing on my earlier concern.

I frown. I don’t like it at all. “About having no living relatives? Fuck that. If they were anything like the crack whore…” I say in disgust. I don’t bring the rest of the thought. It’s disturbing enough as it is.

I put on my pajamas, climb into bed, and pull my wife into the safety of my arms.

“It’s coming back to me. I remember the food. Mrs. Collier could cook. And at least we know why that fucker is so hung up on my family.” Oh, shit! I remember! I remember something else. “Fuck!” I mutter as my hand runs through my hair. I’m gaping at Anastasia in shock.

“What?” she asks concerned.

“It makes sense now!” I declare.

“What?” she asks exasperated.

“Baby Bird. Mrs. Collier used to call me Baby Bird.”

Anastasia looks at me blankly. “That makes sense?” she asks raising her eyebrows, confused.

“The note,” I say gazing at her. “The ransom note that fucker left. It went something like ‘Do you know who I am? Because I know who you are, Baby Bird.’ “

Anastasia still looks back at me with a blank stare.

“It’s from a kid’s book. Christ! The Colliers had it. It was called, ‘Are You My Mother?’ Shit! I loved that book,” I say my eyes widening. I remember it now! The memories come flooding.

Understanding reaches Anastasia’s eyes.

“Mrs. Collier used to read it to me.” Her lips part to say something, and close again, not knowing what to say.

“Christ. He knew… That fucker knew!”

“Will you tell the police?”

“Yes. Of course, I will. Christ knows what Clark will do with that information,” I shake my head trying to clear my head of the shithead Hyde. “Anyway, thank you for this evening.”

“For what?” she asks.

“Catering for my family at a moment’s notice.”

“Don’t thank me, thank Mia and Mrs. Jones. She keeps the pantry well stocked.” I shake my head. She doesn’t understand how special she is. My wife still has a hard time taking a compliment.

“How are you feeling, Mrs. Grey?”

“Good. How are you feeling?” she asks me. I’m perfectly healthy.

“I’m fine,” I say frowning. Do I look ill?

She smiles and starts trailing her fingers down on my stomach and over my happy trail. I grab her hands knowing exactly what she’s trying to do. “Oh no. Don’t get any ideas.”

She pouts, making me sigh. I am dying to make love to her. But I can’t when she’s not well enough. “Ana, Ana, Ana, what am I going to do with you?” I ask kissing her hair.

“I have some ideas,” she says squirming beside me. But she immediately winces, and holds her ribs automatically with pain.

“Baby, you’ve been through enough. Besides, I have a bedtime story for you.”

She looks up blinking. “You wanted to know…” I say, my voice trailing off. I swallow uneasily, but still determined to bare my soul for my wife. Her eyes widen understanding. I manage to deem my wife speechless for a change.

“Picture this, an adolescent boy looking to earn some extra money so he can continue his secret drinking habit,” I start my story. I turn in bed so I’m on my side and we are lying face to face. I gaze into Anastasia’s eyes, wanting to capture all of her reaction.

“So I was in the backyard at the Lincoln’s, clearing some rubble and trash from the extension Mr. Lincoln had just added to their place…”

Anastasia’s jaws drop open, completely shocked that I’m sharing my darkest history with her. But, this is a night for revelations. I want nothing left unsaid between us. She’s my wife, the mother of my unborn child, she is my everything.

Roberto Carlos - Como é Grande o Meu Amor Por Você

I have so much To tell you
But with words I can't convey
How big My love
For you is...

And there's nothing To compare to it
(No way) to Explain to you
How big My love
For you is...

Not even the sky Or the stars
Not even the sea Or the infinite
Nothing is bigger Than my love
Or more beautiful ...

I become desperate Seeking
Any way To tell you
Como é grande How big
My love For you is...

Don't ever forget even for a second
My love is The biggest in the world
How big My love
For you is...