Lost and Found (Masters & Mercenaries: The Forgotten #2)(101)

He probably deserved it since he’d lost his memory because of her.

“Becca?” He turned to her and seemed to force his hands back to his sides.

She shook her head, backing away. “I won’t fight you, but don’t talk like that again.”

“I know I fucked up.” His voice was like gravel. “I know I made a mess of things, but you have to believe me when I tell you this was real to me. You and me, we were real.”

Of course they had been. “Do you not believe me when I say I don’t know where the information is?”

“The information is meaningless. You’re what’s important.”

“I asked you not to talk that way.” She couldn’t stand listening to those words coming from his mouth.

“Not to tell you I love you? I know I didn’t say it before, but it’s true. I love you, Becca. I’m in love with you. I don’t know what I was like before, if there was some woman I cared for. I don’t think so according to the people who knew me then. I think you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

“Stop it.” She shouted the words. The whole night seemed to crash in on her and rage suddenly made the velvety darkness of the night seem red. How dare he say those words to her? How could he lie again? He put her here. It wasn’t fair or right, but her rational mind wasn’t in charge. She’d held it in for the hours it had taken for the truth to sink in. She’d held in her rage at being used. He’d used her. He’d fucked her and called it something else. He’d promised her his kindness and given her…this. Protection and caring was what he’d promised to exchange for her submission.

He wasn’t the first. Her husband had promised her much the same and then tried to steal her work and cheated on her with a more “womanly” female. She’d always been the youngest person in her class, and there had been a couple of assholes who’d tried to take advantage of that. Even fucking Paul Huisman made her feel small because she was female. She’d heard the way he talked about her, the way he’d told everyone on her team that she was too emotional. He constantly told her to calm down.

She wasn’t sure how she made it across the gazebo, but she found herself hitting him, taking out her rage on him. Her hands were balled into fists and she was using them on Owen. She struck his chest again and again, hearing the way her flesh thudded against his. It wasn’t right, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. It was too much. She’d lost. She’d lost her mother and her childhood and her husband and her self-worth. God, it had taken her years to get that back. Now she’d lost her career. Decades of work were down the drain.

And she’d lost him. She’d lost Owen. She’d lost the future she’d thought they could have had together. She’d lost the peace he’d promised her.

He wasn’t fighting back. He took everything she had to give him without a single protestation. He stood there and let her use him like a punching bag.

God, she wasn’t this person. She wasn’t the kind of person who hit people when it wasn’t in defense of herself or others. She wasn’t violent. Her whole life had been about helping people, and all she would be known for was her part in violating the rights of her fellow men, in torturing them and stealing the most precious thing a human being could have—a memory.

A moan was heard, the low sound of an animal in pain.

It was her. Becca started to fall to the floor, her strength gone in that attack. She braced herself but didn’t even come close to hitting the hard wood. Owen lifted her up and his arms were around her, holding her tight.

“I can’t let you go. I won’t let anything hurt you, but I can’t let you go.” There was a fine tinge of panic to his voice. “You can hate me, but I can’t let you go.”

She shuddered in his arms, coming down from the adrenaline high of her rage. She was left with nothing but an aching sorrow.

Her arms finally went around him and they stood like that for what felt like hours, clinging to what briefly had seemed like a bright future.





Chapter Eighteen





Owen sat up in the godawful uncomfortable chair he’d been trying and failing to sleep in the moment he heard Becca cry out. He was on his feet in a heartbeat, staring down at her.

“You’re still here.” She groaned and sat up, pushing the covers away and then pulling them right back up because it was chilly.

It was downright cold and he didn’t have a blanket to huddle under. He didn’t have her to cuddle with.

“I told you I wouldn’t leave you. Are you all right? Was it a nightmare?”

He knew he sounded like a mother hen, but he couldn’t help it. Ever since that moment when she’d broken down utterly and he’d carried her out of the cabin, he’d known he’d likely ruined every single chance he had with her. And he’d also known he wanted that chance, all those chances. He’d known in that moment that he loved her with his whole broken and busted-up heart.

And he’d ached when she’d attacked him. Not because of her fists or her righteous anger. He understood that. He’d been oddly satisfied that she’d taken it out on him. He wanted her. All of her—her love, her body, her soul, her joy, her sorrow, and her rage. He’d stood there, willing all that anger to transfer from her to him. He would have told her he would take it all if it brought her a single moment of peace.