50 shades freed

Chapter 12

Everything in it is entirely imaginary and intended only for entertainment; I created it for fun. I did not write 50 Shades freed or any of its characters, and I do not own them.

Chapter 12

"I thought you were born here in Seattle," I murmur. My mind races. What does this have to do with Jack? Harry raises the arm covering his face, reaches behind him, and grabs one of the pillows. Placing it under his head, he settles back and gazes at me with a wary expression. After a moment he shakes his head.

"No. Liam and I were both adopted in Detroit. We moved here shortly after my adoption. Anne wanted to be on the west coast, away from the urban sprawl, and she got a job at Northwest Hospital. I have very little memory of that time. Gemma was adopted here."

"So, Jack is from Detroit?"

"Yes."

Oh . . . "How do you know?"

"I ran a background check when you went to work for him."

Of course, he did. "Do you have a manila file on him, too?" I smirk.

Harry's mouth twists as he hides his amusement. "I think it's pale blue." His fingers continue to run through my hair. It's soothing.

"What does it say in his file?"

Harry blinks. Reaching down he strokes my cheek. "You really want to know?"

"Is it that bad?"

He shrugs. "I've known worse," he whispers.

No! Is he referring to himself? And the image I have of Harry as a small, dirty, fearful, lost boy comes to mind. I curl around him, holding him tighter, pulling the sheet over him, and I lay my cheek against his chest.

"What?" he asks, puzzled by my reaction.

"Nothing," I murmur.

"No, no. This works both ways, Lou. What is it?"

I glance up assessing his apprehensive expression. Resting my cheek upon his chest once more, I decide to tell him. "Sometimes I picture you as a child . . . before you came to live with the Styles'."

Harry stiffens. "I wasn't talking about me. I don't want your pity, Louis. That part of my life is done. Gone."

"It's not pity," I whisper, appalled. "It's sympathy and sorrow—sorrow that anyone could do that to a child." I take a deep steadying breath as my stomach twists and tears prick my eyes anew. "That part of your life is not done, Harry—how can you say that? You live every day with your past. You told me yourself—Fifty Shades, remember?" My voice is barely audible.

Harry snorts and runs his free hand through his hair, though he remains silent and tense beneath me.

"I know it's why you feel the need to control me. Keep me safe."

"And yet you choose to defy me," he murmurs baffled, his hand stilling in my hair.

I frown. Holy cow! Do I do that deliberately? My subconscious removes his half-moon glasses and chews the end, pursing his lips and nodding. I ignore him. This is confusing—I'm his husband, not his submissive, not some company he's acquired. I'm not the crack whore who was his mother . . . Fuck.

The thought is sickening. Dr. Flynn's words come back to me:

"Just keep doing what you're doing. Harry is head over heels . . . It's a delight to see."

That's it. I'm just doing what I've always done. Isn't that what Harry found attractive in the first place?

Oh, this man is so confusing.