Chapter Twenty

"You're not doing it right,"

"I know how to blue a gun, Owen."

Owen crossed his arms behind his head, propping his foot up on his knee, leaning back deeply into the couch. He watched the woman, sitting cross – legged on the floor, run a greasy and oily rag along the barrel of his rifle. He smirked as her concentration piqued, and chuckled when a bit of the blue speckled itself on the shirt he'd borrowed her for the evening. A piece of curl around her face fell into her concentration, and she jerked her head to move it out of the way.

His lips were still burning from their romp, his legs weak to the point where he wondered if he could even stand properly without falling over. His chest was still constricted, and his heart alive as if it had been dead all his life, only now living and pumping. The swimming of his head and somewhat cleared, instead leaving behind a hazy thought cloud running circles through his conscience, leaving confusion and utter compliance.

What had happened? He'd gone from completely being befuddled by her to being one hundred percent at her pleasure, in less than an hour. Was it just today that she'd stalked away from him, angry and upset, with hurt in her eyes because of his stupid, childish behaviour? It didn't feel like it. Actually, Owen would've sworn it felt like an eternity ago, because now all he could think about was every part of her, and how she's just fallen into his kiss helplessly, returned them hungrily, desired him entirely. It swirled around his mind like a torrent hurricane.

All his misgivings had melted away when she'd grabbed his arm in the kitchen, her eyes searching his own – so open, vulnerable, and giving. He'd locked eyes with her and he'd unravelled, every part of him had come undone inside. It was it someone had taken a knife and carved up his core, tossing out everything he knew about himself, every reservation, every wall. She'd busted through like a warrior breaking through a barricade, staving off his misgivings and presumptions.

He had never experienced such kissing before than he had with Marianne. Owen had never known someone to be so intricate, to be so detailed as he kissed her – she told him everything without saying anything. He knew what she wanted when she wanted it and what to do without even having to ask her. They'd just communicated; fell into the dance as if they'd been doing it their entire lives. Every part of her had felt right in his arms, every part of her fit into him – nothing mattered. He didn't care about anything other than her – she was perfect, right down to her soul, and even then he'd dare to challenge her as she'd reached inside him and taken every part of his emotions captive. He'd never experienced something so perfect in his entire life.

She was far more than he'd imagined. How had he been so foolish to judge the book by its cover?

And now, he was entirely captivated a she watched her run the bluing rag over the rifle's barrel; smoothly, with steady hands, as if she'd been doing it her whole life. He recalled that she'd said her brother was a gunsmith, so she'd probably been trained into it since childhood. But, watching her hands, the activity became lost as all he could think about was those hands on his person, roaming and pulling and gripping for more, never satisfied, always modest and pure. It made him dizzy.

So dizzy, in fact, he got to his feet and moved into the kitchen. "You want a beer or something?" He called, rounding the corner. He stood against the wall and let his head fall back onto it, closing his eyes and trying to slow his emotions: he was falling for her, and he was falling fast. Owen hadn't realized it, but he was, and it was scaring him to death.

"Not really," she called into the kitchen from her place on the floor, "But if you have an orange or something I'll have that." He nodded to himself, yanked open the fridge, and bent to retrieve a beer, orange, and bottle of water. Kicking it closed, popped the top of the bottle, and she came around the corner quickly, rubbing her hands around a new, clean towel. He extended the orange and bottle of water to her in a hand, "Thanks." She smiled at him.

She cracked open the bottle of water and tossed the cap on the island, which they had cleaned up since their romp. He seated himself on the counter by the sink and she slipped into the same barstool. She got up, staring at the orange, and moved around the island.

"Spoon?" She asked.

"Second drawer to the left," he pointed. She nodded, opened it swiftly, plucked out a spoon, and closed it with her hip. She set to peeling the orange, leaning against the counter, concentration piqued again. Finally, she managed to peel off a piece and popped it into her mouth.

"Owen," she sighed, "We should talk."

He nodded. He'd known this was coming, as soon as he'd kissed her, he knew it. The defining – their – relationship talk. Really, Owen had no idea what their relationship was anymore, beside the fact that they were colleagues. He wasn't sure if this meant they were dating, or together, or what. All he knew was she was standing in his kitchen in his shirt, eating an orange, looking more beautiful than he imagined. He took another drink, the beer trailing smoothly down his throat. "Yeah, we probably should."

She crossed her arms, orange still at hand. "Where does this put us?" She stared straight ahead, a blank look on her face. Her brow wrinkled slightly and he hopped off the counter, setting the beer next to the sink. She sounded terrified, and by the way she looked at him, he knew something was wrong. Something told him this was territory not unfamiliar with her, that it had been travelled before, taken too lightly. He wondered who the guy had been, and where he was now. He leaned against the island, no across from her, and planted his feet, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I dunno," he shrugged, "where does it put you?"

She furrowed her brow at him, "This isn't just about me," she interjected quickly, fiddling with the peel of the orange, "This is about us. We kissed. We. Two. Plural." She held up two fingers to stress her point. He smiled at her, grinning like a schoolboy and looked away shyly.

"We did a lot more than kiss," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. They'd necked, made – out like he'd never had before: a lot more than just a simple kiss. Though it hadn't turned into anything beyond that – anything sexual – it had still been something; something defining that he didn't think he could just let go. Now he was interested in her, curious, and that was something Owen Grady couldn't be for long. He would know her and God help him, he would find out everything about her.

She glared at him, "I know," her voice was quiet and somewhat scared. She looked down at the orange. She rolled it around in her hands and sighed. "Owen. I'm not sure what you're looking for," she looked up at him and set the orange on the counter, raising her stained hands to her hair and running them along her scalp, "but I'm twenty-six years old –"

His chest tightened. "What?"

She furrowed her brow again, "I'm twenty-six?" Her question was hesitant, as if she'd just stepped onto a limb and had to reconsider it. He puffed out a breathe and nodded, shifting his weight on his feet. He closed his eyes and covered them with his hands, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Well," he began, "it's not a problem for me I guess, but –"

"But what?" Her voice was demanding, sharp, and she straightened across from him. He noted her eyes sparked to life, sparkled inquisitively as if she were piecing something together, digging his own for answers. She blinked a few times in waiting for him. "Owen!"

He turned form her abruptly and walked to the fridge, to busy himself. He couldn't take her eyes, couldn't say it to her face. He wasn't sure how she was going to react, and he didn't want to see her eyes when he told her he was six years her senior. He wasn't willing to do that to himself. "Owen what?" He looked up at her. He wasn't ready for this he didn't think. Her eyes were hot and her nose was a bit red. She looked angry.

She stomped over to him, abruptly kicking the fridge closed. Without warning, roughly put her hands on his chest and pushed him back across the floor, where he rammed into the wall, knocking the pictures and spices on the small shelf. Her eyes locked on his, and his brow rose in surprise, scanning her face. She was breathing hard.

"Owen," she warned, "But what?"

He sighed, letting his hands drop to either side of him. He relaxed, straightened. She was so close to him, so within proximity for another kiss...he was craving another. He swore his inside were poisoned with her. He gently put his hands on her and placed them delicately on her hips, one snaking around her waist and pulling her close. She didn't object, just moved forward slowly, her face still hard. He sighed, scanning her eyes with his own, and replied quietly, "I'm thirty-two, Marianne."

Instantly her face softened, and a small smile played in the corner of her lips, twitching until finally she couldn't stand it. She began to giggle, and she shook her head slightly, her eyes softening and shimmering blue now, like freshly crafted sapphires set in the most beautiful of arrangements. "Well, by all means, you're an old man," she teased him, winking at him. Her eyes were teasing and heat rushed up his neck.

He furrowed his brow at her, "It doesn't bother you?"

She shrugged a shoulder, "Should it? It's only six years, Owen." She arched a brow, hesitating a moment. "Does it bother you?" She stood on her tip-toes, snaking her arms around his neck, her lips inches from his own. Her head tipped to the side slightly, causing her curls to fall around her neck and shoulders. He was getting hot all over, and he began to sweat as she stared at him like that. Her eyes shifted to his lips for a moment and then back up to his own eyes. "Well?"

He swallowed, "It doesn't bug me if it doesn't bug you."

She giggled again, smiling brightly at him, "Then I guess that means it doesn't bug either of us." She wrapped her fingers around the collar of his shirt again, stepping forward, forcing him back against the wall. He complied, his arm still around her waist, the other hand on her hip. He slowly moved it down along her thigh, and she moved closer to him, his lips burning for a taste of hers, when his hand slipped down her thigh and caught something wet and warm.

"Argh!" Her tone was loud and biting, and she flailed away from him, staggering into the door. Instantly panicked, Owen looked to his hand, where a bright red, watered down stain rested on his fingers. He automatically looked to her thigh, and he hadn't noticed it before – her jeans, still dark from being wet, were darker along her thigh. She looked there as well, sighing, and slid down the fridge to the floor.

His military instincts instantly kicked in. Blood. Not good.

"What happened?" He demanded, dropping to a knee beside her. He wasted no time, rising only to fly into the living room and grab his knife which was on the bookshelf. He unsheathed it, ran back into the kitchen, and dropped beside her. He didn't hesitate it ripping her jeans along her thigh, tossing the knife to the floor, and tearing the fabric apart with his hands. She shooed his hands away, but he grabbed her wrist forcefully.

It was about six inches long and not too deep to be concerned with, but it was curved and marred with dirt, and dripping with watery blood. His brow dropped into a furrow, and he frowned at her. She sighed and began to stand. "It's nothing – "

"This isn't nothing," he grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back to the floor, "How'd this happen?" It was far too high on her leg to be an accidental wound, and a thousand different options ran into his mind. She rolled her eyes and let her head fall back onto the fridge door.

"Delta got a bit scared when I was in the observation paddock with her," she flippantly dismissed with a wave of her hand, "It's nothing – not deep, I'm fine." He shook his head and stood, pointing at her to stay where she was.

"It's going to get infected, Marianne. I'll be right back." He moved out of the kitchen, went to retrieve the appropriate supplies, and came back to find her seated on the island, tying her hair into a tighter bun and staring down at the wound. He moved in front of her and began undoing the package on the gauze wrap, then wet it with peroxide.

She watched him, "So. Does this officially mean we're something?"

He looked up at her, folding the gauze in half and then gently applying it to her wound. She didn't flinch, and he back to her, shrugging a shoulder and gave her a half smile, "I dunno, I guess. Do you want to be something?" She gave him a coy smile, "Do you want to be something?"

"I asked you first,"

She chuckled, "Well, I asked you second."

He pressed the gauze tighter around her thigh to make sure it sank deep into the open flesh. She reached beside her and began applying salve to more of it, and he nodded to her, watching her hands. He wasn't sure what was in the pit of his stomach, but it was a great feeling, and he didn't want it to leave. He couldn't imagine going back to the man who had judged this woman and had written her off because she was his assistant and was huskier. He didn't want to go back to that guy. He nodded again, and accepted the gauze from her, "Yeah, I want to be something." He swallowed thickly. "Unless you don't want to be."

She shook her head and giggled again, like a giddy schoolgirl, her nose blossoming with red which spread across her cheeks. Her eyes lit up light stars and she scanned his own, him getting lost in those pools of sapphire that reminded him of the ocean. He'd been lost at sea in the Navy, trying to find himself, and he was lost now, looking for her. It was a mess. A beautiful, beautiful mess. Her voice was soft and she reached up to place her hand along his jaw, stroking his cheek with her thumb. "No. I want to be with you. If you want to."

He laughed, stopping his movements of wrapping the gauze around her thigh. They stared at one another, for a second and he nodded. "Absolutely." She giggled again, took his face in her hands, and tipped his chin up to meet her. He rose on tip toes and gently kissed her lips, a thimble, hardly anything but was entirely something. She touched their foreheads together and giggled, staring at him playfully.

"Well, I guess that means we're something," she whispered. "Congratulations to us," he murmured back.

She laughed at him, tossing her head back. He chuckled at her, shaking his head, and finished wrapping her leg. She moved off the island to help him clean up the mess when his phone rang on the table. They both froze, and he looked to the clock on the stove. It was after midnight.

Owen sprang for the phone, Marianne not leaving her place at the island. He answered the call, turned to her, and watched her nervously play with the packaging in her hands. Her eyes were cemented on him and he inhaled a nervous breathe as the line connected, "This is Owen,"

"Owen, it's Peter," Peter's voice was quiet, but strong, and he sounded exhausted. There was movement on the vet's end, and Owen heard monitors and the whispering of nurses and staff. Then, Peter's voice began to echo, "We've finished surgery down here. I told you I'd call."

Panic flung into his stomach, taking his chest captive, "Okay. And?"

"And," he chuckled, "She did fantastic – as expected. The perforation wasn't as bad as I had anticipated, and we closed terrifically. She's still out from the anesthesia, and will have to stay overnight, but you can come see her if you want."

Marianne, already moving, was in the living room and getting her clothes. Owen was right behind her, getting his knife and vest, scanning for his keys. Marianne wrapped her hands around them on the end-table and tossed them at him as she hustled towards the door, switching off lights as she went. At hand was her wet clothes, raincoat, and a sweatshirt he'd borrowed her. He stepped through the door, kicking open the screen, only to find it had stopped raining and was cold outside. Pitch black, he saw Marianne already at the truck, her phone light blazing. "Great, Peter. We're on the way."

"Wonderful. I'll see you in a few minutes."

Owen ended the call, and tossed the phone into the truck, hoisting himself up. Marianne already had it running and the lights blazing, and was settling into her seat beside him. She scrambled into his sweatshirt and he tossed the truck into reverse, then slammed it into drive, tires spinning on the soft earth.

. . .

"You've been where?"

Claire sat up in her bed, threw her legs over the side of it, knocking her nightstand in the process. Swearing, she quickly slipped on her slippers. Lunging for the dresser, she yanked open a drawer and began frantically searching for clothes. She cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear and listened to Zach frantically relay his story of going to the raptor paddock with Owen and bringing in one of the sick animals.

Temper flaring, Claire yanked out a pair of jeans and a tank-top, "You'd better have a good explanation when I get back, Zachary Mitchell," she threatened. Her mind was in full gear now, and she hustled to the bathroom. If Owen had brought in one of the raptors, and it was indeed sick, she'd have to tell Wu and get a report filed right away. She, after all, was the operations manager and needed to know everything. Throwing the phone on speaker, she set it down roughly on the bathroom sink and began changing her clothes.

"I just told you everything –"

She shook her head, "No, I mean a real answer, Zach. Now get yourself in bed and we'll deal with this tomorrow." She abruptly hung up before he could reply, and she threw the tanktop over her head and began wriggling into it. Turning, she fled the bathroom, snatching up her phone, and hurried to the closet to grab a pair of flip flops. Once on her feet, she grabbed her purse and her badge and was out the door, ramming her foot into the table leg sitting along the foyer wall. She screamed and swore again, catching herself on the door. How dare he not call her!

She was going to kill Owen.