Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,262

hang up and regard Ana’s curious expression. “They’re on their way.” I still can’t hide my surprise.

I ask my parents for help…and they come running.

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

I tighten my hold on her. “Don’t go.”

“Okay.” She bathes me in a loving smile, and she snuggles once more into my side.

Ana and I stand arm in arm in the doorway of the living room to welcome my parents. My mother lights up when she sees Ana, her joy and gratitude obvious to each of us. Reluctantly, I release my wife into my mother’s embrace. “Ana, Ana, darling Ana,” she says, and I have to strain to hear her. “Saving two of my children. How can I ever thank you?”

Yep. Mom’s right. She’s saved me, too.

Dad hugs Ana, his eyes shining with paternal affection. He kisses her forehead. From behind them Mia, whom I wasn’t expecting, appears and pulls Ana into a fierce hug.

“Thank you for saving me from those assholes!”

Ana winces.

“Mia! Careful! She’s in pain.” My shout startles everyone.

Of course. They brought Mia because Mom doesn’t want to let her out of her sight. She was drugged and kidnapped only a few days ago. My irritation at my baby sister evaporates.

“Oh! Sorry,” she says goofily.

“I’m good,” Ana says, giving Mia a tight smile.

Mia barrels over to me and curls her arm around me. “Don’t be so grumpy!” she scolds me quietly.

I scowl at her and she pouts playfully at me.

Damn. I hug her tightly to my side.

Thank God she’s okay.

My mother joins us, and I hand her the photographs from Welch. Grace examines the picture of the family. She sucks in a breath and covers her mouth. Dad joins us and winds his arm around her shoulders as he also scrutinizes the family picture.

“Oh, darling.” Grace reaches up and places her palm against my cheek, her eyes stricken with shock and dismay.

Why? Did she not want me to know about this?

Taylor interrupts us. “Mr. Grey, Miss Kavanagh, her brother, and your brother are coming up, sir.”

What the hell? “Thank you, Taylor.”

“I called Elliot and told him we were coming over,” Mia pipes up. “It’s a welcome-home party.”

Mom and Dad share an exasperated look. Ana’s glance is sympathetic. “We’d better get some food together. Mia, will you give me a hand?”

“Oh, I’d love to.” She grabs Ana’s hand and they head over into the kitchen area.

Mom and Dad follow me into my study, and I offer them each a seat in front of my desk. I lean back against it, suddenly aware that this is how my father would perch in his study as I stood in front of him while he lectured me about my latest misdemeanor. The tables have been well and truly turned, and the irony is not lost on me. I need answers and they’re here—so presumably they’re willing to shed some light on this dark chapter in my life. I mask my anger and gaze at both of them expectantly.

Grace is the first to speak, her voice clear and authoritative, her doctor’s voice. “This photograph, these are the Colliers. They were your foster parents. You had to go to them once your biological mother died, because under state law we had to wait to see if you had any relatives who would claim you.”

Oh.

Her voice drops. “We had to wait for you. It was agonizing. Two whole months.” She closes her eyes, as if reliving the pain. It’s sobering. My anger melts away as my breath catches in my throat. I cough to hide my emotion.

“In the picture.” I gesture to the photograph Grace is holding. “The boy with red hair. That’s Jack Hyde.”

Carrick leans in and they examine the photograph together. “I don’t remember him,” my father muses.

Mom shakes her head, a forlorn look on her face. “No, me, neither. We only had eyes for you, Christian.”

“Were… Were they kind?” I ask haltingly, my voice a shadow. “The Colliers?”

Grace’s eyes fill with tears. “Oh, darling. They were wonderful. Mrs. Collier doted on you.”

Silently, I blow out a breath of relief. “I wondered. I couldn’t remember.”

Grace’s eyes widen with understanding. She reaches out and grips my hand, hazel eyes beseeching mine. “Christian, you were a traumatized child. You wouldn’t or couldn’t speak. You were skin and bone. I can’t even imagine the horrors you endured in your early life. But that ended with the Colliers.” She squeezes my hand, willing me to believe her. “They were good people.”

“I wish I could remember them,” I