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Justin stood in the sun, focusing on its warmth on his skin. The lab had always been so cold, and the metal table and instruments colder. The lights were a bleak fluorescent white. But he wasn’t underground anymore. The sunlight proved it. If he just stayed in it long enough, maybe all of him would believe it.

Fiona put her arm around him. He leaned into her, thinking all the while that he shouldn’t even do so much. She deserved a man who was undamaged, whole.

He didn’t want to talk about what had happened. But no one was around to overhear, and she needed an explanation. “They called it an experiment. They strapped me to a table and put a cloth over my face, and Dr. Mortenson poured water over it until I—”

“I know what that’s called,” Fiona snarled, sounding remarkably like his snow leopard. “And it’s not an ‘experiment.’ It’s torture.”

“She did it once when I wasn’t invincible. Then when I was, to see if it I could hold out longer before I passed out. No idea what the results were, if there even were any beyond her getting her sadistic kicks and me getting permanently fucked up.”

Her fist clenched against his belly. “You are not permanently fucked up, all right? Fucked up would be if you’d run out of there and then refused to tell me what was going on.”

“You’re my partner. I can’t do stuff that affects you and not even tell you why.”

Oh? hissed his snow leopard. Did I miss you telling her why you really use your power? Or how you got captured in the first place? Or—

Justin spoke loudly, to drown out anything his leopard might say. “Let’s walk around, okay? Do some touristy stuff. Take my mind off things.”

She curled her hand around his, which took his mind off things all by itself. “I vote for the Bridge of Sighs.”

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The week that followed was the most frustrating yet exhilarating, excruciating yet wonderful time of his life.

They were pretending to be tourists, so they did all the things that tourists did: fed the wheeling flocks of pigeons in St. Mark’s Square, went on moonlit gondola rides, explored twisting alleys, photographed beautiful old churches, and had pasta and pizza, gelato and pastries, and a tongue-twisting array of fancy coffee drinks. Fiona was the best possible traveling companion, even when they had to talk in code because he was pretending to be a car wash manager and she was pretending to be a high school history teacher.

And, of course, they were also pretending to be a couple. That was where the excruciating part came in. They’d hold hands, link arms, and stand so close that he could smell the light perfume of her hair. But they never kissed, even when it would have made their performance more convincing. He assumed Fiona never tried for the same reason he didn’t, which was that if they did, they’d either end up having sex up against the wall in some dark alley, or they’d have to throw themselves into the nearest canal to prevent themselves.

And, of course, every night she stubbornly went to sleep in the bathtub, and he on the bedroom floor, no matter how much he coaxed her to just take the damn bed. She wouldn’t even agree to let him take the bathtub. Every morning, he woke up stiff and tired, and he could see that Fiona did too. By the second morning they’d gotten into a routine of stretching out together before they went for their morning coffee and pastries.

The pastries were purchased, of course. But as he’d promised, Justin did cook for her. He couldn’t do anything fancy with just a hot plate, but on the other hand he had access to fresh-caught seafood, beautiful fruits and vegetables, and an amazing array of cheese, not to mention pasta with names Fiona translated as “little moustaches” or “clown hats” or “priest stranglers.” When in Italy, cook Italian, he figured. So he sautéed little pink shrimp with oil and garlic, draped prosciutto over slices of ripe melon, and layered mozzarella with dripping slices of ripe tomatoes. 

He hadn’t cooked from scratch in years. But it came back to him as if he’d never stopped. And while he’d always liked cooking, he’d never enjoyed it more than when Fiona leaned on the counter, intently watching him chop and stir, then ate his food with expressions that started at blissful and ranged into the positively orgasmic. Sometimes he had to dig his nails into his thigh under the table to stop himself from impulsively leaning across the table and kissing her.

She said no, he’d remind himself, only belatedly remembering that he’d said no too. But his reasons for that, which had seemed so compelling at the time, felt increasingly hazy as the days went on. They came back to him at night, though, when he lay sleepless on the bedroom floor. Even when he didn’t have nightmares, he didn’t sleep well, waking suddenly every few hours with a sense of foreboding or else lying awake with a hard-on he couldn’t do anything about due to Fiona being in the next room.

But the worst was when he woke from a dream of Apex, sweating and disoriented, his heart pounding and his leopard screaming in his head. Every time, he’d strain to hear Fiona’s soft, even breathing from the bathroom. It was both reassuring and maddening to have her so close yet so far away. He’d lie there biting his tongue to stop himself from calling to her to come and hold him, to prove to him with the warm touch of her body that he’d really escaped and was never going back. She was right there... 

Still. Even when he felt like he was going to lose his mind from sexual frustration or just sheer longing, it was wonderful to be with her. Even discomfort and pain were feelings. After years of drifting through the world like a ghost, Justin finally felt alive.

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Two days before Carnival, they set out to explore a part of Venice they hadn’t been to yet. It was in an area that wasn’t much frequented by tourists, or even by locals. As they went further on their way, they saw fewer and fewer people. They stopped in a quiet art gallery, then an old church with beautiful stained glass windows. It was very peaceful.

They crossed a bridge over a canal, then went into a walled garden. It was completely empty, except for some birds. They walked past a set of rose beds, then into a clearing surrounded by tall hedges, with a marble fountain in the middle. Fiona went to examine some carvings on the fountain.

“Freeze!” The voice came from behind him.

At the same instant, another man stepped out in front of him from a break in the hedges, with a gun drawn.

“I have a gun aimed right at your pretty girlfriend’s head,” said the man behind him. “Make one false move, and that’s it for her. Now put up your hands. Both of you.”

They raised their hands. Fiona’s were trembling. A mixture of hot fury and cold fear made Justin’s stomach lurch. He could hear that the man behind him wasn’t close enough for him to whip around and disarm him before he shot her. He couldn’t shift and then turn fast enough, either.

Then a familiar calmness washed over him. Despite the bad positioning, they were only two men. He could handle this. What’s more, he and Fiona could handle this. He’d seen her under fire before. If her hands were shaking, it was because she was making them shake.

“Your pretty girlfriend,” Justin thought. He thinks I’m the only threat.

He and Fiona could use that to their advantage. He glanced at her.

Right on cue, she cowered and said in a high, terrified voice, “Please don’t hurt me! Here, take my wallet!”

She started to reach into her purse, but the man behind her yelled, “Freeze! One move, and you’re dead!”

Fiona yanked back her hand and burst into tears. She was not only noisily sobbing, but real tears ran down her face. Justin was impressed. He couldn’t have done that in a million years. His confidence grew. Sure, having a gunman behind him made the situation much more difficult, but—

A third man stepped out in front of them, also with a gun aimed at them. Justin had never seen the first one and hadn’t recognized the voice of the man behind him, but this one he knew.

“McConnell,” Justin said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

McConnell didn’t rise to the bait. Coldly, he said, “Make your girlfriend shut up.”

“Anne,” Justin said. “Annie, baby. Please stop crying. It’s okay. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Fiona went on sobbing.

“Shut up, or I’ll blow your head off,” McConnell said.

She gulped loudly, sniffed hard, then pressed her hands over her mouth. Her sobs subsided, though her tears continued to flow.

How the hell does she do that? Justin wondered. Even in this dangerous situation, he was warmed by his pride in her. She could build robot dogs and blow up Apex bases and cry on cue. When they got out of this mess and back to somewhere with an oven, he was going to bake her all the cakes in the world.

“Who is he, Andy?” she asked in a shaky voice. “You—You know him?”

“Tell your pretty girlfriend,” McConnell sneered.

“They’re terrorists,” Justin said. “Homegrown variety. White supremacists.”

“We’re freedom fighters,” McConnell spat out. “Protecting our homeland.”

“I don’t understand,” Fiona said, sniffling. “Andy, what do you have to do with terrorists?”

McConnell gave a short, humorless laugh. “Your boyfriend’s not who you think. He used to be a government agent. Black ops. An assassin.”

“What?” Fiona squeaked. Her voice rose, no doubt hoping to attract attention, as she said, “An assassin!”

“Shut up. One more word out of your pretty mouth—one single exclamation—and it’ll be the last one you ever say,” said McConnell.

Justin was only surprised he’d let her get away with being that loud for as long as he had. McConnell’s gun had a silencer, as did the gun held by his buddy. For that matter, so did Justin’s and Fiona’s.

“Go on,” McConnell said. “Tell that precious lady of yours why I’m here.”

“Like I said.” Justin put a sarcastic edge in his voice. He didn’t know much about McConnell, but in his experience, terrorists never took well to being mocked. “They’re terrorists. This asshole’s father was their leader. He was planning to blow up a couple buildings to make a point, and who cares how many people were in them? The agency I worked for sent me to kill him, so I did. They figured once the leader was gone, the rest of them would scatter like the roaches they are. Looks like they were half right. I mean about them being roaches.”

“Shut up,” snarled McConnell.

“You’re the one who told me to talk,” Justin said with a shrug. “Did you shoot at me in New York?”

McConnell took a step closer to Justin. “Yes, I did.”

“Your aim is for shit,” Justin sneered. “Or did you get one of the losers here to do the actual shooting?” 

He hoped that if he pissed off the man behind him, he’d move his gun off Fiona and on to him. They knew Justin couldn’t see where that gun was pointed, so it didn’t actually need to be aimed at her. Just the threat would be enough.

“I’m glad we missed in New York,” McConnell snarled. “A bullet in the head is too good for you. I want to see you beg for a quick death.”

Justin laughed. “From you? You don’t scare me. You couldn’t scare a little girl. I bet you hit like one, too.”

McConnell went red with fury. He stepped in, still holding his gun on Justin, and raised his fist.

“Now!” Justin shouted.

In the blink of an eye, Fiona was gone. A snow leopard leaped for the man beside McConnell, sending his gun flying. At the same instant, Justin snatched McConnell’s gun out of his hand and shot him. Before he’d even fallen, Justin whipped around to take out the man behind him.

But there wasn’t one man behind him. There were two.

Justin fired, and saw one man hit the ground. But the other was standing farther away, and ducked behind a tree just as Justin fired again. The bullet smashed into the trunk, sending splinters flying and leaving the last enemy unharmed.

Justin dropped and rolled. He heard the soft pop of a silenced gun, and a bullet sent up a spray of dirt two inches from his cheek. He rolled again. But unlike his enemy, he had no cover. If he shifted, he’d just present a bigger target.

A snow leopard leaped down from the branches of a nearby tree. There was another soft pop in the split second before the big cat landed on the enemy. 

Justin scrambled to his feet and ran to help her. But it was already over. The last terrorist lay dead with a broken neck. Fiona’s leopard crouched over him, snarling.

Relief flooded him. She was all right. The battle was over, and—

The big cat stepped away from her prey. She’d leaped with deadly grace, but now she was oddly clumsy. When she turned toward him, he saw a rapidly widening patch of red staining her white fur at the shoulder.

Justin’s heart almost stopped. Then his years of combat experience kicked in. He snatched a pressure bandage from his jacket pocket. Keeping his voice calm, he said, “Fiona, you can shift back now.”

The snow leopard took a step forward instead. When her left paw touched the ground, she drew it back and hissed. A stream of blood flowed from her paw and began to pool on the ground.

Cold fear crept down his spine. She was bleeding badly, his pressure bandage wouldn’t stick on fur, and even with silencers, someone had to have heard suspicious noises and called the police. They had to get out of there, and fast.

“The fight’s over, Fiona. You don’t need to be a leopard any more. Shift.”

She let out an eerie, high-pitched keen. If anyone had managed to miss the yelling and the pop of gunfire, that would catch their attention for sure. And why wasn’t she shifting? Something was very wrong.

Any idea what’s going on? Justin asked his own snow leopard.

His inner cat gave a confused growl, then said, She sounded frightened.

Justin had figured that part out already. But was she unable to shift because she was afraid, or was she afraid because she couldn’t shift?

His own leopard was no help. But Justin’s ten years as a PJ had given him a lot of experience with tending to wounded people in dangerous situations. He’d treated panicked civilians and uncooperative soldiers who didn’t want to leave the field while their buddies were still fighting.

In a soothing tone, he said, “You’re bleeding a lot. I need to stop it. I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder, all right? It’s going to hurt, but I have to do it.”

Moving slowly so she could see what he was doing, he reached out and pressed hard on her shoulder, stopping the bleeding. The leopard hissed in pain, but let him do it.

Lick her wound and make it better, hissed his own snow leopard.

Good idea, Justin replied. Well. Sort of.

With his free hand, he stroked the soft fur of her head. If she was unable to shift because she was in too much pain to focus, she should be able to once he got her to relax. If it was because there was some chemical on the bullet that was preventing her, they were both screwed. And he couldn’t even begin to think of how to explain any of this to the police—especially since the only person who could speak Italian was currently a snow leopard.

But rushing her was only likely to make things worse. So he leaned his head against hers and spoke softly into her ear, keeping his voice and body as relaxed as if they had all the time in the world. “I’m here with you. I’ll take care of you. Once you shift back, I’ll carry you out and give you painkillers and tea. Or chicken soup, if you’d rather. If you want, I’ll even do my best to bake you cupcakes on the hot plate. You can lie in bed and watch and laugh at me. Film it on your phone and put it on YouTube. I bet it’d get a million hits.”

Justin nearly lost his balance as the snow leopard vanished and Fiona appeared in its place, naked and trembling, the blood very bright against her pale skin.

He quickly applied the pressure bandage to the gunshot wound in her shoulder, then checked her pulse and breathing. To his relief, both were within normal ranges. He ripped the shirt off the nearest terrorist and used it to wipe the blood off her and him. Then he started to pull his own shirt off, figuring she’d rather wear his clothes than a white supremacist’s.

“I have a dress in my purse,” she said. Her voice was shaky but clear.

“Okay, great.” He opened it and unrolled the dress, then helped her into it. It was black and loose, with long sleeves and a zipper all the way down the back—perfect for hiding bandages and bloodstains, and easy to get on even with one arm out of commission. Which was undoubtedly why she’d picked it, in addition to being thin enough to roll up and cram into a purse.

“My shoes,” Fiona said. “Put one of them on me, and the other in my purse. Anyone who sees me being carried with one shoe off will think I twisted my ankle.”

“Good plan.”

Justin buckled on one shoe, stuffed the other in her purse along with the shredded remains of her dress, and wiped his fingerprints off McConnell’s gun. With any luck the police would assume the terrorists had attacked each other. Then he gently lifted her and carried her out of the garden as fast as he could while still looking more-or-less casual.

His heart pounded as he emerged from the garden, but the narrow alley was empty. He retraced their path along the canals and across the bridges. Fiona lay silent in his arms. He could feel how much pain she was in from the tension in her body and her audible attempts to control her breathing. But he didn’t have to imagine it from signs: he knew what getting shot felt like.

Justin felt a phantom ache in his own scar. The bullet she’d taken saving him had gone through her left shoulder. A few inches lower, and it would have struck her heart. And then no amount of first aid or shifter healing would have done any good. Her courage and wit, her beautiful eyes and soft lips, the heat of her body and the kindness of her heart: all of it would have been gone forever.

The thought of it hit him like a punch in the gut. For all that he’d tried to keep his distance, both literally and emotionally, he’d failed to do so in the most important way. He’d let his soul get intertwined with hers. Losing her would be like having his own heart cut out.

I see, purred his snow leopard, smug as could be. You have a soul now. You have a heart.

Justin remembered all the furious silent arguments he’d had with his inner cat, insisting that Apex had destroyed his heart and soul. I’m nothing but an empty shell, he’d said. I’m just a machine that breathes.

His snow leopard—the voice of his own hope—had forced him to keep going when he’d wanted to give up. But it had been Fiona who’d shown him that he was capable of more than just survival. She’d trusted him, and so he’d learned to trust again. She’d offered him beauty and sweetness, laughter and touch: everything that made life not merely worth living, but a wonderful and precious gift. Like Dorothy blown into Oz, he’d been transported from a bleak gray world to one of dazzling color. And Fiona was the one who’d taken his hand and led him there.

Most of all, she’d taught him to love again.

Love. The word had come so naturally to his mind. And looking down at the woman in his arms, he could no longer deny it. He loved her. He would always love her.

“If we were different people with different lives, we’d get together and it would be great,” she’d said. “But we’re the people we are, with the lives we have. And it’s not happening.”

If he couldn’t be her lover, he’d be her partner, her protector, her knight in battered armor. She’d given him his heart back. If being together yet apart broke it anew every day of his life, it would still be worth the price.