A/N: Thank you very much for your patience. This one is long, and it will be a doozy. Much love to everyone and I hope you had a safe and savory holiday season. Please excuse my errors.

Anastasia

I sprint full speed ahead when Christian leaves the villa.

I creep off of Christian's balcony, debugger in hand. Not much in the way of stylish, I've managed to fashion together a belt wrapped around cut off jean shorts by means of utility, equipped with my small satchel. Neutral colors; beiges and creams and light browns for attire. I leave Christian's collar, as degrading as it was when I was donned with it, on the nightstand.

I watch Christian amble down the path and out of immediate sight, looking almost dazed. Confused.

Its both a good and bad sign.

Good in that he seems rocked by my question to him. "What happens to the women after they leave you?" Bad because it makes him one giant piece of the puzzle that has no place to fit. I shadow him from my place in the foliage, dancing over the roots reaching up and out for me as I crouch low. My eyes are constantly scanning every trunk, every stump, every branch for any hint of wiring. The debugger is decent and small but there is such a vast amount of forestry to explore I know I will need much longer than an hour to sift through it all.

When Christian reaches the thin strait that puts him no more than a few minutes away from town, he stops. My feet halt with him. For a long while he stands there. Staring at the ground. There is no denying that my seed has been planted. In a moment of remarkable vulnerability, I'd sprung the trap for Christian. I'd only expected one of two reactions from him at that point.

The confusion, or hostility.

This whole ploy was becoming dangerously personal. I'd let him put his hands around my throat, this stranger. The only other people in the world who'd gotten the opportunity to do so were either Syndicate trainers or dead. No in between. Some emotion swelled inside of me as Christian made his purpose clear in my bedroom, some understanding passing between us as he wrapped his fingers around my windpipe. I didn't stop him, and he had so clearly searched for signs that I would.

Every hard limit the Syndicate chose for me was strategic, served a defensive purpose. I would hardly have been the one with any actual say in the matter—my position was soldier and reconnaissance. Suffocation was one of the first limits they'd come up with. It meant lack of oxygen to the brain. Dulled senses. Askew ability to make sound judgement.

Light choking is not suffocation, but if I'm looking for a way to argue it, will win.

I'd wanted him to do it. Disgustingly, I trusted Grey enough to do it responsibly. And he had. For just this silent moment alone amongst the trees, I allow myself to scowl at Christian's immobile back, admonishing the weakness abasing years of preparation for this mission.

I could argue that I was still looking for that blackness in Grey's soul. The one that rears its head predictably but irregularly. That side of him craves the violence, the control.

It was a lie, and it doesn't take a scientist in the room to make that out.

Irritation flaring up within me, I push forward again, quicker but even more gingerly so as not to draw attention to myself from the man intent on twisting up all of my plans. Debugger in hand, I keep my arm extended straight out above me, hopeful to catch anything on my journey. The trees are old and tall, thick hunks of tropical wood that stretch wide and dense in proximity to one another. Even if Christian were to catch up to me, it was doubtful he would see me through the expanse, hear my footsteps and believe it were anything more than eco-ambiance.

I don't move so cautiously for Christian's considerance. There is a high chance that machinery is hidden amongst the green. Why wouldn't it be? If I had an island that kidnapped and made people disappear…

I feel it then, vibration shooting down my arm.

I stop instantly, my foot suspended in the air, and drop to prone in the same breath, my eyes scanning quickly.

It's there, as predicted.

A tiny camera with a wide lens strung to the root of a mangrove, to the right of my position. It was facing the pathway leading into the town, thankfully, so I amn't in view but…. How many more will I find? And why a camera facing the walkway? Anyone entering or leaving the strip would be hard pressed not to encounter one of the guards, and more importantly only Christian and whatever submissive he has at the time would be passing this direction.

The town is already in view; I can see the tops of the small ring of buildings from just beyond the crest of a decline. I proceed in a crouch, in less of a hurry now as I ponder the security placement. Christian has yet to catch up to me even now, and I hope beyond all physical means that he will not turn back in search of me around his villa.

He's too good at that, derailing me. Complicating my already difficult tasks. Irritating and frustrating me in ways I thought improbable of any one man. And still a warmth nips at me that I can't shake. A warmth that mists at the edges of ice that support my composure and poise and control.

The ghost sensation that I'm about to flip his world upside down is prominent, irrefutable. No matter how this goes, everything will change for him. If he were a lying bastard that willingly had a hand in all of this mess, then more's the pity. He would have justice to answer to. At this juncture of my investigation, it is nigh on impossible to say Christian is leading this ring. Not if Carrick or Grace sit as untouchable as they do, spoke to him as they did. I likely wouldn't have to kill Christian myself, despite the many times it's passed my mind. The Syndicate would dole out whatever punishment they see fit.

However, if…

My mouth twists as I break through the trees, creeping along the back of buildings. I count 5 guards, all keeping watch over the sum of 14 buildings. Some likely other villas, deduced by their residential window frames and heavy doors. The Hub, the pub that Christian brought me to last night, sits directly in the center.

I'm not here for any of that.

It takes a few more minutes hidden in the long shadows of day before I reach my destination: the warehouse.

His little collar surprise was hardly a surprise when I listened to him not only request it, but battle the staff to actually get his hands on one. There was nothing particularly telling in his telephone conversation with them, but a warehouse would hold any myriad of information.

This coveted warehouse is… quaint, more akin to a boathouse. A prehistoric artifact perched right on the water. It almost doesn't belong in such a pristine place with its corroded metal and filthy glass panes. There are two men guarding the entrance, which elicits an unruffled eyebrow raise from me. It goes without saying that anything being guarded warrants the manpower to do so. I have another forty-three minutes to return to Christian's villa, so about twenty of that could be scouting out this warehouse.

The guards alone stood no chance. It was almost unfair, really.

One is now passed out behind a massive mangrove way off the beaten path, opposite of the route I'd taken, missing his heavy ring of keys. The other is catching Z's all the way around the edge of the warehouse, his feet licked by the creeping surf.

I pack the Dilaudid and needle back into its safety case, back into the satchel, and I run through the loop of keys into the padlocked door. It doesn't take too many attempts for the lock to shudder and release its catch, and I ease through the decaying brown wood before shutting it behind me.

The roof is caved in at the back of the ancient structure, and the lighting inside is subtle and low. If I hadn't kept the commotion low enough outside, it certainly would have alerted this lone man within and patrolling the area. I make the pointed decision of leaving him alone, so long as he doesn't make a move to leave the building. Doubtless he would go looking for his cronies if they weren't where he expected them. I don't need any unwanted attention drawn to me in here, were he to radio in.

Unlabeled pallets stack high on top of each other, packing in the considerable space and seeming fairly maze-like. I navigate easily enough, weaving through and feeling along small trunks, the storage bins. The crates are littered with weathered manifestos—receipts.

Standard affairs such as tables, chairs, beddings—nothing incriminating, no receiving names, and more importantly, no dates. Thereon, however, is a company name: Trevelyan Holdings.

Now why does that ring a bell?

By now Kavanagh would have that MAC ID from the backroom in the pub tapped and sourced, and the code I injected into Christian's beast of a machine would pop it right open by morning tomorrow. I have to mentally shake away the anxiety lacing my thoughts. Why the hell should I care what Kavanagh finds on that thing? It shouldn't matter to me; this is just a job, another check to collect.

But it does matter. I distinctly do care, much to my shame.

I would rather believe that Grey is more akin to an adult-child than a greedy sadist that likes to sell human beings. He stands a chance if he is naïve. The Syndicate can be unforgiving but what can they say if Grey has no actual knowledge of his crimes?

The hesitance remains because I know the answer to that.

Sifting through pounds and pounds of these papers, these nondescript sheets of paper that I am sure are steeped in hidden meanings I don't have a key for, I relent. Staring at them won't give me the answers, and this moment I only want to snoop—finding real evidence is a bonus, if it comes to that.

Eventually I make a circuit around the warehouse, around the deep docking area where one modest trawler boat and a dinghy bob along the waves. The dinghy stands out, the little rubber vessel that should be deflated and decidedly not on the waves. A quick scan shows it is empty, save for two—three life vests. The trawler has heavy tinted windows, and I'm not willing to get too close.

Around the open back of the boathouse looks like more palleted supplies. Some canned goods. Actual furniture. Bottles of water and general drink. I nose through every label, every break and crease in the plastic. Some are partly opened for what I'm sure are impromptu requests made by the inhabitants. Everything almost passes as sinless when a few segregated stacks catch my eye.

Unassuming bottles. Ones similar to or identical to varieties I've seen in Christian's fridge. They sit in neat rows, but with the plastic peeled back and more than just a few missing from the bundle. My eyes land on black marker against duct tape.

Gray Dolly?

This label isn't on the others that look like it, and there aren't labels on any other stack I've seen, in general. I pick up each bottle of the dozen, skimming over each label and confirming the likeness. All uniform, all labeled with the same generic stickers, but the contents seem darker than the bottles of the other crate.

It will leave suspicion but I have to check.

I push the first few pallets to the side, careful that their weight does not shift to freefalling, pulling out the one bottle and setting it down to readjust the load. Taking one of the bottles from the floor as well, I shimmy the guard's key under both caps and ease them off, and although deceptively faint, I know the darker of the two is off. Just beneath the sugar and fruit I can smell it, the hinting bite of chemical.

Now why? And what?

These are without a doubt the same bottles that sit in Christian's fridge. He drank at least one every afternoon, post-workout. Grunts always kept the fridge stocked and full of not just my requests, but all of Christian's as well.

These juices are one such reoccurring stock.

I need a chemist, which means I need Kavanagh. Something is in this Gray Dolly and unfortunately biochemistry is not in my skillset. I can't leave two opened and untouched bottles just sitting out, so I pour the contents of each bottle out between the open cracks in the floorboards, the shimmer of water undisturbed by the twin streams. I maintain my crouch, setting them betwixt the pallets, and skulk around the railing when a hand claps down on my shoulder.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing here?"

My every muscle relaxes.

I turn slowly to face the burly guard; a familiar switch hit within me. He has at least 8 inches on me, the top of my head level with his pectoral. His chest is massive and deep, swollen with muscle and strength barely contained under the cotton of his V-neck, the smattering of gold-brown hairs peeking at me. His jaw is wide, square, clean and spotless; his cheeks high and cut sharply. His eyes, a shadowy cobalt, burn through me in his glower as they meet mine. A handsome man, well-kept and taken care of. He is not the guard I saw patrolling alone when I'd come in; his face had been forgettable. This one, I make a point to remember what he looks like.

As I do with every soul that adds to my body count.

I'm not fully convinced that souls exist. If I believe in them. With all the evil I've put myself in the center of, been wrapped up in, it is an obscure concept to see validity in. Or perhaps only a select few of us received the vessel required for the soul.

He may be one such vessel, may have been worthy of possessing a soul. This man now down on his knees, looking up at me with dark blue eyes that have softened in their silent plea, that beg for mercy as if in intercession, as if he has chosen me as the priest for his final confession.

I don't have the power to absolve him. To absolve myself. But I can take his sins and add them to my own, carry them as I do the others' that suffer his same fate. I've made a mistake, a trivial one, and this man will now suffer the consequence.

I feel the burden shift to me, a tangible presence as life leaves those blue eyes, as the light in them freezes and shudders out; rolling to the back of his head as his body slumps in place. His head lolls back lifelessly. As massive a man that he is—was—it's a mild struggle to guide him down to the ground quietly. Even more so as I battle back the acid stinging my throat and churning in my bowels, but I do it. The whir of the giant blades in the corner of the warehouse disguise the man's descent into the waters below. Maybe the other guard hears it, maybe he doesn't. I slip out of the newly desecrated building in either case, shutting the door firmly behind me.

I redeposit the keyring on the guard's body hidden amongst the trees, allowing myself the cursory check of his pulse, brushing away the ineffable relief of feeling his heart beating evenly, if a bit slow. I take off back to my assigned villa, stopping only once to heave out the last of whatever paltry meal I consumed that morning. I make it back before Christian.

...

Christian is not in when I return.

I beeline for the kitchen, wrenching the fridge open, pulling out the now all too familiar bottle that sits by the dozen within Christian's fridge. I pop the top off by the counter corner and whiff the rim.

Same faint trace of chemical, perhaps made more subtle by the chill. In a habit long since dead and buried, I chew the inside of my cheek, locked in consternation as I consider the gravity of my findings. Nothing that would specifically damn the island. But a poignant discovery that Christian is being drugged… Most certainly, and without a shred of doubt.

Suddenly, Christian's loss of memory isn't so baseless and random. I'm not a chemist—I can't say which substances are mixed into it and I don't know what effects it has on consumption. Belatedly, I wonder if I've unknowingly ingested any. If there were any instances that Christian poured this juice or any other drugged one out for me; that I've accepted without noticing.

Or if he was or wasn't aware.

My instinct, my hardened gut feeling, is that no, Christian has no idea what they're pumping him with, and he wouldn't have had reason to suspect that I shouldn't drink this as well. But he doesn't act to expectation. Doesn't think the way normal men—normal people—think.

Condensation beads down the side of the juice, rolls onto my hand. I want to find out what the drink does to him. Evidence via withdrawal. Something tells me despite not finding anything specifically crippling to the operation running here, this is the pivotal puzzle piece.

But I'll leave things as they are.

I don't know what effect the drinks have on him. I would draw a massive amount of suspicion pouring it all down the drain with no explanation. Showing my hand much too early.

Christian shouldn't be far behind me. A look at the clock says there are but a few minutes until he will return. More than anything else I want to call Kavanagh. Not for her trifling input; but because she could send word to the lab-labor the Syndicate has on call, and they could run this through for an evaluation.

Those few minutes he should have needed to return, however, come and go. And then double in time. Then triple. Half an hour goes by and I finish a shower. One I am grateful to have. To let pass an unspeakable session of shaking I can claim was caused by a scalding stream of water, instead of the exigency of snuffing out human life.

After a full hour of Christian not returning I damn him and decide to call Kavanagh.

The telephone's wire is long enough. I carry the antiquated machine to the corner of the couch where I can watch the front door. The big windows make it easy to see Christian's inevitable approach, or anyone else. The two guards I knocked out wouldn't need very long before they were up again, very confused but awake. Alive.

It was that third guard—the one that they wouldn't find, until they did...

Then hell would break loose. I've made an error, not realizing he'd been there. An error I could never have seen myself making before, and the price is hefty. His death, moreover his disappearance on an island with little to no connection to the outside world, is a bell too loud to ignore.

Kavanagh answers before the second ring can finish its trilling.

"Fuck, Steele. What took you so long to make contact? Where have you been?"

I don't let her tone or informality ruffle me, but the involuntary arch of my eyebrow is inevitable. "Stranded on a BDSM island; where else?"

"We have a problem."

All humor dies at the introduction of her words. "Report."

"Your MAC ID was a bait," she says, and my eyes fall shut as I grit my teeth. Things just continue to rapidly improve. "We got the tap. We got every bit of information that we could have ever needed for these assholes. But they got us back."

"Explain."

"I extracted all of the archives hidden in the PC's memory, and suffice to say that we aren't dealing with a mom-and-pop kidnap scheme anymore. We know where you are and we've got a lead now, and one hell of a lead it is." There is a mess of wind in the background of the call. Her breath is even enough but I can hear the slight exhale that signals she's moving quickly. "I don't have the time to say much else—they have our southern office coordinate."

Fuck.

"Please tell me—"

"Everything has been packed up and moved, and your part in the mission is done for now. You're being pulled out, Steele. We have EVAC en-route to your location."

My eyes fly to the door immediately, to the full window beside it. Still no sign of Christian. And no hellfire lighting up the shores. "How long?"

"ETA 17 hours."

Double fuck.

"So soon?" I ask casually, stamping out a disquieting tension in my thoughts.

"Better safe than sorry. We know that they reversed the tap on us, Steele. At most, they know what we've pulled out of their network. They've got nothing else from the access point besides a general location of the southern office."

"But you've cut them off, I hope?" The blooming apprehension seeps now. If she can hear it, she doesn't mention it.

"Of course," she scoffs, offended. "Again, we manage without your omniscient eye."

"Ensure there is enough space for two then, Kavanagh."

"What? No. Why? This wasn't a retrieval mission, Steele. Your job was to get in and get information. You do not have approval to save civilians."

"Then get me approval," I snap. I know I will get it, regardless of how she feels. The only person that needed to approve it would do so without ever needing a reason. It would be done because I asked it, and no other reason at all.

A moment passes with just the wind speaking between us before Kavanagh swears in her mother tongue. She knows battling this would be moot as well. "I need names."

"One name. Christian Grey."

"What?"

"He's being drugged. I have reason to believe the drugs to have caused some extent of memory loss in him. I want him tested and tried."

Another moment. Then I hear the furious clicking of keyboard switches one after another. "They want him alive," she says, no inflection as she reads the directives of the Directors. One Director in particular would have been all it takes.

"That was the plan."

"You have not been granted approval for retrieval for any further civilian life, and you will be held solely responsible for the safety and safeguarding of first name: Christian; surname: Grey. Do you understand, Steele?"

"I do."

"You will release Christian Grey to unnamed custody at a location to later be determined from command, where he will testify his role in the unnamed mission you collected him from. He will undergo blood and urine testing and be held for investigation as to the full extent of damage that his actions have caused. Do you understand and agree to these contractual stipulations?"

"Yes."

"Done." It's clear when she's finished the contract. I can almost hear the sag of her shoulders as she sighs again. "You're shaking up more than initially anticipated, Steele, I'll give you that."

"I've got more to further improve your day."

"Oh, what now?" she groans.

"I had to eliminate one of theirs today."

"Christ in heav—Who?"

"A guard. There was no avoiding it. The method that I had to take out his cohorts with will raise more than a little suspicion, given the circumstances."

"Clean kill?"

"Do you really need to ask?"

"No. So they know their archives are floating around, and they've misplaced a man in action. There will be some alarms raised, doubtless. That would be a problem if I were talking to anyone but you, Steele."

"Good thing its me." I wish it were only hubris that rendered the statement accurate. A lesser agent would be expected to fold under the pressure. Recon, kidnappings, rescue missions, and murder… Fun month.

"That's one way to look at it. Okay, we have what we need, and the only who we need alive is Grey. Keep him in the dark; he will be arrested and detained on sight. Bring evidence or this won't end too pretty for him. Sorry to ruin your bondage party," she jokes dryly. "Was the sex good enough?"

"I wouldn't know," I deadpan, unamused. Easy to make funnies when a pile of shit wasn't dropped in her lap.

"Better get to it while you've got the chance. If the bastard had anything to do with what we've fished, his longevity is far from guaranteed."

"Not my problem." And truly it shouldn't be. Nor should I care.

Yet it is. And I do, for some twisted, preposterous reason. Nothing should register in my mind besides the mission and my own safety, in that order, but my list has a dubiously sudden addition that should not belong there.

"I expected as much. In the decade I've known you, there isn't a man alive you've shown compassion for."

I smile darkly, and laugh without intent or humor. If only she knew. Even if I admit to Kavanagh that I am being ridiculous and sentimental, she would dismiss the notion. As if it were possible for one of the Syndicate's flawless machines to be flawed. "Is that your way of calling me heartless?"

"It's my way of saying I know you'll only do what's necessary. If anyone gets in your way or threatens Grey's safety, you have the kill order."

Mildly confused, I ask, "Grace and Carrick?" I asked for background on them in the last phone call. If Grey is a VIP then it makes sense his overseers will be as well.

"Trevelyan," Kavanagh reveals, and I nod to myself in understanding. Grace and/or Carrick Trevelyan. Sure, I had their names before but it's much nicer to have full names for devils. Much more information to be sourced.

"They're resident king and queen," I inform her offhandedly. "A lot to be gained by bringing them into custody, too."

"I've been digging relentlessly since I found them, and I've got some interesting tidbits for you when you get back. Believe, you, me—you have the kill order. They're cogs in a machine, and this particular machine has nastiness and size to it. Now isn't the best time to discuss, but suffice to say let the animals to the slaughter. We beach in 17 hours to clean the island up. Do whatever you see fit."

Kavanagh's mindless extension of herself to the committee never fails to give me pause, as if she's no more than a mouthpiece with no sense of self. Always "we" with her. Silently I question her decision. Even if they are cogs, they are a large piece of the blueprint, and if Christian has no useful information to him then they are made all the more integral.

But my doubt is kept just that, silent. She takes my noncommunication as acceptance.

"That's all for now—"

"Wait." Too late to hold my tongue, I roll my eyes at myself. "I have an injection running on Grey's computer. It likely won't finish in time."

As predicted, Kavanagh disregards the minor non-issue. "Whatever you get, you get. Get Grey. Get out. Signing off."

…

There is so little to react to now. So few decisions left in my hands, really. "Do whatever you see fit," is actually code for, "Sit on your hands and kill whoever stops you from bringing the information home."

While this should have given me a degree of ease, a modicum of space to clear my head, it's done the opposite.

I know too much. I don't know enough.

They'll collect Christian and myself.

They'll kill every other soul on the island.

The Syndicate is a brilliant organization, ruthless and near autonomous. Decisions made and acted upon are always for the common good, the better good. The overarching wellbeing of humanity is the key principle.

And that leaves out the lives trodden on to get there, innocent and not so innocent.

Every submissive on this island will perish, and I don't have an exact number of how many people that will be. Asking Kavanagh would have been foolish, because she would see no reason that I would need to know that. It had no bearing on the objective, especially not after knowing that the Syndicate has gleamed all that they need to know to move on. Even with the sway I have as far as Directors go, saving a dozen civilians with no explanation—who don't believe they're in imminent danger and could never be told that that was the case—is a chore not made for an organization like ours.

Precision and efficiency.

The Syndicate wipes a slate to write the story on it themselves. Good, bad; heroes, villains—the Syndicate plays the field of gray area for it all.

The submissives, regardless of the lives they led before coming here, are innocent, in the grand scheme. Doubtful that they've murdered, raped, or deprived another person of human life. They came here for a few kicks, not an early, unmarked grave.

And none of that should be my problem. None of it necessitates room on my conscience.

Just as the Syndicate, I am meant to be ruthless. Autonomous. Most days I can be.

Today, however, as I wait three hours beyond the time Christian dictated his return, I am baking a cake.

As far out of the purview of my operative duties as it is...

I don't think the desire to bake anything has ever once crossed my mind. But Christian is getting a cake. Because if I keep thinking myself into a corner I will only further skew my objectives. To stop and think about the thousands of missing people already out of reach means I will be tempted to do more than the Syndicate needs. My ice, damnably, is cracking under the isolation of living with a chaotic sadist who doesn't know his own birthday.

I'm losing the ability to rationale which balance of sleuth and submissive to employ, because the lines keep blurring. One minute I'm against them all, the next I want to give them a fighting chance not to be gunned down, while keeping my dominant in the dark with the intention of reaming him sideways. All in the name of justice in the form of my profession.

The lives of an unascertained amount of people will be extinguished in less than twenty-four hours. I am either dooming them to death by gunfire by not acting, or the fate of the waves for doing so.

And so Christian is hopefully getting a cake.

I can say that this is a part of the grander plan to slowly win Christian over, to endear him to my side to make further information slip out of him even more easily. I could justify sharing this intimate moment with a man who in all likelihood had a million crimes and sins to answer for, if it makes bringing him into custody go more smoothly. And I could try to tell myself I wasn't doing this because I wanted to. Because I wanted him to have this.

"Fucking sap," I curse under my breath, sifting flour out of the funnel and into a metal mesh, I watch the dust fly everywhere with exception of the bowl it is intended for. I blessedly have almost all of the time in the world to thoroughly destroy his kitchen until he returns. At least until the bombs are to fall.

Baking a fucking cake... I can never share this with anyone. Ever. If Kavanagh had even an inkling of what I was doing she would drop me from this assignment in a heartbeat, and likely have me evaluated by as many thero's she could find under Syndicate jurisdiction. Or have me gunned down like everyone else on the island. She'd think I finally broke.

Another mirthless smile finds me in that she wouldn't be fully wrong for believing so...

This is wildly inappropriate. Beyond the realm of excessive, even. Throwing in what I am sure is the completely incorrect measurement of baking powder—not teaspoons, but I believe I've done tablespoons—it isn't news to me that I'm clouding the plot. I have orders. I have an objective with a rapidly approaching conclusion. This is where all roaming thoughts should end.

I'm becoming a bit too invested, I've decided. Begrudgingly. I'm not so far gone that I can start scribbling Grey's name in my nonexistent diary, but... he is stirring up inexplicable sentiments that have no place in my mind, my direction.

I shudder and release a noise of disgust.

Perhaps this is my near unrecognizable conscience offering a little gift to him. A 'sorry I'm kidnapping you so you can be arrested and tried' cake.

A kindness, I hope, he will appreciate one day, as it is in every way infuriating and humiliating to attempt.

…

Christian

I'm in love with her.

I think.

I'm unsure I've actually loved anything in my life. No family, no friends. No favorite movies or TV shows or favorite foods. Perhaps sex. I love sex, but am not one to overindulge in it— my love for sex is modest.

But Ana.

I don't want anything as much as I want Anastasia. To live, breathe, eat, sleep or even fuck. And the mere thought of fucking Ana gives me heart palpitations.

Someone so tantalizing and multidimensional. So many different facets and reflections and secrets.

My very secretive, cunning mouse.

Knowing that she, in all of this time spent with me, has had a hidden agenda to basically dismantle everything my home, my life, stands for...

Truly, I think I am more in love with her.

She's always had that something about her. That quality that makes her indignant and confident, like no matter how much or in what way I dominate her, she is always in control. I feel that now. Feel that power that she refuses to cede. I know in any profound and fleet moment she can blow the very sand from beneath my feet and submerge me and everyone inhabiting my island two oceans deep.

It was her, certainly, on the security footage Grace screened with me. To me. Grace had watched my face and my reaction from the second that black screen flickered to life. And she'd been there, Anastasia, skulking through brush like a jungle panther. Only for the briefest of seconds. Perhaps less. One couldn't be sure until Grace slowed the tape down and froze the frame. And then there was no denying it, no debate.

Not for me, anyway.

My loyalty didn't belong to Grace in that instance. Any instance perhaps. A rocking yet not at all surprising ferocity to protect Ana stole me, and I'd turned back to Grace with my best poker face. I played dumb. Remarkably dumb. And confused.

I didn't have to stretch for the confusion, however.

I hadn't been aware of the cameras. Not to the extent that Grace had shown me before landing on Ana's debut. There were cameras at the pub, of course, because that was entertainment. Quite often when dusk broke the perversions did as well, and the other doms loved to put on a show; shows that would be put on a screen projector during another show where the cycle would go on and on.

But the brief glimpse I saw… They were everywhere. Some places I'd never seen before. Outside my villa. Off my beachwalk. The looping bevy of paths strung about the island; and so many more disturbing locations. Such as deeply embedded in a beach fern and pointing directly up and at Ana's bedroom.

I tried, I really did, to take a page from Ana's book, and smother any fury, any rage, that bled into my veins, my muscles, at the thought of anyone watching Ana without her permission. Seeing her the way they were bound to have seen her when she was meant to have preserved privacy. Exposed. Vulnerable.

I'd done a piss poor job because Grace tried to paint over their deceitful invasion. For their safety, she said. For her safety. We don't tell any Dominant; to safeguard their privacy, all the more.

And look now, she'd continued, either fooled by the thin veil masking my delirium or ignoring it, one of our people, our family, has been killed. Murdered. And she is the only person we have out of place.

It was a shame. Surely.

But that man, whoever the fuck he was, didn't hold a candle to Ana's life.

I tried to convince Grace, to sway her. Ana couldn't have been an ounce over 150 pounds, which was generous when her dossier said 140. How could she disable two beefy muscles and kill a third? She didn't have an answer for that. Further confusion mounted in that there were cameras watching the tiniest flecks of sand on the coast, but not set up at the warehouse to catch this alleged murder and assault when it occurred?

Not to mention that small brunettes are a dime a dozen, especially here.

On all sides, nothing was making sense. Nothing adding up.

Carrick wasn't there, which oddly relieved me. Grace gave room for my doubt and there were moments that I could see her stance sway. Had he been there… It was best not to consider it. When Grace gleamed that I had nothing to offer, that my skepticism would be of no help, she let the screen return to black and told me to keep my eye on Ana.

And that was all.

The only assurance I had was that of my own. I would not let them have Ana. I can disregard that this may have been the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life.

Because I love her, whoever she is. Or is not.

Or, even if this confounding myriad of pain, pleasure and excitement does not sum to love… then it is enough that I obsess for her so thoroughly, desire her so powerfully and blindly that I will allow no other soul to take her from me. She could take another thousand lives on this island and I would protect her, for as long as she would allow me.

I return home in a daze of sorts. Staring off into nothing. Moving on autopilot, allowing my instincts to carry me back to Ana. I climb the steps. Grasp the door handle and give it a gentle twist. I smell her as soon as I take my next breath. Her and something else…

"Happy Birthday."

I have to pause. Look around for a moment and check to make sure there is no one behind me before turning back to her, to Ana, perplexed.

"What's this?" I ask, glaring into the tray in her hands, not bothering to clear the blockade of my tightened throat.

"A cake," she states plainly, matter-of-factly. "You said you don't have a birthday. Or rather, you don't know when your birthday is. So… I baked you this cake. For… your birthday."

In her hands is a dish unlike anything I've seen before. Horribly misshapen, beaten and left to bake, there is a deformed mound of pastry heavily—unevenly—coated in thick blue frosting, with red and yellow sprinkles scattered about in what almost appears to be a smiley face. I didn't even know there'd been frosting in the house.

"I tried to write your name with the candied parts," she says, a pucker between her dark brows as she gives the monstrosity a scornful frown, "but I hadn't anticipated how much I'd need to do so... I ran out."

I open my mouth to say something, and close it again the second her inquisitive eyes raise to mine. I do clear my throat before rasping, "I thought we agreed tomorrow was my birthday."

One corner of her mouth twitches before curling to a small and rueful grin. "I thought it best to celebrate tonight. No time like the present."

I cannot even fathom how she managed to get it into the …state it is in. There are symmetrical prods all throughout the cake, as if she stabbed it repeatedly and indiscriminately with a fork, maybe to check if it cooked fully? The girl's eyes are wide and round, staring straight at me as she tries to ascertain how I feel about her gift. For a moment, I can't do much besides look back at her, at it, then at her again. After a few moments she has lost the enthusiasm she had when I opened the door. She appears crestfallen, if one could do so indifferently; her shoulders slacken and the cake goes with them by a few inches.

"You don't like it?" she mutters, sadder than I could ever imagine her.

When it finally registers in my head that this is real, that she is genuine in her attempts and has done this for me, I reach out for her; place my hand at the crown of her head. I weave my fingers through the soft brown strands easily, and as the emotion in me swells, my fingers curl; I'm bringing her closer to me. I can no longer see her expression, her head is bent as she tries to finagle the cake from between us to somewhere safer, where it won't be smooshed.

"I like it," I whisper into the smooth skin of her forehead.

"What do you like about it?" I can't help but smile at her teasing. She must know it resembles a child's plasticine recreation of a cake more than an actual one. How did she get it to slope so…?

"I like that you made it for me," I chuckle.

"Will you taste it?"

"I'll taste anything you'd like me to taste, pet."

She pulls away just enough to tilt her head up, and I lower to capture her kiss gingerly when all I want is to encompass to her. When I release her I take the tray of trials from her hands and carry it to the kitchen islands. Somehow I've done myself a disservice of not taking all of Ana in, her naked curves peeking out from beneath my much too large white apron and the broad band of my collar around her throat. And the thick dusting of what I assume is flour in her hair. Blue colored sugar on her cheek. Rainbow sprinkles littered across the countertops and what used to be the stately, spotless white floors.

I purse my lips in a concentrated effort not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the setting. At Ana's sharply arched brow and her cocked hip. At the chance that Ana is a cold-blooded killer that has baked me a birthday cake.

I fail, and I laugh so genuinely that I double over with my hands on my knees.

Ana feigns offence and her pout deepens, but the shadow of amusement just bends the corner of her mouth. She traipses out of my direct line of sight as I attempt to sober, and she has a very large, very sharp knife in her hands on the opposite side of the island and the cake.

My mirth dances away too quickly; too jarringly. A man has been found dead tonight and the only person in the world I care about sits dangerously close to the position of culprit. The words come blurting out of me before I can stop them, before I can tactfully rephrase.

"Was it you, Anastasia?" I ask, and as her expression freezes I know I don't need to clarify but I do anyway. "Did you kill him? That guard?"

I don't know exactly what I expected. Maybe for her to look shocked. To demand to know who was killed or deny any involvement emphatically.

But I do not expect her calm, "Yes," in such a smooth, unruffled tone.

In a reaction that isn't my own, my gaze flickers down to that big knife in her small hands before I catch myself, and Ana is smiling at me in a way that I've never seen before. Neither of us speaks through the silence, stretched and tense on my part. Mentally, I'm trying to take stock of myself, of my situation.

I'm not afraid of her, for some reason. I see what she is capable of with men bigger than I, stronger than I. Her reaction to my accusation should activate something in me, I feel. Some fight or flight instinct or the willpower to sprint out of the villa and alert Grace and Carrick to who she is.

But I'm so nonplussed by any of those things, and that is what frightens me the most.

"Now what?" Ana inquires softly, dragging me out of my conundrum. Her posture is perfection as always, her face relaxed and open and…

"They can't have you."

Her eyebrows draw together at my statement, her head tilting slightly. "Who?"

"Anyone," I vow. She watches me, displeased.

"Who knows?"

"Grace does. There was a taping of you walking through a stretch of the beach right before they found the guard."

She smiles slightly, almost teasingly again. "That doesn't make me guilty."

"No, it doesn't." I keep my eyes locked to her, hoping to reach somewhere within her despite our distance and hold tightly. To convey… whatever it is she compels me so to. "You aren't guilty to her, yet. It's conjecture at this point."

"But I've just confessed to you, Christian."

"You have," I nod solemnly.

"So…" her head tilts a touch more, that small smile still in place, and she repeats, "Now what?"

And I repeat myself. "They. Can't. Have. You."

A long moment passes, and Ana is the first to drop her gaze. Her eyes slide shut and she rolls her shoulders backwards, and when she opens them again, that coolness I am too familiar with revisits me. She places the knife down beside the lump cake.

"On a tape, huh?" she turns around completely then, presenting me her smooth, arched back in the apron as she leans against the island. "I have lost my touch."

"Carrick wasn't there," I vocalize, then clear my throat. I don't know when I locked up the way I have but it's a conscientious effort to drop the tension in my shoulders and take a deep breath. Maybe I do fear her… just a little. "I don't know if Grace has spoken with him yet, but I'm sure that she will."

"What did you do when they showed you the tape, Christian?"

"I lied." I've been watching her closely so I notice how slightly she stiffens at this. As much as I enjoy the view of her that I have, I need to see her face, so I skirt around the islands to stand in front of her. She doesn't need to look at me, I'm sure, to be aware of my every movement. Her long lashes conceal her downcast eyes, but I feel moderately better being able to gauge her this way. "Ana—"

"I don't understand you, Grey." I balk at her use of my surname, temporarily stunned. "You are the farthest from normal in a human being that I have ever met. It's really beginning to annoy me, you know."

A moment passes before I recover from her frank revelation, and I chuckle. "You're probably not the only one with that sentiment." I'm whole again as Ana gazes up at me serenely. It is likely unwise, but I step closer to her. Her eyes drop to my hands as I raise them toward her but I don't shrink away. I take her face between my palms and skim my thumb along her cheek, the curve of her upper lip. Her pulse beats quickly, steadily, beneath the pad of my littlest finger, and it's the only real reaction I get from her so I revel in it.

"Why did you lie?" she asks, allowing my touch but not moving, aside from the slight rise of her chest with her even breaths.

I frown down at her pointedly. "I've already told you."

"You did, yes, but it doesn't make sense. A man is dead. I admitted to you that I killed him. And you're looking down at me… like this. Make it make sense, Christian."

"Can't," I chuckle again, softly, against her softer lips, as if my insanity is a private joke that only we two understand. "All I know is that if they believe you did it…" I shake my head, shake the blackness creeping around my thoughts. "One body will not be where it ends on this island."

What I've said has shocked her. Her eyes widen as they bounce between my own, her pulse speeds beneath my finger. "You don't know me," she whispers incredulously.

"Nor you me. But I know I can't let anything happen to you."

The edges of her irises seem to ignite they shine at me so brightly. An emotion not quite strong enough to be anger hardens her features. "They will all die tomorrow, Christian," she remarks stonily, and my thumb stops where it is. "Every one of them. Every guard. Every dom. Every sub. Grace. And Carrick. All life will be wiped on this island, save yours. So before you continue on in your fantastical romance, please consider the obstacles stacked against you."

Her words, though sharp and punishing, don't land their intended affect. I understand them. I know that she means every syllable. I won't be attaching to the right section of her admittance but I ask regardless.

"Why will I live?"

"I need you alive," she answers simply, one slightly raised brow.

"Oh. That's nice of you."

"Not quite my decision, but thank you."

I know when to quit while I'm ahead so I don't continue down the line of questioning this has opened up. It feels like so much needs to be discussed and I don't know where to begin. Ana takes the lead for me.

"Where are Grace and Carrick now?"

"Grace is likely still at the pub. I was setting up your… gifts when she pulled me aside." Inappropriately given the circumstances, I am compelled to ask, "Will we still have time for your present tomorrow?"

She grimaces at first, but it slowly morphs to a smile as she shakes her head at me between my palms. "Depending on how early it is scheduled, maybe." I return her smile before giving into my desires, and I kiss her fully, longingly, indulging in her taste and her scent and her. Everything will change. Our entire dynamic, or the façade that it was, will change; but I hope this need for her will not. That her acceptance of my overbearing and needy nature will not waver. I want her too much and amn't prepared to find out what becomes of me without her.

My hands skate down her neck, over her collar—my collar—as I draw her further into me. I deepen our kiss as my tongue meets hers, and continue the descent to grip her full bottom in one hand and rest at the well of her back with the other. If given another second I'd have her sat up on the counter with her legs parted and my face buried in her freshly shaven pussy, but she lays her hand on my chest as she withdraws. She is a mind reader, I've decided, because she smirks at me coolly.

"You're lucky," I murmur, "that I have as many questions as I do that make it difficult to continue this."

Ana's eyebrow crooks. Her eyes scan my face lazily and she smiles enigmatically, her voice dropping to a caress of a purr. "Lucky is one way to look at it, sure. You, however, are not as lucky. Because you're stuck with me, and we do have a lot to discuss, Mr. Grey."

Before I can vehemently protest how incorrect she is, she extricates herself from my hold, and I allow her. I wipe the corner of her mouth of the mess I've made of her, and Ana slides her hand across the counter, wrapping her thin fingers around the handle of the knife again, holding it out to me.

"But first, cake."

A/N: Something tells me things are going to get haywire soon.

Thank you for your eyes~