by James, E L
Her brow furrows, and I hope she won’t stop me as I need to see for myself what that asshole prick has done to my wife. Taking her hand, I turn it over. My gaze travels from the graze on her wrist to the abrasion at her elbow, to the large fist-sized bruise on her shoulder. The sight of these marks infuriates me, igniting the embers of my earlier anger at Hyde. I bend to kiss each scrape and bruise, planting the barest of kisses at each site. Grabbing the washcloth and shower gel from the rack, I soap the cloth, inhaling the sweet fragrance of jasmine. “Turn around.”
Ana does as she’s told and, knowing she’s fragile and wounded, I wash her arms, neck, shoulders, and back, as tenderly as I’m able. Absorbed in the task, I keep my touch light. She doesn’t complain, and the tension in her shoulders eases little by little as I wash them. I turn her so I have a clearer view of the bruise on her hip; my fingers skate over the livid purple mark. She winces.
Motherfucker.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Ana says quietly, and I raise my head to meet her brilliant gaze.
I don’t believe her.
“I want to kill him. I nearly did.” The rage I felt, when Hyde was on the ground, burns deep inside my soul.
I should have kicked him to a pulp.
To shield Ana from my murderous thoughts, I concentrate on the washcloth and soap it again with shower gel. I bathe her body once more—her sides and her behind, and I kneel at her feet and wash her legs. I pause at the bruise on her knee, lean in and brush my lips against it before moving on to soap her feet. Her fingers tangle in my hair, distracting me from my task. When I look up, her expression is raw and tender, and it twists my heart. Standing, I trace the bruise at her ribs with my fingertips, the sight stoking my fury once more, but I dampen it down. It’s not helping either of us.
“Oh, baby.” I push the words past the anguish in my throat.
“I’m okay.” Her fingers weave into my hair again, and she pulls my head down and kisses me. Soft. Sweet. I hold myself back. She’s hurt. But her tongue teases me, and the fire flares once more, blazing through my body in a different way.
“No,” I whisper against her lips, and pull back. “Let’s get you clean.”
Ana regards me through her lashes, that way she does, and her eyes flick down to my growing erection, then back to my eyes. She pouts, so prettily, and the mood between us lightens immediately. Grinning, like the clown I am, I kiss her quickly. “Clean. Not dirty.”
“I like dirty.”
“Me, too, Mrs. Grey. But not now, not here.” I grab the shampoo and squirt some into my hands. Using only my fingertips, I gently wash her hair, remembering how gentle she was when she last washed mine, and how cherished I felt then.
After I’ve rinsed out the suds, I switch off the shower and exit, taking her with me. I cloak her in a warm towel, wrap one around my own waist, and hand her a towel for her hair. “Here.” She can judge how vigorous to be—she’s the one with a hairline fracture in her skull. My lighter mood takes a nose dive.
That asshole.
“I still don’t understand why Elizabeth was involved with Jack.” Ana intrudes on my dark thoughts.
“I do,” I offer.
She peers at me, and I’m expecting a question, but she seems to lose her train of thought as her eyes study me…all of me.
Mrs. Grey! I smirk. “Enjoying the view?”
“How do you know?”
“That you’re enjoying the view?”
“No.” She sounds exasperated. “About Elizabeth.”
I sigh. “Detective Clark hinted at it.”
Ana’s brows knit together and her gaze goads me, demanding more information.
“Hyde had videos. Videos of all of them. On several USB flash drives. Videos of him fucking her, and fucking all his PAs.”
Her mouth drops open.
“Exactly. Blackmail material. He likes it rough.”
So do I. Fuck.
Christ.
Self-disgust sweeps over me like an avenging angel.
“Don’t,” Ana interrupts, the word like the crack of a whip.
“Don’t what?”
“You aren’t anything like him.”
How did she guess?
“You’re not.” Ana’s tone is insistent.
Oh, but, Ana, I am. “We’re cut from the same cloth.”
“No you’re not!” Ana’s fervent denial silences me. “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.” My God, she’s remembered everything I told her on the plane to Aspen and she doesn’t stop—she’s on a roll. “You both have troubled pasts, and you were both born in Detroit. That’s it, Christian.” She fists her hands and places them on her hips.
She’s trying to intimidate me, dressed only in a towel.
It’s not going to work.
Because I know who I am.
But I don’t want to rile her. Now is not the time for an argument. It’s not good for her or the baby. “Ana, your faith in me is touching, especially in light of the last few days. We’ll know more when Welch is here.”
“Christian—”
Bending, I plant a swift kiss on her lips to end the discussion. “Enough.” Her expression is sullen. “And don’t pout,” I add. “Come. Let me dry your hair.”
She presses her lips together, but to my relief, she drops the subject. I lead her into the bedroom, then head into the closet, where I dress quickly, dragging on jeans and a T-shirt. I grab a pair of her sweatpants and one of my T-shirts for her.
While she slips on the clothes, I plug in the hair dryer, sit down on the bed, and gesture to her to join me. Ana perches between my legs and I start to brush through her wet hair.
I love combing out her hair.
It’s so soothing.
Soon, the only sound in our bedroom is the high-pitched whine of the hair dryer. Ana’s shoulders slump as she relaxes against me, and she’s quiet for a while.
“So, did Clark tell you anything else while I was unconscious?” Her words drag me from my absorbing task.
“Not that I recall.”
“I heard a few of your conversations.”
“Did you?” I stop brushing.
“Yes. My dad, your dad, Detective Clark, your mom.”
“And Kate?”
“Kate was there?”
“Briefly, yes. She’s mad at you, too.”
She jerks around. “Stop with the ‘Everyone is mad at Ana’ crap, okay?” Her tone is as high-pitched as the hair dryer.
“Just telling you the truth.” I shrug.
I’m still a little mad at you myself, Ana.
“Yes, it was reckless, but you know—your sister was in danger.”
“Yes. She was,” I murmur, as a bleak morbid fantasy of what could have happened plays out once more in my head.
Disarmed with a simple truth. Ana, you humble me at every turn.
I switch off the hair dryer and grasp her chin, gazing into clear but vibrant eyes, eyes I could drown in.
No. I’m not mad.
I’m in awe of my brave, brave woman.
She had the courage to save Mia.
“Thank you.” The words are inadequate. “But no more recklessness. Because next time, I will spank the living shit out of you.”
She sucks in a breath. “You wouldn’t!”
Oh, baby. My palm is twitching right now. “I would.” I can’t hold back my smug smile. “I have your stepfather’s permission.”
Ana’s pupils dilate, and her lips part.
And it’s there between us, that electricity that crackles invisibly—I feel it everywhere, and I know she does, too.
Ana. No.
Suddenly, she launc
hes herself at me.
Fuck! Ana!
I catch her and twist so that we fall together on the bed, Ana in my arms.
But her face crumples in pain, and she gasps.
“Behave!” I growl, my tone harsher than I intend.
“Sorry.” She caresses my cheek and I take her hand and kiss her palm.
“Honestly, Ana, you really have no regard for your own safety.” I lift the hem of her T-shirt and rest my fingertips on her belly.
A thrill of the unknown sharpens all my senses.
There is life. Here. Inside her.
What did she say? Flesh of my flesh.
Our child.
“It’s not just you anymore,” I whisper, and skate my fingers across her taut, warm skin. Ana tenses beneath me, dragging air into her lungs. I know that sound. My eyes move to hers, and I lose myself in their fathomless blue depths.
It’s Ana’s desire. I feel it, too.
Our special alchemy.
But it’s impossible. She’s hurt. Reluctantly, I lift my fingertips from her skin, tug down her T-shirt, then tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, because I still need to touch her. But I can’t give her what we both want. “No,” I breathe.
Ana’s face falls, her expression forlorn.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve seen the bruises. And the answer’s no.” I kiss her forehead and she squirms beside me.
“Christian,” she moans, needling me.
“No. Get into bed.” I sit up to remove myself from temptation.
“Bed?” She looks crestfallen.
“You need rest.”
“I need you.” The whine has gone, leaving only a husky come-on in her voice.
Closing my eyes, I shake my head at her audacity and my desire.
She’s hurt. I open my eyes and glare at her. “Just do as you’re told, Ana.”
“Okay,” she mutters, with an exaggerated pout that immediately lifts my spirits and makes me want to laugh.
“I’ll bring you some lunch.”
“You’re going to cook?” She blinks, incredulous.
“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 struggles to sit up but winces.
Damn it! Ana!
“Bed!” I point at the pillow, all carnal thoughts banished.
“Join me.” She makes one last-ditch attempt.
I don’t know what’s gotten into her.
Not you recently, Grey.
“Ana, get into bed. Now.” I scowl.
She answers with a scowl of her own, stands, and drops her sweatpants to the floor in a dramatic gesture. In spite of her glower, she looks lovely. I hide my smile, and part of me is beyond pleased that she still wants me, after all that’s transpired over the last few days.
She loves me.
I draw back the duvet. “You heard Dr. Singh. She said rest.”
Still pouting, Ana complies, sliding into bed and folding her arms, conveying her frustration. I want to laugh, but I don’t think my mirth would be well received.
“Stay,” I order, and with the memory of her beautiful, sour face, I hurry into the kitchen to find the fabled chicken stew Taylor mentioned this morning.
It’s good to see Ana wolfing down Mrs. Jones’s cooking. I sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed, watching her as I devour my lunch. It’s delicious, and nourishing, too—perfect for Ana.
“That was very well heated.” She smacks her lips, looking replete and a little drowsy. I beam at her, feeling pleased. I managed not to burn myself this time—so, yeah, it was!
“You look tired.” I place my bowl on her tray and, standing, take both from her.
“I am,” she admits.
“Good. Sleep.” I kiss her quickly. “I have some work I need to do. I’ll do it in here, if that’s okay with you.”
She nods and closes her eyes, and seconds later she’s out.
Ros has sent me a preliminary report of her visit to Taiwan. She reassures me that while it was the right decision for her to go, I’ll still need to travel there myself, and soon. It’s strange reading her quick summary. It’s been days since I thought about my business, my company, the shipyard, or even the world at large—I’ve lost track of time. My attention has been solely concentrated on my wife. I glance over at her. She’s still fast asleep.
I read through my other e-mails, and there’s a detailed earnings projection on Geolumara, and a remarkably upbeat e-mail from Hassan at GEH Fiber-Optics—morale there is up since my visit and business is going well. My trip to see them was worth it.
Taylor’s gentle tap at the door disturbs my reading. “Welch is here, sir.”
I can barely hear him, he’s speaking so softly. I nod and, with another quick check on my sleeping beauty, follow him out to the living room.
Welch is standing and admiring the view from the window. He’s grasping a large manilla envelope.
Showtime, Grey.
“Welch.”
He turns. “Mr. Grey.”
“Shall we head into my study?”
I listen to Ana’s breathing as I watch her, timing each of my breaths to hers. In. Out. In. Out. Focusing on her means that I don’t have to focus on the photographs Welch has left with me.
Why didn’t Carrick and Grace tell me?
I lived with Jackson Hyde!
How did I not know this?
My thoughts have been racing, searching through all the nooks and crannies of my troubled mind, trying to shine a light in the shadows, but I’ve found nothing. My foster care experience is hidden in the murky depths of the past.
I cannot remember any of it. A chunk of my life. Gone. No. Not gone. Erased.
In its place is a dark, gaping hole of nothing but uncertainty.
It’s deeply unsettling. Surely I should remember…something?
Ana stirs. Her eyes flicker open and find mine.
Thank God.
“What’s wrong?” She blanches, and she sits up, her face strained by her concern.
“Welch has just left.”
“And?”
“I lived with the fucker.” The words are barely audible.
“Lived? With Jack?”
Swallowing down my agitation, I nod.
“You’re related?” Ana’s shock is palpable.
“No. Good God, no.”
Frowning, she moves over and tugs back the duvet; it’s an invitation to join her. I don’t hesitate. I need her—to anchor me to the now and to help me make sense of this alarming news and this huge gap in my memory.
Right now, I’m untethered.
From everything.
Kicking off my shoes and clutching the photographs, I slip in beside her and drape an arm over her upper thighs as I lay my head in her lap. Slowly she trails her fingers through my hair; the gesture is comforting, and it calms my troubled soul. “I don’t understand,” she says.
Closing my eyes, I picture Welch and recall the throaty rasp of his voice as he briefed me. I repeat his words for Ana, editorializing a little. “After I was found with the crack whore, before I went to live with Carrick and Grace, I was in the care of the state of Michigan. I lived in a foster home.” I pause and take a gulp of air. “But I can’t remember anything about that time.”
Ana’s hand stops and rests on my head. “For how long?”
“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.”
I tighten my hold on Ana, my life raft. “Here.” I pass her the photographs. I’ve been poring over them in the hope that they
might stir a dormant memory that’s buried deep. The first depicts a scrubby little house with a cheery, yellow front door. The second shows an ordinary working-class couple, and their three scrawny, unremarkable children—plus Jackson Hyde as an eight-year-old, and…me. I’m four years old, a small scrap of humanity, with wild, haunted eyes and threadbare clothes, clutching a filthy blanket. It’s obvious that the four-year-old is severely malnourished—no wonder I’m always nagging Ana to eat.
“This is you,” Ana gasps, and stifles a sob.
“That’s me.” My voice is bleak; right now, I’ve no words of comfort left for her.
I’ve got nothing. I’m numb.
I stare out at the dusk. The sky is streaked in pale pink and orange that heralds the coming darkness. A darkness that claims me as one of its own.
A husk of a man once more. Hollowed and empty.
I’m missing time. Missing a part of myself that I didn’t even know existed.
And I don’t understand why.
I’m scared to know why.
What happened to me back then? How could I have forgotten it all?
I cling to the residual anger that simmers beneath the surface. It’s aimed at Carrick and Grace.
Why the fuck didn’t they tell me?
I close my eyes. I don’t want the darkness. I’ve lived in it too long.
I want the light that Ana brings.
“Welch brought these photos?” she asks.
“Yes. I don’t remember any of this.”
“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… It’s like there’s a huge chasm.”
“Is Jack in this picture?”
“Yes, he’s the older kid.”
Ana’s silent for a moment, and I hug her harder.
“When Jack called to tell me he had Mia,” she murmurs, “he said if things had been different, it could have been him.”
Revulsion shudders through me. “That fucker!”
“You think he did all this because the Greys adopted you instead of him?”
“Who knows? 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.” Ana’s dread echoes in her voice.
