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.

Christian runs his hand through his hair. "Two women, eh?" Alarm flashes across his face, and his dark look vanishes.

"Boy or girl."

Oh crap. "Do you have a preference?"

"You know," I mutter between mouthfuls, "Blip might be a girl."

"Preference?"

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.

"Again?"

"You made the papers again, Mrs. Grey." His tone is bitter.

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 kidnapping, my involvement in Mia's rescue, and the fact that both Jack and I are in the same hospital. How does the press get all this information? I must ask Kate.

When Christian finishes, I say, "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 despite 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.

"The hacks are just rehashing yesterday's story, but it seems factually accurate. You want to read it?"

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.

"Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey. Am I interrupting?"

"Yes," snaps Christian.

Detective Clark makes an apologetic entry into the room. He's right to be apologetic -- my heart sinks when I see him.

"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."

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.

Christian stands and offers Clark his chair, then sits down beside me on the bed, takes my hand, and squeezes it reassuringly.

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.

"Yes, Mr. Grey, that's fine."

He grins and returns to the room a happier man.

What?

"I wish you'd aimed higher," Christian mutters.

"I don't think he'll make bail this time, ma'am."

Christian frowns, but I think he has his suspicions.

"No sir. It was confidential."

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.

"Do we know who posted his bail?" Christian asks.

"You won't let him out again, will you?"

"Sex," he says, flashing a wicked grin.

"Might have done womankind a service if Mrs. Grey had," Clark agrees.

"What was all that about?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Grey. That's all for now."

"Thank you." I smile, grateful that he hasn't stolen my thunder.

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.

"Sure."

"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 thought you'd want to be the one to tell him. I haven't told your mom either."

"Does he know about the baby?"

"I know. You'll be off limits for a while. I was just checking."

"I have a headache." I smirk right back.

Off limits? I frown at the momentary stab of disappointment I feel. I'm not sure I want to be off limits.

"I'm not sure I'm ready to tell Ray."

What? Christian laughs at my appalled expression. "I told him I'd be only too willing to oblige."

"I'd like to see Ray first."

"You're good to go." He smirks.

"Shall I take you home?" Christian asks.

Oh, Christian!

Oh. I blush. "And?"

"I should warn you, he's mad as hell. Said I should spank you."

"I'll call her. I really am sorry. But thank you for teaching me to shoot."

He winks at me. "Here, Taylor brought you some clean clothes. I'll help you dress."

"You didn't!" I gasp, though an echo of a whispered conversation tantalizes my memory. Yes, Ray was here while I was unconscious…

"Ray, 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."

"Your mother is waiting for your call," he says in a more measured tone.

As christian predicted, RAY is furious. I don't ever remember him being this mad. Christian has wisely decided to leave us alone. 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.

"And I've had to deal with your mother," he grumbles, waving both of his hands in exasperation.

"Dad, I'm sorry."

Oh, Dad, please calm down. Your blood pressure is not up to this.

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."

I kiss his cheek, and finally he relents from his tirade.

We leave through the rear exit of the hospital to avoid the paparazzi gathered at the entrance. Taylor leads us to the waiting SUV.

"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.

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 and sobs. 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.

"Dad, I'm good. Nothing that a hot shower won't cure."

"He's coming here this afternoon from Detroit."

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.

"I have no idea." Christian's brow furrows, perplexed.

"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."

"What's wrong?" I ask when I'm finally free from my mother.

"Welch wants to see me."

Christian nods.

"Glad to be home?" he asks.

"You think he's found a connection?"

"What do you think it is?"

"Welch? Why?"

"Hey --" Christian wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. "You're home. You're safe," he says, kissing my hair.

"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.

"Hush now," Christian whispers, cradling my head against his chest.

"Oh, Christian." A dam I didn't even know was in place bursts, and I start to sob.

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.

"Shower?" His voice is choked with concern.

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.

"Hey," Christian croons. Kneeling in front of me, he pulls my hands away from my tearstained cheeks and cups my face in his hands. I gaze at him, blinking away my tears.

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.

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 gut-wrenching fear for Mia, for myself, and for Little Blip.

"Stop, now. I can't bear it when you cry." His voice is hoarse. His thumbs wipe my cheeks, but my tears still flow.

"You're safe. You both are," he whispers.

"I'm sorry, Christian. Just sorry for everything. For making you worry, for risking everything -- for the things I said."

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.

"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.

Blip and me. My eyes brim with tears again.

I nod.

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 self-doubting, 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.

"Better?" he asks.

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.

"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 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.

"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.

Blazing gray eyes meet mine. "I want to kill him. I nearly did," he whispers 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 knee. His 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.

"It doesn't hurt," I murmur to reassure him.

"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.

"I like dirty."

"Clean," he emphasizes. "Not 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.

As I dry my hair, I think about Elizabeth.

"I do," Christian mutters darkly.

"I still don't understand why Elizabeth was involved with Jack."

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.

His frown deepens. "Don't what?" He stills and regards me with apprehension.

What? I frown, my skin tightening across my forehead.

"That you're enjoying the view?" he teases.

"No," I scold. "About Elizabeth."

"You aren't anything like him."

"Hyde had videos. Videos of all of them. On several USB flash drives."

Oh!

"Don't." The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

"How do you know?" I ask, trying to ignore that I've been caught staring at my own husband.

"Enjoying the view?"

I give him my tell-me-more expression, and another nagging memory from when I was unconscious surfaces. Clark was in my room. I wish I could remember what he said.

"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.

"Detective Clark hinted at it."

"Videos of him fucking her and fucking all his PAs."

Christian's eyes harden, but he says nothing, confirming that's exactly what he's thinking.

"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.

"Christian --"

"And don't pout," he adds. "Come. Let me dry your hair."

He stops me with a kiss. "Enough," he breathes, and I remember the promise I made to myself not to hound him for information.

"You're not." My voice is adamant.

"You both have troubled pasts, and you were both born in Detroit. That's it, Christian." I fist my hands on my hips.

"We're cut from the same cloth."

And I know the subject is closed.

"Ana, your faith in me is touching, especially in light of the last few days. We'll know more when Welch is here." He's dismissing the subject.

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?"

The hairbrush stills in my hair.

"Just telling you the truth," Christian says, bemused by my outburst.

His face falls. "Yes. She was." Switching off the hairdryer, he puts it down on the bed beside him. He grasps my chin.

I turn in his lap. "Stop with the everyone is mad at Ana crap, okay?"

"And Kate?"

"Kate was there?"

Christian pales. "Behave!" he admonishes, and for a moment he's angry.

"Did you?" he asks, his tone nonchalant.

"I heard a few of your conversations."

"Briefly, yes. She's mad at you, too."

"Yes. My dad, your dad, Detective Clark… your mom."

"Yes, it was reckless, but you know, your sister was in danger."

"Thank you," he says, surprising me. "But no more recklessness. Because next time, I will spank the living shit out of you."

"You wouldn't!"

I gasp.

"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.

"Not that I recall."

"Bed?"

"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.

"No. Get into bed." He sits up.

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 and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

I squirm. "Christian," I whine.

"Sorry," I mumble, caressing his cheek.

What?

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."

"No," he whispers.

"You need rest."

I'm tempted to take off all my clothes, but then I remember the bruises and know I won't win that way.

"I need you."

My scowl deepens.

"Christian, I'll do it. I'm fine. Jeez, I want sex -- I can certainly cook." I sit up awkwardly, trying to hide the flinch caused by my smarting ribs.

He has the grace to laugh. "I'm going to heat something up. Mrs. Jones has been busy."

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.

"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.

"Ana, get into bed. Now."

Reluctantly, I nod. "Okay." I deliberately give him an exaggerated pout.

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 he pulls the duvet back.

"Bed!" Christian's eyes flash, and he points to the pillow.

He grins, amused. "I'll bring you some lunch."

"You're going to cook?" I nearly expire.

"Join me," I murmur, wishing I were wearing something a little more alluring than sweatpants and a T-shirt.

"No. Good God, no."

"Welch has just left."

"I am."

I nod… fighting a losing battle with my eyelids. I had no idea chicken stew could be so exhausting.

Holy cow! "What's wrong?" I ask immediately, sitting up and ignoring my protesting ribs.

"That was very well heated." I smirk and he grins. I'm replete and sleepy. Was this his plan?

"Lived? With Jack?"

"You look tired." He picks up my tray.

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.

Oh shit. "And?"

"I lived with the fucker," he whispers.

"You're related?"

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?

He nods, his eyes wide.

"Good. Sleep." He kisses me. "I have some work I need to do. I'll do it in here if that's okay with you."

"For how long?" I whisper.

My mind reels. A foster home? This is news to both of us.

"I don't understand," I murmur, running my fingers through his hair 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."

"Two months or so. I have no recollection."

"Have you spoken to your mom and dad about it?"

"Perhaps you should. Maybe they could fill in the blanks."

"No."

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 blue-collar 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 blonde 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, with reddish blond hair, scowling; and hiding behind him, a copper-haired gray-eyed little boy. Wide-eyed and scared, dressed in mismatched clothes, and clutching a child's dirty blanket.

Christian nods. "That's me."

"Welch brought these photos?"

"Yes. I don't remember any of this." His voice is flat and lifeless.

"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?"

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.

"Remember being with foster parents? Why should you? Christian, it was a long time ago. Is this what's worrying you?"

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.

"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-year-old, 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."

"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.

Christian closes his eyes and shudders. "That fucker!"

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.

"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.

A bewildered gray gaze meets mine, reminding me of the child in the photograph.

"I don't want you going anywhere."

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.

"Why?"

"Good. We can go to see them together, or you can go. Whichever you prefer."

"No. They can come here."

"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 eye to eye.

"Christian, I'm up for a car journey."

"I'll call them," he whispers.

Christian stares at me, pain and self-doubt reflected in his eyes as he considers my request. Oh, Christian, please!

"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.

"No." His voice is firm, but he gives me an ironic smile. "Anyway, it's Saturday night, they're probably at some function."

"Let me call them," I whisper. He shakes his head. "Please," I beg.

Christian's arm tightens around me. "Don't go."

I wrap my arm around him and rest my head on his chest as he makes the call.

"Good. I should get dressed."

"Okay." I snuggle into his side again, stunned by the fact that he's just told me a great deal about himself -- entirely voluntarily.

"Okay," he says, as if I've issued him a challenge. Sitting up, he picks up the bedside phone.

As we stand at the threshold of the great room, Grace wraps me gently in her arms.

"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.

"Ana, Ana, darling Ana," she whispers. "Saving two of my children. How can I ever thank you?"

"Oh! Sorry."

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.

Taylor appears. "Mr. Grey? Miss Kavanagh, her brother, and your brother are coming up, sir."

Christian scowls at her. "Mia! Careful! She's in pain."

Racing over to Christian, Mia curls her arm around his waist.

"I'm good," I mutter, relieved when she releases me.

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."

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 shoulders as he, too, examines it.

"Oh, darling." Grace caresses Christian's cheek.

Christian frowns. "Thank you, Taylor," he mutters, bemused.

"I called Elliot and told him we were coming over." Mia grins. "It's a welcome-home party."

I usher her toward the kitchen area as Christian leads his parents into his study.

I sneak a sympathetic glance at my poor husband as both Grace and Carrick glare at Mia in exasperation.

"Oh, I'd love to."

Kate is apoplectic with righteous indignation that's aimed at me and 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.

"We'd better get some food together," I declare. "Mia, will you give me a hand?"

"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."

"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 in her arms.

"What is it?" she asks, misinterpreting my alarm.

"Kate," he greets her coolly.

"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.

"Christian." She is equally cool. I sigh.

"Oh… Kate… Wow. Congratulations!" Crap -- Little Blip… Junior!

Elliot hands me a glass of champagne.

"Don't cry. You'll set me off."

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.

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.

"Your meds, Mrs. Grey." He eyes the glass in my hand.

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. Shit.

Carrick joins us, putting his arms around us both, and Grace kisses his cheek before joining Mia on the sofa.

"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 latest match between the Mariners and the Rangers.

"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 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.

I frown. 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.

"You're very good for him. He doesn't listen to anyone else."

"Oh, I don't know." He slips out of his jeans.

"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.

"Come and sit down, Ana. You look tired. I'm sure you weren't expecting all of us here this evening."

"One sip," he hisses at me and takes my glass from my hand.

"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.

"My parents think you walk on water," Christian mutters as he drags off his T-shirt.

I'm curled up in bed watching the floorshow. "Good thing you know differently." I snort.

"Did they fill in the gaps for you?"

"How do you feel about that?" I whisper.

"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."

"It's coming back to me. I remember the food. 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?"

He slides on his pajamas, climbs into bed, and gently pulls me into his arms.

Oh, Christian! You were a child, and you loved your mom.

This makes no sense to me at all.

"Baby Bird. Mrs. Collier used to call me Baby Bird."

"It makes sense now!" His eyes are full of recognition.

He frowns. "About having no living relatives? Fuck that. If they were anything like the crack whore…" He shakes his head in disgust.

"It's from a kid's book. Christ. The Colliers had it. It was called… Are You My Mother? Shit." His eyes widen. "I loved that book."

"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.'"

Oh. I know that book. My heart lurches -- Fifty!

I frown. "That makes sense?"

"What?"

He laughs and grabs my hand. "Oh no. Don't get any ideas."

I am at a loss as to what to say.

"Don't thank me, thank Mia. And Mrs. Jones, she keeps the pantry well stocked."

"I have some ideas." I squirm beside him and wince as pain radiates through my upper body from my bruised ribs.

I pout, and he sighs. "Ana, Ana, Ana, what am I going to do with you?" He kisses my hair.

He shakes his head as if in exasperation. At me? Why?

"Will you tell the police?"

"How are you feeling, Mrs. Grey?"

"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."

Oh… in that case. I trail my fingers down his stomach to his oh-so-happy trail.

"Good. How are you feeling?"

"Mrs. Collier used to read it to me."

"Catering for my family at a moment's notice."

Whoa. Gear change. "For what?"

"Baby, you've been through enough. Besides, I have a bedtime story for you."

"Christ. He knew… that fucker knew."

"I'm fine." He frowns… not understanding my concern.

Oh?

All the hair on my body stands on end. Shit.

"You wanted to know…" He trails off, closes his eyes, and swallows.

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.