Author's Note: Hello, everyone! Alright, so I'm back - and I delivered this time! I'm so, so sorry it's been forever, but seriously - life is super busy-crazy-insane right now! I'm struggling to even find time to sleep much less write!

Which brings me to this - I know it isn't much, but, I haven't hinted at Owen's feelings quite yet. Hence this chapter, and I really hope it starts to curb your cravings, as I'm starting to believe are legitimate, given the emails and PM's and reviews! I promise to have something substantial when I have a few moments, which I'm not sure when.

Anyway, I'm sorry again for the brevity here, but I'm doing my best!

Let's continue, shall we?

Chapter Thirty-Three

After letting down her hair and washing her face, Marianne had went to bed with having said little to nothing to Owen, after he'd volunteered to spend the night on the couch.

It wasn't long after he'd settled onto his couch with a throw blanket that he heard Marianne's soft cries in the night, though muffled as they may have been.

He laced his fingers behind his head and sighed into the darkness, and his stomach soured. His eyes dropped closed and he felt his stomach drop into his feet – something died inside his soul, tightened his chest into a heated ball of hard stone. He thought about dinner and the look on Masrani's face; the look of utter and sheer surprise at Marianne's outburst. Owen considered the idealism Masrani, Wu, and Claire all seemed to share – and it made him want to punch the wall.

In all reality Owen had never paid much attention to the politics of the park – he hadn't really cared. He had a good paying job, a fantastic career, and a plush life; everything he needed to be the "satisfied bachelor". Owen had considered Ingen's politics when it came to Hoskins and the raptors, but never really the park's existence in general. It'd just been another place on the planet, another sink hole for tourists to sap their money into – another ego-trip for scientists.

And now, Marianne had challenged him to think about this place – and his entire worldview changed. What exactly was the goal of this place – like Masrani said, to make us aware of how small we are? Or, was it as Alan and Marianne and Malcolm all suggested – all a big chance? Was this place "safe" in the matter of the word or a matter of conscience and act? Did it exist for humility or for pride? Was it ethical by scientific standards or prideful ones? Was this place a disaster waiting to happen, a repeat of the event twenty-some years previous? Or was it to succeed? Was it even destined at all?

The questions rolled and rolled around his brain like a locomotive going full steam on tracks. Instead of once being the the confidant, cocky bachelor of the island he had been, Owen now felt the part of a theologian and a theorists, a scientific mastermind and a strategist. He rolled onto his stomach and propped his chin up on the arm of the couch, eyes focused on the dark hallway leading to his bedroom.

All thoughts of Masrani and the park and Wu and Claire dissipated like melted snow from his mind – all he could think of was her. Her blue eyes that reminded him of sapphire oceans. Her uncontrollably curly hair that was the epitome of wildy, which matched her personality. Her rounded curves in that ridiculously tight black dress. Her strong legs dangerously bare in the Camaro.

Her matted curls and muddy face at the bottom of the hill – the warm cloud of her breathe cascading his face in the chilled, icy rain. Her morals challenging every action he knew best. Her surprised and aggressive look on the rainforest floor, phone at hand, putting a stop to his smooth-talking charm. Her smile that erased any doubts he had in his mind and knocked him to his knees. Her full lips putting away and insecurities he could've possessed, her once imperfect body perfecting his libido.

Her fullness of life beginning to fill him.

Heat suddenly exploded in his belly and spread through his body, as if a capsule had been released within him. His heart began to hammer and his mouth went dry, the lower half of his body beginning to ache. He gritted his teeth, groaned, grabbed at his hair and buried his face into the arm of the couch. Heat burned at the corner of his eyes, threatening tears, and he felt his stomach sour; the remnants of dinner curdling in his belly as the flashbacks of their time together bombarded him like an overwhelming wave of regrets.

Oh God, he pulled at his hair, sweat trickling down the middle of his back even though the night was cooling in the wee hours of the morning. Owen hadn't been much of a praying man much, but he decided he'd give it a go. It wouldn't hurt anything, he surmised. Not like he had anyone else to talk to. I don't know that I can do this – I don't know that I can lose her and get over it, which is ridiculous since it's been only four weeks, but – this place won't be the same if she isn't here. He rolled over onto his back again and stared at the ceiling, draping an arm over his forehead. "What is wrong with me?"

As soon as her hand had grabbed his arm at the bottom of the hill, her eyes so explorative and vulnerable, he'd known he was a goner. It couldn't take it anymore – the curiosity, the challenge, the always wondering what she'd feel like against him, the bickering and flirting and pursuing and…frustration.

It began to piece together for him, in the darkness of his living room: he'd been so frustrated by her because he liked her. He liked the challenge the fact she danced around him as if it were game, the fact that she was always competing against him in jest. He liked her spunk and wildness, her untamable personality and unique individuality. He liked that she was different in every sense of the term – her ideals, her morals, her looks, her work, her personality.

He'd liked her from the very beginning, and he'd fooled himself into believing he hadn't.

Now it was coming full circle, and it was overwhelming him. He'd lost control of himself and his job, his entire life. It'd been snatched away from him by a woman in a sundress and sandals standing behind him in a cage of bloodthirsty, unpredictable raptors. It'd been snatched by a woman with a Camaro and who carried a knife, a woman who had a smile that could kill him inside every time and drive him to crave her lips. Yes, it was coming full circle – Owen was falling for Marianne Randal; or, he already had fallen and now was being forced to get up and watch her go.

It might as well have been open-heart surgery, he surmised. She was going to take a piece of him away with her, a piece that he wasn't exactly sure he wanted back. In the Navy distance hadn't meant anything to him – he was still Owen Grady no matter what part of the ocean he was traveling, he still had a Mother and Father and sister; he was still an uncle and still a man. He hadn't changed, only the physical location of his body had changed – he still had the same feelings and emotions. Owen tried to tell himself that it would be no different with her leaving, but it fell on fallow ground in his heart.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the couch. He put his hands on his knees and dropped his head into his palms, letting his nails dig into his scalp. He exhaled, staring at his bare feet, feeling sweat drip down his back. The house the was dark, the night quiet outside the bungalow, and he fell against the back of the couch, turning his head to look down the hallway. His heart began to hammer harder, his mouth drying and causing his throat to ache. He couldn't just sit here. And, Owen reasoned that he wouldn't.

He got up, and moved away from the couch. Down the hallway, quietly, his feet padding against the wooden floors. He ignored the pictures and artifacts hanging on the wall, the bathroom light peeking underneath the closed door, as was custom. Finally, he came to the bedroom door and stopped before it, standing a good minute before he finally got the nerve to open the door slowly and quietly.

The room was dark and silent, like the face of the ocean on a still night – so much depth and emotion but so silent. He moved through the doorway, closing the door with a soft click, and turned to face the bed against the wall. His side of the bed was filled with Marianne's frame, beneath the covers, laying on her side. He listened, and reasoned she was asleep by her rhythmic breathing and soft snore. Biting his lower lip, he inhaled a breath and moved towards her side of the bed and squatted beside her sleeping form.

Even in the darkness she was as radiant as a goddess. He reached out and graciously moved a patch of curl from across her face, letting his fingertip tenderly trace her cheek. He moved the curl over her shoulder, then wrapped it around his finger, his eyes falling over her face and down her throat, to her chest which was showing through a wrinkled tank-top retrieved from the bag she'd packed. A desire overcame him and pooled his in gut, but he refused the notion though it quaked in every possible area which mattered. Owen became fully aware of his sexual attraction to her at that moment, and he told himself he could look at her this way for a thousand years and still not have enough.

He stood up, stepped away from the bed and raked his hands through his hair. He turned from her and exhaled sharply, feeling a knot of emptiness and pain tie through his insides. His chest suddenly felt hallow and hot, almost as if it were a cavern pooling slowly with lava ready to explode. Again tears pulled at his eyes and he willed them away, and for the first time he realized he was quaking. He turned back to the bed, shed his t-shirt, and moved to the empty side.

Owen wondered as he stood at the empty side what it would feel like to sleep beside her – if it would be different than all the times before, where'd he slept next to women after getting his goods. It would be different, he told himself – because everything was different with Marianne, deeper and more real. More significant and more magnificent. He stared at the bedside for a long time, wondering if he should do it – if it would make this harder than it already was. But then he closed his eyes, remembering what it felt like holding her in his very kitchen and feeling her hands desperately roaming his body, his own discovering the plenteous curves of her, the tender and beautiful imperfections of her skin. He decided if he didn't do this it would be the biggest mistake of his life.

He slowly pulled back the covers and slid into bed expertly, the side that wasn't his own – briefly, he wondered if she'd done the very same thing with other men in her life, and upon the thought, rage and envy consumed him. Something roared within his stomach and he was surprised, but it subsided faster than it appeared. Owen rolled over on his side to face her back, which was turned to him. Sliding closer to her, the warmth of her body permeated heavily to him, and he graciously draped his arm across her hip and pulled her toward him, the other arm sliding up under his head and under her pillow to support them both.

His body came alive then, and he was fully aware of her so close to him; how perfect she fit against him. Owen had considered that she'd feel awkward against his body, her being bigger than any woman he'd ever slept with before. He instantly regretted the thought, as her against him felt so right, so natural, so…beautiful. A thought briefly crossed his mind about what she looked like naked, but he closed his eyes when the world began to swim with fanciful pleasure.

Easy, Owen, he told himself, the fantastic smell of lavender and hairspray filling his senses as he breathed her scent in, too fast. One step at a time. She said she didn't want that. And what she wanted mattered, at least to him. As much as he was aware of himself, he didn't matter.

She mattered.

. . .

Marianne had become aware of Owen as soon as he'd stepped into the room. It had flooded with his presence; his masculinity and domineering fortitude. It was as if it were alive and seizing territory it was so strong.

Her heart and hitched in her throat and sent spikes of desire and sorrow piercing through every fiber of her very being when he'd touched her face. His warm breath cascading her face reminded her of nectar, his gentle touch a breeze on a beautiful summer day. It sent a pleasure pooling into her stomach, and she was eminently aware of herself when he'd stepped away.

And then, he'd dared to slip into bed with her. Instantly every part of her screamed in fearful delight. Pictures she'd never dreamt of began forming in her mind, pictures that she found desirable but also terrifying. Then, he'd draped a hand over her hip and the world had collapsed inside her brain – every part of her began breaking down, but strangely he made no movement that would suggest he knew what was going through her. Tears began sliding down her cheeks and staining the pillow, pinning her curls to her face. As she fit against him, she wondered if beautiful had a feeling.

Within mere moments his heavy, rhythmic breathing overtook her senses, and she quietly wept herself to sleep.