A/N: First, as always, I appreciate you all and your words of encouragement and not-so encouraging words as well. The story has gotten a facelift this week! As such, the chapter numbers have been greatly reduced to be more concise and flow easier. You aren't missing anything if you read up to what was previously chapter 18; its been downsized is all. Sorry if that caused any confusion. FF sent some people emails but didn't send them to others so I got a mixed bag of pm's for this.

In response to a guest review from the most recent chapter, I'm just going to repost and leave this key warning author's note from the first chapter right here:

"If you are not a fan of consensual BDSM, somewhat slow burn romance, a LOT of sexual content, and suspense-y spy types: this story will not be for you! You have been warned!"

This story will be quite long, and is currently written in short, blurby chapters; updated fairly often.

Once again, this is going to be a pretty long story, with chapters of the less short, blurby variety now. Meaning I am in no rush to spin any "action" out that will sacrifice the soul of the story in the long run. If you're not loving it in its current state, come on back later.

Or, don't.

That's up to you ;) but please enjoy.

Anastasia

Two people, a man and a woman, walk into a pub…

I wish I had a punchline to this joke, but something tells me that these two aren't subject matters deigned appropriate to laugh at.

I have to discount Christian's strange behavior tonight. Ignore his anxiety and possessiveness. An opportunity has presented itself unlike any other so far, the taste of a breakthrough. I can deal with and address the man falling haplessly apart later on.

I've been around dangerous strangers a too decent portion of my life now. Trained with them, drunk with them, fornicated with them, and so, like a sixth sense, their presence is inescapable.

Suffice to say, you don't live this long in my line of work without recognizing the other killers in the room.

I know a dangerous man when I see one.

"Ana, this is Carrick. Here's Grace, behind him."

And woman, apparently. This just got very, very interesting.

His introduction is stilted, as if he is offended that our evening is interrupted when he sought these people out. My head immediately bows after the first bit of eye contact with them both, my hair falling around me like a veil.

"Now, now; none of that," Grace tuts, stepping forward. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ana. Is Christian treating you well?"

I answer as if I don't sense Christian tense beside me. Or hear the faint but present reproach in her question. "Very well," I smile, lifting my head up marginally. "Nice to meet you both."

"She's lovely," Grace coos, not looking at me anymore, but at Christian. As if I am his purebred, prize winning puppy. "You'll have to show her off one day. I can only imagine the reactions she'll breed when she's fully prepped." What a horrifying choice of words.

Christian must not like it either. His jaw makes an audible snap as he stands abruptly, nodding his head in the direction Grace and Carrick had come from.

"Can I borrow you a moment?"

"Of course. Carrick, keep Ana company, please."

"My pleasure."

Carrick faces me fully then, his mouth curving to a smile that doesn't meet his dark blue eyes.

Wolf's eyes.

Wolves were the Syndicate wide term for our compunction-less soldiers. One step above mindless hive, two steps below whatever position I hold, but as dangerous. Wolves are the hunters—killers. Thinking isn't in their job description, not when it's an order. They do as they are told, remove whomever has been marked, and await the next one.

He could produce a stack of charity and adoption papers to exhibit his worldliness and Carrick would still scream murderer. Simply meeting this man has given me one massive leap forward in the process. For a flicker of a moment I'd wondered if I was losing my edge, if Grey was some anomaly that dulled my senses. But no, I'm back in my role. Like I never left. Carrick has something to hide and I will find it. Just a matter of when and what.

"May I?" At my motion for him to sit, he does. He takes over Christian's stool, waving Ros over and ordering a whisky coke as Christian stalks away with Grace.

Adrenaline is coursing through me in his proximity, lighting up my nerves. He has the composure of a trained man, ex-military maybe. No unnecessary movements, paced breathing. A normal person used their entire body, subconsciously, to begin a conversation. To exhibit openness and willingness to socialize. This man begins with his eyes. They slide to me sidelong, scanning me, and though it is an action that happens quickly, it is telling.

"You're not the typical waif we assign to Christian," he says, finally turning to regard me.

I lift my head, tilting it and letting confusion color my features. "What would the typical 'waif' be like?" I ask.

"Less intelligent," he smirks, sipping his drink.

I blink at him, modulating my response. Oh yes, this was a man with many things to hide. He's quite a bit older, medium built. Handsome, in a classical way. In a fair fight, there was a slightly skewed chance that he could best me. If I were to have the advantage of surprise, however, he would have no chance at all. I could stomp between the discs in his back and crack his neck before he even had time to scream. Or slit his throat when his back was turned and drag his body away to the sea that was never more than a few hundred feet from us in any direction.

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. What my eyes say to his, someone with as much experience in death and doling it out. To an untrained eye, there's nothing to hide unless you're too far gone. But for someone who reflects that emptiness? That missing piece of humanity that you give to the ones you kill? You recognized it in people like you. Fellow wolves amongst the flock of sheep always manage to sniff each other out.

No, he has no reason to doubt that I am anything but what he may have received on paper. I know what I project, can see it in the reflection of his faded-denim blue eyes—innocence and curiosity. A small, unassuming brunette with her legs crossed at the bar drinking a long island iced tea.

But if he were half as good as I am, his warning bells would be yelling, "DANGER, DANGER", just as mine are.

"Thank you. I think," I chuckle, tucking errant strands of my hair behind my ear. "So I have you to thank for putting us together?"

"Correct," he replies. "Grace and I place everyone ourselves to get the best match."

"Christian's apparently had some trouble with the last few matches. They weren't able to stay."

"No. Not enough grit. He needs a sturdy sub that can handle his flights of fancy. You seem to be doing a good job of that so far."

"It's hardly a challenge; Christian is very warm."

"When he wants to be," Carrick shrugs, smiling a small, secretive smile. Is this man always so telling or is he looking to bait me? There's no way the average person could sit beside him and not get a sliver of creepy across the mind.

"Do you and Grace also dominate?" I ask around my straw.

"No, those days are long behind us."

"Good days, I hope?"

"You couldn't begin to imagine." And I now strongly desire a shower.

"Did you both establish this island? Put it together?"

His clever eyes glance down at me, wary. "Yes and no. We were a large part of its inception, but we mainly just run it now. All of the boring logistics are on our plate. None of the fun."

"And the matchmaking," I add.

"And the matchmaking." He grins and evil billows off his person, smothers me. Just then Grace calls out, to Carrick, bidding him over to her. Christian isn't with her, and turning back to me, Carrick says, "Well it was enlightening getting to know you, Anastasia."

I smile coolly, nodding as he stands. "Right back at you. Keep me company again sometime."

"With pleasure," he offers, and then he departs.

I watch his back until he turns the corner, fully out of view, but I keep my expression still. The amount of cameras strung about the room would capture my every little breath, and despite how cognizant I am of who has just sat beside me, I know they will play this interaction over and over and over, reading into my every word and movement.

I don't know how long I will have to myself so the less time spent idle, the better. Now that a mark has appeared, my purpose feels fresh and beckons me.

I slip off of my stool and make my way to the restroom with Ros's directions. The women's room is the furthest down a long hallway, one door away from the exit. Unless they're hidden in the toilets (which would shock me none), there are no cameras in here. With no preamble I slide the window open as high as it will go and hoist myself up and out, kissed by the balm of tropical night air and sea. With a quick, thorough perimeter check I spy only two cameras, one facing the walkway leading further into the "town", and one more aimed at the back door of the pub.

My stride is long, silent. Meshing with the foliage. There were a handful of burly men standing around as we'd made the walk to the pub from the villa. Guards, of course. If one were to do their own perimeter sweep of this building, it wouldn't be convenient for me. There were few places to hide a body here, and the night is not quite dark enough to blanket a puddle of blood in the sand, should it come to that.

Ducking beneath the flat sill of a window situated in the back, I peek in, slowly, carefully. The room is black, no sign of life. The moon bounces off what must be a desktop monitor, and soundlessly, I lift myself in. It isn't powered, and there is no power running in the room at all for sensors. I'd known before I entered the room, tipped by the lack of electric hum.

A sliver of incandescent light stripes the floor beneath the closed door, the muffled sounds of the pub just drifting through. Beyond, I also hear Grace's soft, polished voice. I let their conversation come to me as I search the dark bookcase, the shelves.

"You have a responsibility, you know that."

"Yes, I understand." Grey. He sounds as rough as he's looked all evening. My perusing slows marginally, focus shifting to the desk drawers, carefully sifting through a spine of sun-wilted pages. "Its… I just haven't been feeling… myself, lately."

There is a pause in their chat. "Is it affecting your work?" Carrick.

"Yes, and no," Christian hesitates. "It isn't constant. It comes in episodes."

It is… interesting to hear Grey so flustered. Vulnerable. He trusted those two wolves, clearly. Making it ever harder to dismiss him of guilt. As they are very, very guilty.

Of what, I have yet to discover, but most certainly will. My instinct has yet to fail me. My being alive means my biological guidance has a decent track record. Doubtful that I will find the most damning of evidence in this room in somewhat of such a public space, least of all if there is no camera in the room, but I press on, seeking out the wiring and wall ports.

"Should we… make arrangements for the girl?"

"Ana?"

"Yes." I still in my crouch, glancing at the door.

"I don't understand. What sort of arrangements would be made? Sending her home?"

"Possibly, if she'd prefer. Or we could arrange for someone else to take her in…"

Her statement tapers off. A reaction to an energy I imagine Christian exhibits as he says, "Absolutely not," his voice hard, almost distant. I recognize it. Recollections of his hands and mouth on me pass my mind, unsought and unnecessary. "I have no interest in handing her off, least of all to anyone else."

"Christian," Grace chides, as if beginning to lecture a child. "This isn't fair to her. She's sacrificed a lot to come here. It's selfish to deny her what she's come for." As if I am the real concern here.

"I understand that," Grey snaps.

"And you haven't laid with her yet? It's been well over a week, Christian. You know that's far too long."

He sighs, not bothering to disguise his frustration. From my periphery I spot a colored cord stretching into the room from behind a metal cabinet. It's fed in from the wall. An Ethernet cable. Internet access. I turn to the desk again, combing the wooden furniture piece until my hand encounters a flat switch.

Carrick echoes Grace's concerns, but his tone is flat, inflectionless. "There will be space in Gail's household, if she needs to be moved."

"But she has already has Taylor."

"We can place 2 subs in one home; we've done it before, Grace."

"It's. Not. Happening."

"Christian, why did you come to us? You knew what we would say in regards to the girl. If you aren't capable—"

"I'm capable. Forget I said anything," he says, reserved and defensive.

The switch opens up to a mini desktop, palm sized, stationed into the bottom drawer. Beneath it lay a single sheet of print paper with numbers in long strings contained in a matrix. Almost like a crossword search for mathematicians. I commit to reciting one string, and quickly file it away. I don't have time to go through it or try my hand at any others.

If only Christian could stall them just a bit longer.

I know he won't be able to. He's irritated, antsy, and they have his guard all the way up. I don't let myself consider that it's for my sake. Better to imagine that Grey is simply having a tantrum being told off by the people who appear to be his boss. Whatever the scenario, as soon as he stomps away from them he will be looking for me. Likely ready to leave.

"Well now that we know you're struggling, we can't simply let this continue, Christian."

"I said—"

"Show us," Carrick says, all assertion and authority. "Show us that you are capable, and we'll drop this. For now."

A silence passes as I turn the little desktop over in my hands, etching the MAC address into memory for my phone call with Kavanagh. It has a bare amount of dust on it, indicating frequent use. High chance it would do nothing for us at present but if she was watching for the soonest sign of life in the device we'd be in business.

"One week," Carrick continues. "You've got until this time next week to show us what progress you've made with the girl, how well you can train her; or we reassign her, and find you someone less distracting. Understand?"

There is no reply, so I can imagine that Christian has nodded as Carrick's voice softens. "Forget about whatever is troubling you, my son. None of it matters. None of that old life can touch you anymore, you know that. Focus on the now. On fulfilling your responsibilities, to yourself and to your curious new submissive. She's got a lot of potential but she'll need your firm hand to be excellent. You owe her that much."

The breath of Christian's sigh skates across the floor, resigned. "Yes. You're right."

"Good." Grace's treacly smile reaches me even from behind this door. How interesting. Scenarios like this do nothing to abate that nagging suspicion of innocence in Grey. I almost feel bad for the man, being manipulated in what seems like every direction. There was no way a billionaire CEO would allow himself to be swayed this way and that; so easily, so patronizingly... "Let's put this mess behind us…"

I tune them out again, rolling my eyes and sighing inwardly. It didn't take a scientist to gather what they wanted from Christian, what his new expectations of me would be.

Now, I likely will be paraded around like a winning show dog. I put the wearisome prospect out of my mind. They'd be returning to the pub for me any moment now, so I shift gears.

I replace the box in its home, rolling the drawer shut mutedly. With a once-over of everything, I climb back out of the window, resetting it like I was never there. No guards, no fuss. I slip right back into the bathroom, sweeping the beads of sand that trailed me to the side with a piece of tissue.

When I reemerge, nothing has changed. The same people are sitting in the same seats even. A few eyes pass over me, but I ignore them, my head low. I go right back to my long island iced tea, leaning against the bar; enjoying the sweetness. Allowing myself the short pleasure and glancing at Carrick's abandoned whiskey. I hear the footsteps approaching, but I don't react to them, playing oblivious.

"Pet."

I turn at the sound of Christian's voice, observing the tension in the corners of his eyes, his gait. There's no one behind him.

"We're leaving," he says, grabbing my hand and leading us to the saloon doors.

"But my glass—"

"Bring it with you. I'll return it tomorrow.

He didn't speak again the whole way back to the villa.

I know what he was thinking. Naturally, I'd heard a decent amount of the conversation he'd had with Grace and Carrick, so I knew what would be coming. Still, I kept my mind busy with the discovery of the number string, of the mini desktop. I played the numbers over and over in my head, holding onto them until I could parrot the string backwards.

When we get in, I excuse myself for a shower, and Christian is waiting for me at the door to my room once I'm out.

"Sir?" He hasn't calmed any since we left the pub. He might even be worse now. His hair disheveled as usual, but his hands have made more than another couple of voyages through the mess, as of recent. His shirt is unbuttoned just below the collar, smooth skin peeking out at me. His belt loosened around his hips. I disregard the stirrings in my abdomen, continuing to dry myself.

For a few beats he doesn't acknowledge me. But when he does, his eyes are dark. The color and strength of steel on me. My hand pauses where it is, and I relax myself completely, knowing that he will notice it as well.

"Do I satisfy you, pet?" he asks suddenly.

"Yes," I answer, not thinking too much on it, not needing to stretch for the truth. Satisfaction is a moot desire. Machines do not have desires, and so I avoid them. Don't need them. If it makes my job here easier I can put on the show, otherwise, it is a non-necessity.

He watches me, evaluating my response, eyes sharp. "How?"

"You take care of me, sir. And in return, I take care of you."

"Is it enough?" he asks quietly, and a flicker of the Christian I am used to greets me.

"It is," I say, approaching him. Wrapping my arms around him and looking up into his troubled, handsome face. I am still wet, and I know I am wetting his clothes, but I know he will not mind it. I know his feelings for me are beyond casual now; he sees something in the persona I've created for him. I want him to. And I can ignore that the persona is bleeding beyond its barriers if it gets me to my goals. If it gets the mission done.

He doesn't move, doesn't make a move to hold me as well. He is stiff and still, just looking down at me, studying me. When he does react, it is to unknot the towel, letting it puddle at my feet. His throat bobs, his eyes dropping to my breasts. I know he's staring at the bruises he's left. My reflection in the mirror of the bathroom showed they were already yellowing, fading. The edges still have a bit of color, of evidence. There is no pain now, but the memory of his hands on me last night create something within me, a lightly sprung coil.

"Did you like last night, pet?"

"Yes."

"You enjoy being hurt?"

"I enjoy being hurt by you," I answer quietly. His inhale is sharp. Surprised. Roused and arousing with the growing intensity of his stare.

"Tomorrow," he begins, his limbs coming to life and reaching around me, securing me, "I won't hold back with you. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Do you know why?"

"No, sir."

"Do you want to know why?"

"Does it matter, sir?"

His throat bobs again, his eyes searching mine. "I suppose not, no." A moment passes. "If you ever feel like you need to leave…"

The weight of his expression pins me, holds me hostage as much as this damned mission does. "I'm not leaving."

"If you ever feel like you need to leave… tell me first?"

"I'm not leaving, sir." I draw closer, hold him tighter. Pressing my assurance into his skin. Tracing it into the sudden scorch of his eyes. "I won't leave you, Christian."

He kisses me then, a heated, almost angry kiss that stings as he bites at my lips, nips the corner of my mouth. In his fury, his desperation, I taste relief. Yearning.

I pull back, taking his face in my hands, meeting the furling gray of his troubled eyes. "Take me to bed," I whisper. And he does. Lifting my naked form into his arms and depositing me on my bed, then stripping his clothes off and wrapping around me like a second skin. As hard as his body is, his cock is, he doesn't touch me beyond seeking the comfort of my presence.

I oblige him. Stroking his arms, his nape, until his breaths turn heavy and drugging and drag me down into slumber with him.

Kavanagh picks up on the first ring.

"Still breathing, then?"

"For now." I cut pleasantries short, rattling off the MAC address and the number sequence on the paper from last night. "Keep a note of it, tell me what you find."

She hums, clicking her keys. "Nice to speak to you, too."

"Got anything?"

"Not yet," she sighs. "I'll run this through the network and see if we get a hit. Where'd you find this?"

"A pub."

"They have a pub there?"

"They do. The burger is pretty good."

"It better be, with how much it costs to get there."

"Find me a Grace and Carrick as well, would you."

"Surnames?"

"That's what you're here for. Carrick is approximately 5 feet, 9 inches, 50's or early 60's. Blonde, graying hair. Straight nose, upturned tip; unbroken. Blue eyes. Likely some sort of combat training."

"Got it. Grace?"

"Dark, brunette-y, blond hair. Direct, hazel eyes. Work done on the nose. Sharp jaw. Maybe 5 feet, 8 inches. On the prim side; likely comes from money."

"I'll be on the look out. Alright, how are thing going over there? Anything new on Grey?"

"No," I lie smoothly, reflexively. "Working on it."

"Really?" I bristle at her doubt, but temper myself. "I suppose if you haven't found it yet it'll take a bit to uncover. Is he a good lay, at least?"

"Couldn't tell you," I drawl. "Put a line out for 8 to 9 years ago, and look into the accident involving Grey's parents. I also need you to look into fiber networks that run south of the Caribbean, but focus on Carrick. He seems like a golden ticket right now."

"Done. I can have this to you in a few minutes. Got time?"

"No. Grey will be back soon." Another lie. Christian has at least another hour before he gets back in. I just want to get off the phone. "I'll check in when I check in, but make sure you tap that MAC."

"Alright, can do. Ana?" she stops me as I move the phone away from my ear. A second passes, and I hear her lean back in her seat. Kavanagh has a habit of twirling her hair around her finger when she is thinking. I know she's doing it now, debating how to word her next thought to me. In a rare occurrence, her tone hardens. "Don't take unnecessary risks. Get what you need and get back to me for extract. We're not willing to train anyone else right now."

"I'm going." I don't await a response when I hang up. I'm not annoyed or surprised by her impersonal instruction. This is an impersonal business, after all. Should I die, it would simply be the nature of the beast. An inconvenience for the Syndicate to find someone equally as skilled. To place them in the right circles in preparation of the missions they would be chosen for. But this one would be a bust.

They wouldn't have a problem replacing me now, though, if they'd known I was hiding information about Grey in my brief. I'd weighed my options before I'd dialed Kavanagh. I came up with not having enough to go on to make the assertion that he was indeed suffering from a memory loss; but also that disclosing his alleged defect too soon would make it easy for Kavanagh to spin the objective on its head, to focusing it on Grey, when it needed to be on exposing the island.

I'd convinced myself of that, anyway.

There really was too much to unpack with him. God must be laughing at me; at the misery Grey's complications bring me. I must have complained too much before getting here. I'm being taught a lesson now, surely.

To tangle matters even worse, things were beginning to feel awfully… sentimental.

I shudder.

How wildly out of character. How vexing.

The guns are fully dispersed now. There was no corner of the house besides Christian's study and his bedroom that didn't have some form of protection hidden away. Those rooms, so far, had seen little to no action anyway. The past couple of nights Christian has slept in my bedroom, holding me until the early hours. My training necessitated that I sleep light for the rest of my life, always ready and alert for the soonest need to be, and so every morning I feign unconsciousness as he strokes my hair when he awakes. Watches my stillness in mock-slumber. Kisses my temple before he leaves the bedroom for his morning routine.

The tenderness of his touch, even believing I have no knowledge of it, makes no sense to me, to my practical mind. I've never had a lover that caressed me with such affection, an almost reverence, that didn't stem from delusional ego or undeserved triumph, as if I were a trophy, hard-fought, that was won. Christian touches me almost like he needs to, as if some primal instinct forces him to confirm I am present and breathing. It's baffling.

Especially when he's yet to fuck me.

It has an unsettling influence on me. Another confounding, unknown piece of Christian Grey that further scrambles his puzzle.

No matter, I have a lead now. Christian is too unpredictable, his factor too unknown to count on for advancing in the present. He hasn't been entirely dismissed, especially not after the downright criminal context of his conversation with Grace and Carrick yesterday... It spoke volumes.

Really, they ought to be more careful discussing matters of drilling and trafficking their customers, as it would be impossible to argue any other angle at this point.

But, for now, Grey will remain at the side of my concerns. Just out of the way so my focus is where it needs to be. On those thousands of missing people with no hints or a trace. And by omitting what I've learned of my dominant, I can ensure the Syndicate focuses on them as well.

I cast a glance at the ornamental clock high on the wall, then make my way to Christian's study. The criminal implication was teased in the vaguest way, but still discussed so blatantly that it pains me to believe Christian could be so naively obtuse to the connotations. He was either in the know, or so tragically innocent that he didn't have a clue.

But Grey is in the business of doing and showing the exact opposite of expectation. I could probably roll a die and that number would tell me more than his actions could. And again, that vagrant sentiment of hope twinges at me. For his sake, it would be nice if this feeling manifested to something substantial.

As frequently as the thought casually crosses my mind, I would still loathe to have to kill him.

Unlike the mini desktop in the pub, Christian's computer is mid-sized, and dust free, but not from usage. The box, unassuming and dated, whirs to life unhurriedly, whistling with age and neglect. The prospect of a former industry tycoon using such a beast is more amusing than it should be. I don't dare believe that what I find on it will be the end-all, be-all for Grey, but it would be nice.

Naturally there is a lock. Coming to this island was one big question mark for me, for the Syndicate, so the precaution of light packing seemed ideal at first.

Now that I'm here, however, I could have probably worn a gun clip around my waist and juggled grenades on my way off the ship and been left alone. Brute forcing is an inconvenience, but a mild one. I won't be able to get in tonight, but likely in the morning it would be good to go.

If the contraption can survive the incursion, that is.

As it finally opens up to the boot menu, I lock in.

When the work is done, I have a few minutes to spare. The code will inject itself even while the PC appears off, so long as it stays powered. Christian always leaves me a share of his breakfast in the convection oven on warm, and he finds me chewing on a bit of egg as he returns. Sweat drenched and sun-kissed.

"Good morning, pet. I'm happy to see you. Come here."

I drop my fork and stand, and as my foot lifts, Christian raises a hand.

I halt immediately.

That hand holds up just the pointer finger, a command, and then its pointing at the floor.

"On your knees, pet."

He did warn me that this was coming.

I no less want to tell him where he could shove that finger between his own knees.

But I do as I am directed, lowering to the floor. Crossing the room to him on my hands and knees, keeping my mask fixed steady as I hold his gaze until I sit just beneath him, the scent of sweat and musk and sea salt layering him and dripping down to me.

He doesn't move to touch me. Doesn't say anything. He just watches me like that, his expression unreadable. I watch him back. Knowing who he is summoning today. Knowing which role I will be donning.

"I hope you're ready, pet," he murmurs, dropping to one knee. He pushes my hair back, cradling my face in his hands. "I'm going to finally break you how I've always wanted to."

A/N: As always, I love you and I love your thoughts. Thank you as always for reading. Until the next one~