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Walter's forehead pressed against the glass door of medlab as he peered in at Nikita. It had been nearly three weeks and still there was no noticeable change in Nikita's condition. It was already well past the grace period Section allowed injured operatives. Any day now-any moment, in fact, could come the order to terminate her life. The fact that Nikita had lasted this long was due more to the weapons lab needing her for study, than for any sense of mercy on the part of the Section. That and the fact that one person physically stood in the way of Nikita's termination-Michael.
* * *
Madeline sipped her morning chocolate sitting across the table from Operations.
"So, what's the latest on Nikita's condition?"
Madeline swallowed her chocolate before setting the delicate china cup on the table with a faint clink.
"I'm afraid, there has been little change. Whatever it was that David French injected her with, so far the lab has been unable to isolate it."
"Is there any prognosis? How long are we going to pursue this?" Operations inquired with irritation.
Madeline took a deep and thoughtful breath. "We could terminate Nikita now, but I think that would be a mistake for two reasons. First, we need to isolate the drug or chemical that caused her condition. If, as we suspect, David French has taken over his mother's empire, the drug he used could be a formidable chemical weapon-one we need to find an antidote to."
"And secondly?" Operations coaxed with some impatience.
"Secondly, there's Michael."
"I'm not interested in Michael's feelings on this and you know it!"
"But you should be. If his numbers fall, so do ours, and at the moment Michael is barely functioning."
"It's not a major problem at the moment-Davenport can handle the load."
"Davenport is competent to lead as long as we don't have a major crisis on our hands. It's quiet for the moment. It can't last and you know it."
"Then what do you suggest? We aren't running a nursing home!"
"It's possible that Nikita will not recover. If so, I think it wise to allow Michael time to be with her, to learn to cope with the loss gradually. If you let "nature take its course", her demise will be easier for Michael to accept. Cancellation will only create more problems. Michael will not handle it and we'll be forced to terminate him as well. You know we can't afford that, especially now that you have a chance to move into George's shoes."
"All right. Give Michael time with Nikita-but the moment we need him activated, he goes!"
"Agreed. Then we keep Nikita alive as a test subject?"
Operations sipped his coffee, blotted his mouth on a linen napkin that he carelessly folded and tossed on his empty plate. "She lives until the lab has no further use for her-Michael or no Michael."
Madeline nodded once in acquiescence.
* * *
Walter approached the man seated next to Nikita's bedside. It was a quarter after midnight and Walter found he couldn't sleep.
"How she do'in?" Walter inquired gently.
Michael turned his grave expression upon the older man; it was a wordless but eloquent answer. Nikita was the same as she had been the day before, and the day before that-in a perpetual dream state from which no one could wake her. It was as if she were living in her own private world, carrying on conversations with invisible people-often with eyes wide open. More than once, Walter had been fooled into believing she had come out of it; each time his elated hopes were dashed.
"Did you get anything to eat?" Walter changed his focus to Michael's health.
Michael shook his head. He held one of Nikita's hands in his own, stroking it absently with his fingers.
"I'm on my way out to grab a bite. Can I bring you anything?"
"No. Thank you." Michael said with inherent politeness.
"I think she's improving," Walter said, hoping to lift Michael's spirits. "She stopped crying yesterday afternoon when I said "white rabbit". Madeline says there's hope she might eventually respond to the code word once all of the drugs clear her system. Maybe she's right."
Michael nodded, but didn't look convinced.
"It's not your fault, Michael." Walter lectured gently.
Michael closed his eyes, his head shaking in disagreement. "I should have pulled her out when I had the chance. Instead I sent her back."
"Yeah, like you really had a choice-"
"I had a choice. I chose Section." Michael said bitterly.
"Nikita understood that."
"No." Michael said softly. "No, she didn't."
* * *
He was dead, yet he haunted her.
Nikita opened her eyes and saw Michael standing at a window, bathed in the melancholy light of a cold, rainy morning. She held her breath, both grateful and amazed at seeing him, though part of her had trouble believing it. Michael was dead-she'd seen him die, had in fact, killed him with her own two hands. Tears welled up at the memory.
"Oh, Michael. I'm sorry." Her mouth allowed the words to escape and Michael turned abruptly in response to them.
"Ni-ki-ta?"
Michael leaned over her bed, and touched her face. His eyes devoured her, searching for any sign of recognition. There was eye contact between them, bringing hope to one and despair to the other.
Nikita dropped her eyes as tears spilled over. This wasn't real, she told herself. It couldn't be. Michael was dead.
But his lips were warm, as were the hands that cradled her face.
"Nikita, come back to me," Michael whispered against her mouth.
Lifting her eyes, Nikita looked uncertain.
"Michael?"
"Yes?"
"You're alive?" She asked with dawning hope.
He smiled faintly at her. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"But I shot you . . . rather I shot Chris and . . ." She frowned, trying to take it all in.
"Chris? Who's that?"
"Uh, my team leader. I think he killed Operations . . . I thought he was you."
"Operations isn't dead."
"But Mr. Jones said he was shot and killed," Nikita insisted.
"Who's Mr. Jones?"
Nikita looked at Michael and frowned. "Mr. Jones-the head of the Agency."
Michael sat on the edge of Nikita's bed and took her hand. "What is the last thing you remember?"
"I was on a mission in Madrid when Mr. Jones ordered me to meet him at a restaurant-or rather Operations tricked me into going to meet Jones. It was a set up. Operations tried to assassinate Mr. Jones, but failed. I fired at the shooter, or who I thought was the shooter and ended up killing Chris-who I thought was you. Chris evidently shot Operations . . . "
Michael touched her lip with his forefinger. "Nikita, it was all a dream. You've been unconscious and delirious for nearly three weeks."
"What?" She asked, incredulously.
"Do you remember David French?"
"David French-yes, at the mental hospital-the mission to get the location of his mother and the bio-weapon."
"Do you remember how that mission ended?"
Nikita frowned. She vaguely remembered David French standing over her, grinning.
"Do you know what happened?" Michael continued.
Nikita gave out a little grunt of annoyance and put her hand to her head. She couldn't remember past seeing David leaning over her. Slowly, she shook her head.
"Were we successful?" She asked.
"Partially. We acquired the material, but David French escaped and has gone underground, presumably to take the reins of his mother's company."
"I don't understand . . ." Nikita said still confused.
"Before David left you, he injected you with an unknown substance. Section's been trying to figure out exactly what it was, but the effects caused you to lapse into a coma."
"That's impossible! I've . . we . . . " She looked around the room and swallowed with difficulty. "Where are we?"
Noticing Nikita was thirsty, Michael poured a glass of water out of a pitcher on a nightstand and held it out to her. As she took a sip he explained, "We're at a safe-house. Madeline arranged it, as a favor to me."
Nikita choked on the water, "M-Madeline? She's dead!"
Michael took the water glass from her with one hand, and stroked a lock of blonde hair off Nikita's forehead with the other.
"Operations and Madeline are both alive and well."
"But everything that happened, it was so real . . . " Nikita insisted, with agitation.
Michael sat the water glass on the nightstand. "Tell me what you think happened. What was the first thing you remember after David French?"
The first thing that came to mind gave Nikita pause. It was the mission where she had dallied with Red Cell at the behest of Mr. Jones, and where she had drugged Michael and delivered him to Red Cell for torture. She cringed at the memory, but was it in fact a memory? If, as Michael said, she had been unconscious for the past three weeks, and had done nothing since the mission to hunt down Krystal French and her son David, then none of her so-called memories were valid. Did she want to tell Michael that she had dreamed of betraying him to torture, and then later placed him into abeyance and abandoned him to his fate? Even when she was living the "dream", it had been a nightmare.
Her thoughts were interrupted when a woman in a white coat entered the room. Michael stepped aside as she came near, and commented, "Nikita's awake."
The woman frowned and inquired, "You're sure she's conscious?"
Nikita gave a weak, but amused snort of indignation. "I'm talking-so I'm sure I'm conscious."
"Does she respond to questions?" The woman asked Michael, effectively ignoring Nikita. "She's carried on elaborate conversations in the past few weeks. Are you sure she's lucid?"
"Michael, who is she?" Nikita asked with annoyance.
"This is Dr. West."
Dr. West suddenly smiled. "Well, perhaps we are making progress, after all. Can you tell me your name?"
"Nikita," Nikita tried hard not to roll her eyes. "Can I get all these tubes removed?" She asked, lifting her arm with an IV line still attached. A feeding tube and catheter were also bothersome.
"If you can promise me you'll eat something, sure." West said, taking Nikita's pulse.
Michael took that as his cue to leave for a while. "I'll come back later," he said softly, lifting Nikita's unencumbered hand and kissing it.
"You won't go far, will you?" Nikita asked with sudden, childlike vulnerability. In all of her confusion, her only anchor was Michael's presence.
"I'll be right outside," he assured her.
* * *
So, what was real and what was not? Nikita tried desperately to sort out fact from fiction. Was there in truth no Mr. Jones? She wondered if Michael could locate Mick and bring him in for her to question-but that would involve telling Michael that she thought Mick was the head of the Agency. The more she thought about it, the more ridiculous it sounded. Mick? George's boss? She smiled at how silly that sounded, and yet, she still had clear memories of meetings with Mr. Jones.
And was George still alive? Michael had already assured her that Madeline and Operations were still around. Was George's demise also a dream?
Nikita sighed. If it was all a dream, then she and Michael had never escaped from Section-never spent those days together on the boat-all those sweet memories were simply wishful thinking. Then again, it meant that her betrayal of Michael had never happened either. For that, she was grateful, but it was all so confusing.
"Hey Sugar," Walter's voice interrupted.
Nikita looked towards the door.
"Walter!" She smiled at another familiar face.
Walter gave her a relieved grin and kissed her forehead, before seating himself in a chair at her bedside.
"You've had us pretty worried."
She returned a lopsided grin, "Sure has been strange, if nothing else. I've had such vivid dreams, Walter. It's like coming back from an alternate universe or something."
"Hmmm. We still haven't been able to chemically identify what you were given and we have no idea how it works, much less why you were given it."
"You're still in Section, then?" She asked.
He cocked his head at her. "Where else would I be, Sugar?"
"In my dream, you were sent to the Farm to teach new recruits."
Walter folded his arms and leaned forward, thoughtfully. "Maybe it would help things, if you told me all about your dream, Sugar."
Nikita's face flushed pink with discomfort. "It . . . it wasn't a pleasant dream, Walter. I did things I'm not proud of."
He chuckled. "Sugar, you didn't do anything. None of it ever happened."
"But it was so real, Walter! So detailed! It's hard believing it never happened."
"Then, tell me what you think happened. I'm not asking to be nosy-it might be important in finding out about what you were given. We need to know how the drug works, then maybe we can find a way to counter it."
Nikita nodded. "It's a long dream, Walter. Parts of it go back three years."
"I'm all ears."
"Three years ago, when I was away from Section for those six months, I was contacted by a man from the Agency, representing Mr. Jones."
"Mr. Jones?"
Nikita rolled her head on her pillow and grinned with embarrassment. "This is going to sound crazy, but Mr. Jones is the head of the Agency and he was . . . is, actually uhmm, Mick Schtoppel."
Walter laughed so hard he started coughing. "O-okay! So, then what?"
"Well, I was drafted by the Agency to go on a deep cover assignment in Section One."
"And your mission was?"
"To keep Mr. Jones abreast of what was going on in Section One. He wasn't happy with the corruption . . . " Nikita hesitated to continue. If Operations and Madeline were still alive, they might be listening in. She glanced around nervously.
Walter seemed to sense her reticence on the subject.
"It's okay. Nobody's listening-Michael and I made sure of that."
Nikita looked greatly relieved. "Well, my assignment was to report to Jones everything that I considered an abuse of authority, or a misuse of Section power. He was most concerned about the war going on between George and Operations."
Walter nodded, "Well, that at least, sounds reasonable. So spying on Operations for this Mr. Jones was your dream job? Doesn't sound so bad."
"It gets worse, rather it was worse . . . I was required to set up you, Operations, Madeline and Michael for a test."
"What kind of test?"
"A loyalty test. Jones wanted to see how everyone would respond." Nikita continued uncomfortably.
"Okay. Then what happened?"
Nikita embarked on a long narrative of how she supposedly defected to Red Cell, her escape with Michael, their capture and the subsequent purging of Section One. She wept when she explained her betrayal of Michael.
Walter patted her hand, "Sugar, remember it never happened."
"But Walter I still feel so ashamed!"
"Hey, you saved Michael's life in the end. You let him go, remember? Even in your dreams, you covered for him."
"But that wasn't the end of it. He had surgery like I had done and returned to Section as another operative, named Chris. I didn't realize it until I killed him." She started to cry harder remembering the moment where she had realized what she had done."
"Sugar, Michael isn't dead. Neither is Madeline, or Operations or George. You don't have anything to feel guilty about. You never betrayed anyone."
"B-but it's so real Walter! I lived it!"
"No doll, you didn't." He reached into his pocket and handed her a handkerchief. "Blow your pretty nose."
Nikita did so then tried to smile. "I'm sorry, Walter."
He chuckled. "Look, you have nothing to be sorry for. We'll find out what they shot you with and things will be just fine. You just rest up and get well. Operations is chafing at the bit to get Michael and you both back to work"
"Why is Michael a problem?" Nikita asked.
"Well, Michael has been pretty upset about what happened to you, especially when he had to abort your extraction. He blames himself. He hasn't been . . . well, he's pretty much refused to leave your side for the past three weeks. Ops has been mad enough to have him cancelled over it, but I think Madeline has talked some sense into Operations. With George talking retirement, and Operations wanting his slot, Madeline doesn't want any boats rocked-and you know how much Section stats rely on Michael being at the top of his game."
"God. Michael's in danger?"
"He was, but now that you're going to be okay, Michael will be fine. The man really loves you, Sugar." Walter took Nikita's hand and kissed it. "Now get some rest. I'll send Michael in after you get some sleep."
* * *
Nikita awoke to romantic music, someone gently caressing her hair and a candle lit room.
"Hallo," Michael said, his soft accent sounding more pronounced. He was smiling faintly and his eyes adored her.
"Hi," Nikita replied, sleepily returning his smile.
"Are you hungry?"
"Hmm, a little. But what I'd like more than food, is a hot bath and a shampoo."
His smile widened. "I think I can help you with that. Put your arms around my neck."
Nikita did so and was lifted into Michael's arms, carried across the room and into a bathroom. The bathtub was rather opulent by Section standards, huge with wide marble ledges. The tub was filled nearly to the brim with bubbles and sat in front of a circular window, which was at least a meter in diameter. It was dark outside and raining.
Nikita noticed the only lighting in the room came from a multitude of candles and grinned at him; she always suspected Michael had a romantic streak a mile wide.
"It's beautiful."
"You're beautiful," was his return comment. "Do you need help?" He carefully stood her on her feet.
"I think I've got it." She reached down and pulled her short gown over her head, but the action made her dizzy and she swayed into his arms.
"Whoa, maybe not," she said, grabbing onto him.
"I've got you," he said, picking her up again. He sat her on the edge of the tub.
"See if it's too hot," he recommended.
Nikita ran one hand across the top of the water, scooping bubbles as she went and pronounced it perfect. Michael then carefully placed her into the water.
God, that feels good," Nikita said, with a sigh. "I feel so sore just from laying around."
Michael didn't comment. Instead he leaned over, picked up a large metal pitcher and carefully wet Nikita's hair in preparation to wash it. When he had it all lathered up, she closed her eyes and sighed again.
"Feels wonderful, Michael." She kissed the air at him and smiled happily.
Bathed, rinsed and enfolded into warm towels, Michael left Nikita alone to take care of a few more personal needs, then returned with a gown and robe.
"It's cold outside," he said, helping her to dress. "Might even snow tonight."
"Snow? In October?"
"Snow, in November," he corrected quietly.
"Oh, yeah. I forgot."
Michael scooped her up and carried her into the bedroom, but did not stop there. Instead, he carried her down the hall and into the living room.
Nikita was stunned. There sat her glass-brick fireplace!
"Michael! I've been here before. In my dream, this was my house!"
He sat her on the white-leather couch in front of the roaring fire.
"Perhaps you remember it from when we first brought you here." Michael said, carefully covering her with a white afghan.
"But I remember sitting here . . . it was so real!" She said with some amazement.
"Did you remember the bathroom?" He asked kneeling at her side.
"Well, no."
"That's because, until tonight, you've never been in that room before." He explained. "Sit here, and I'll bring supper."
He left her to ponder the mystery. If she had lived here, surely she wouldn't have forgotten such a gorgeous bathroom! Strangely, the only memories she had of her house were of the living room and faint ones of the bedroom. More and more she was becoming convinced that she had been dreaming after all.
"It had to have been a dream. It's the only thing that fits all the facts," Nikita said as she played with the stem of her wine glass. "But, it was the most vivid, detailed dream I've ever had. Even knowing the facts, and seeing the evidence, it's hard to separate what happened from what did not."
She paused and looked over at Michael. "What happens now?"
"You get well. In a week, if you're ready, we'll put you back into a training program." He kissed her cheek, but his expression was suddenly sad.
"Will you be doing the training?" Nikita asked, fearing another situation like she had with Jurgen.
"It's still being discussed." Michael dropped his eyes then took a sip from his wine. That wasn't quite the truth; as far as Madeline was concerned once Nikita was out of danger, Michael would be required to relinquish control of his "material" and return to his duties. That had been the "deal" he'd struck with her. But now Michael had other ideas. After three weeks of terror, thinking any moment he might lose her forever, to give her up now was impossible.
"I don't think I like the sound of that." Nikita replied dryly.
"Tired?" Michael asked, trying to shift to a less upsetting subject. His fingers played with strands of her hair, tucking them casually behind her ear.
"You'd think after three weeks asleep I'd be completely rested . . . but yeah, I'm tired." She wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled coyly. "Take me to bed?"
Michael kissed her tenderly and scooped her up into his arms.
If Nikita expected to do more than sleep, she was quickly disappointed. Michael put her in bed and carefully covered her.
"Get some rest," he said kissing her forehead.
"Wait, Michael!" Nikita grabbed his wrist.
"Yes?"
"Where are you going?"
"Just across the hall. You need to rest."
"I can rest just fine with you lying next to me." She assured him.
Smiling, he teased: "Yes, but can I?" His fingers laced with hers.
"Stay? Just until I get to sleep? Keep me warm? Please?"
Michael had no heart to go, though he told himself he should. Instead they lay together in the darkness, arms and legs and hearts entwined. It was no more than that, but it was enough. For the first time in weeks, Michael slept peacefully.
But Nikita did not . . .
* * *
"Nikita!" Jones pulled at her from behind, but she struggled against him, trying desperately to pull Chris's body into her arms.
She ran her hands along the contours of Chris's cold flesh and felt the slide of the wafer-thin plastic implants beneath the skin that gave definition to his nose and jaw-line. There was no question. Michael was dead and she had been the one to kill him. Her body curled around his in abject grief.
"Nikita, what's wrong?" Jones asked, kneeling on the floor at her side.
The word 'Michael' escaped her lips in a keening wail.
Jones nodded at the two operatives standing near. "Take him." He ordered.
The two holstered their weapons and bent to pry the body out of Nikita's arms.
"No! Don't touch him!" She cried, fighting them.
Jones grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms at her sides. "Do it!" He ordered again. The two nodded and reached down and made a second attempt.
"Nikita, . . . I'm sorry." Jones put his arms around her. "He's gone, luv. Let him go."
"Nooooooo," Nikita struggled harder, then failing to hold him, folded up on herself, sobbing.
"Shhh," Jones said, cradling her in his arms while she wept. He held her close, gently rocking her and stroking her hair.
"Please don't, Nikita. Please don't cry." His voice said softly. "Michael died the way he would have wanted, quickly and in the line of duty." He kissed the tears on her face, then her mouth and she fought him like a tigress.
* * *
"Ni-ki-ta . . ." Michael held her as she screamed and fought. It was a struggle just to keep her from falling off the bed and onto the floor. "Nikita!" He repeated, hoping to wake her, but nothing he said or did made a difference. She was once again lost in her dreams.
It was almost an hour before Nikita's body gave into exhaustion and Michael was able to relax his hold on her. But he didn't let her go; he was afraid to. He hoped this was a temporary setback, but couldn't rest on his hopes. If morning came and Nikita continued in her dream state, Madeline would certainly decide that enough had been done and Nikita would be terminated, and Michael feared that more than his own demise.
He still had a card or two to play-having saved George from assassination at Operations' hands was one. Adrian was the other, if she was still alive. He hadn't bothered to check up on her condition in weeks; Nikita had had his entire attention.
Whatever happened, Michael knew one thing for certain. If Nikita died, so would he. He'd make sure of it.
* * *
"Okay, why the secrecy? What's wrong with Nikita?" Walter asked, shrugging out of his jacket.
"I need you to stay with her awhile," Michael said, closing the front door.
"Yeah? It's more than that. I can see that much in your face. Who slugged you?" Walter said with an edge of sarcasm. Michael's cheek was darkly bruised.
"She's had a relapse. I can't wake her."
"Oh, God." Walter said, closing his eyes with fear. "Do they know?"
"No. Not yet."
"Well, where you going?"
"To arrange for insurance." Michael said cryptically.
"I hope you mean in the blackmailing sense," Walter quipped grimly.
Michael didn't actually nod, but his expression indicated Walter hit the nail on the head. He pulled on a long, black leather coat and opened the door to leave.
Walter nodded at the silent communication. "Good luck. I'll take care of Sugar."
"I'll be back in two hours." Michael promised, and left.
* * *
Nikita awoke alone and puzzled. Her surroundings looked vaguely familiar, and yet she couldn't quite decide where she was. She sat up in bed and noticed she was also quite naked.
This was her house, wasn't it? She pushed back the bedclothes and got out of bed, only to fall dizzily to her knees onto the carpeted floor with a muffled thud.
The bedroom door immediately flew open to reveal a surprised and worried Walter.
"Walter? What are you doing here?" Nikita asked annoyed, instinctively crossing her arms across her body.
"Nikita? Are you awake?" He asked hopefully.
She frowned at him then looked around for something to wear. "What do you think?"
Walter grabbed the blanket from the bed and draped it over her, then helped her to her feet.
"Michael just left. He said he'd be back in two hours. Man, you had us worried!"
Nikita took two steps back, her eyes growing wide with remembrance, then tearful.
"Michael's dead, Walter. Don't you remember? I killed him."
"Sugar-no, you didn't! It's those dreams again. Remember the drug that French gave you? Don't you remember our conversation yesterday?"
Nikita held her head in one hand, trying to make sense of her memories and Walter's words.
"But I saw him die!" She insisted tearfully.
"Nikita, sit." Walter backed her over to the bed and pressed her down onto it.
"Look at me! Try and remember what happened yesterday. You were telling me all about your dreams-about how real they were. You dreamed Michael's death. It never happened."
She shook her head, uncomprehending.
"Look, I'll prove it to you." Walter pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, flipped it open and punched in Michael's number.
"Michael-it's Walter. Nikita's awake, but there's still a problem. She thinks you're dead. Talk to her."
Walter held the phone out to her. "It's Michael. Talk to him."
In a timid, terrified voice, Nikita asked, "Michael?"
"Yes. It's me. Talk to Walter. I'll be there soon as I can."
Nikita's face broke into a shaky smile and she handed the phone back to Walter.
"Hurry." Was all Walter said before closing the phone.
"Now do you remember?" Walter sat on the edge of the bed next to her.
She shook her head. "But that was Michael . . . wasn't it? Walter, what's happening to me? Am I crazy?"
Walter hugged her. "No. Just confused. You were drugged. We'll get through this, kid. We'll get through this."
* * *
Adrian was gone, along with the man he had left in charge-on pain of death. No one at the sanitarium knew the whereabouts of either of them and Michael was inclined to believe they were telling the truth. Either the caretaker had failed and out of fear, fled his job and his family, or something more sinister had occurred.
Walter's call had raised his spirits a little at least. Nikita was awake again, but still having delusions. He needed more information-he needed an expert in the field of mind control and it couldn't be Madeline. Someone from Section Four. It was time to call in some favors.
* * *
"Where is she?" Michael asked when he arrived.
"Taking a hot bath," Walter replied.
Michael took two steps into the room, before Walter snagged him by the arm.
"Wait. We need to talk."
"What is it?" Michael asked, sensing the disturbance in Walter's voice.
"She's different."
"What do you mean?" Michael said quietly, his eyes serious.
Walter shook his head, struggling to explain. "It's like she's regressed. Remember Nikita when she first arrived in Section? She's like she was then-an innocent. Almost childlike in some respects. I can't explain it any better than that, but it's got me worried. Very worried. What if she's lost all her training and is back at Level One proficiency? She wouldn't last ten minutes back in Section."
Michael nodded without comment. "Thanks for coming over."
"What are you going to do?"
"Talk to her. I have someone from Section Four coming to help."
"Who?"
"Fletcher."
"Specializes in brainwashing, doesn't he?"
"Yes."
"Well, let me know if I can help. And call me, if she gets worse!"
* * *
Michael carefully pushed open the bedroom door, not knowing what he might find. Nikita was sitting on the edge of her bed, briskly drying her hair with a powder-blue towel.
"Ni-ki-ta?"
She looked up and smiled. A second later, she was in his arms and kissing him.
Anything Michael meant to say was lost against her mouth. Her kiss was urgent, passionate and drew him into it, hungry for more.
What if this was their last time together? Michael's heart felt crushed beneath the fear of that answer. He loved her so very much. She was his innocence, his heart, his conscience. Everything that was still good in his life centered around her. He couldn't lose her, he couldn't. He buried his face against her neck to hide the anguish on his face.
She'd been molded to be his equal, and she was, in every conceivable way, his perfect mate. Was it so bad to want to be together? Would fate be forever unkind and God unforgiving?
They fell together on the carpet and kissed like no tomorrow, or even yesterday existed. Nikita undressed him then pressed her warm body, still velvety soft from her bath, atop his. He rolled over with her, feeling the hardened tips of her nipples rake against his chest. He bent and tasted one, then suckled the other, just to hear her moan his name and see her toss her head with desire.
"Michael . . . " She sighed and raised her hips to meet him as he entered her. "Oh be real," she pleaded faintly, wrapping her legs around him to draw him deeper, "God, please let this be real."
Michael kissed her neck then moved up, his breath hot against her ear. "Touch me, I'm here, Ni-ki-ta. Feel me, I'm real." He squeezed his eyes shut and rocked inside her, wanting to get as close as he could.
But even if cells could merge, it wouldn't be close enough! He wanted to cry because he had so much he wanted to tell her, but no words in any language could possibly explain what needed to be said.
"Ni-ki-ta . . ." Hot tears rolled down his face, even as he felt her body coil itself tighter around him.
"Mi-chael!" Nikita lifted up, exploding into ecstasy and taking Michael with her.
* * *
Nikita shivered. Instantly Michael asked, "Are you cold?"
"A little."
Nikita watched him lift up and drag the blankets off the bed and over them both. She smiled as he solicitously cocooned her in them.
"Reminds me of the boat," Nikita said as he settled his warmth against her.
"In Lyons?" He asked.
"In Calais."
"Calais?" Michael asked with some hesitation.
"Yeah, the sailboat . . . when we made love . . . on the deck? Her tone changed mid sentence, turning a statement into a question.
Michael stroked her hair. "Tell me about it. Tell me about your dreams." He whispered.
"Oh, Michael, I can't tell what's real anymore!" She said, upset once again. "What's happening to me?"
"We'll find out. But I need to know what the drug is doing to you. Perhaps the dreams themselves are the key. Tell me all you remember."
"How far back do I go? How do I know when all this started?" She asked, agitated.
"Try and remember the first thing that happened to you after the French mission." He prodded.
"Michael, I . . . it's hard to think about that."
"It wasn't real. Treat it as such. Just tell me, like you are telling a dream. It's what it was." He reminded gently.
She tucked her face against his shoulder and sighed in resignation. "Well, it all started with Mr. Jones . . ."
Michael wondered at how she knew the name of the Agency head. Mr. Jones was certainly his name, but no one at Section had ever seen him, and only a very few-himself, Operations and Madeline-even knew his name. How did Nikita hear of it?
"Go on," Michael coaxed, "How did you meet Mr. Jones?"
After listening to an hour of her narrative, Michael was amazed at the details of her imaginings. He brought it to her attention that they had to have been dreams, simply because she "lived" moments that had happened to others, himself included. She had told him all about his trip back to the house in Belgium, the use of the memory disks, even his reaction to them.
"If it wasn't a dream, "Michael noted, "How do you explain knowing all of that?"
"I . . . I can't. But it still doesn't change how I feel. It was real to me!"
Michael stroked her face and kissed her mouth softly. "Tomorrow, someone from Section Four will be here."
"Why?" She asked with mild alarm.
"What's happened to you suggests biochemical manipulation, like the Gelman process, perhaps. There's a man named Fletcher that specializes in chemical brainwashing methods. I want you to tell him everything you've told me."
"How is that going to help? Nikita asked hopelessly. "You've already told me Section can't figure out what French gave me, much less how it works."
"I know." Michael said, staring at her mouth and running his thumb across it in a caress. "But it's worth a try."
"And if it fails?" She asked in a low voice.
Michael didn't answer.
Nikita answered for him. "I'm terminated. Right?"
Michael shook his head. "Trust me."
His mouth mated with hers. It was a tender embrace of lips, a promise made between them. For the first time in a long time, Nikita felt safe.
* * *
Nikita held her head. "I told you!"
"Tell me again. What do you remember about French injecting you?" Fletcher insisted. "All right. Take a rest."
"What do you want me to say? I've told you about it twice already!" She snapped back.
"Resting isn't going to change my answer!" Nikita said irritated.
Fletcher nodded. "Okay. Then I guess we're finished."
"Terrific." Nikita got up and left the room.
* * *
"Michael?"
"Are you finished?" Michael asked as Fletcher entered the living room
"Yes."
"And?" Michael asked softly, his hands clasped together in front. Fletcher sighed. "There are early signs of personality fragmentation. She's losing her grasp on reality and the longer it continues, the more fragmented her personality will become. It's like having two lives and trying to live them both at the same time. She can't keep what happened separate from what didn't happen and the confusion of contradictory information is making her unstable."
"Do you have any suggestions on how to reverse this? Can she be treated?"
"Yes, but it's drastic."
"What is it?"
"Completely wiping out her memory and rebuilding it from scratch. Problem is, that could literally take years. She'd have to be provided with some childhood memories to keep her stable, and completely retrained as an operative, and if it isn't done carefully, we might end up with a child who can't even remember how to speak."
"And if we do nothing?"
Fletcher shook his head. "In a short time she'll suffer a complete breakdown of her personality, possible insanity or perhaps even a vegetative state."
"Can you give me a percentage of probability?" Michael said calmly. "Of her losing it completely?"
"Around 99 percent. I can't really see any other outcome."
"How long?" Michael asked, his face expressionless.
"Weeks, maybe even days. It's difficult to pinpoint these things."
"Thank you." Michael said. His voice sounded calm, belying the desolation of grief he held in check.
"Let me know if you want to try the reprogramming. We have to do it soon." Fletcher added, in warning. Michael only nodded and took a step back to allow Fletcher to see the door. It was an obvious invitation to take his leave, and Fletcher did so.
* * *
"Where are we going?" Nikita asked with a smile, staring up at the clear blue November sky. Michael stood with the car door open.
"Calais."
"Calais?" She paused before getting in.
"Yes. I thought you might like to show me the boat we went sailing on."
Puzzled, Nikita tugged on the bottom of her white sweater, "I thought Calais was only a dream."
"It was, but I thought you might like to try and make it real."
She smiled broadly and got inside. During the trip to Calais, Michael encouraged Nikita to tell him more about her dreams, hoping somewhere in them was the answer to saving her. She chatted openly, seeming completely at ease, and while Michael loved her this way, he was worried.
Walter had been correct in his assessment. Nikita was different-more trusting, more like she had been when she first arrived. She was slowly losing the edge she had honed through her years at Section. That edge was necessary for her survival as an operative, and without it, Operations would assuredly order her cancellation. He was already at the end of his patience with Nikita's disability. And if Fletcher was correct in his diagnosis, things were only going to get worse.
There seemed to be only one choice left. To save Nikita's life, Michael was going to have to lose her. And so, he had gone to Madeline.
* * *
"You've seen Fletcher's report?" Madeline asked, seated at her desk.
"Yes. We have spoken about it." Michael returned. He stood, hands clasped in front of him, his soul feeling as dark as his clothes.
"I don't see that we have much choice, Michael." Madeline said, folding her arms. "We have given Nikita much more time than we would have normally."
"I know." Michael said, acknowledging Section's forbearance. "Fletcher has suggested wiping out her memory."
"And retraining her, I know. That's not an option."
"Why not?" Michael asked, maintaining his outer calm.
"It's too time consuming."
"We recruit older operatives with less talent every day. Why cancel Nikita when we already know her potential? She's intelligent, strong-at most, we will lose two years, which is the standard training time allowed all new operatives.
"We know her potential, but Nikita has also been willful."
"Fletcher is talented. He can mold Nikita into anything you choose."
"She wouldn't be Nikita anymore, Michael. Do you realize what you are asking?" Madeline's dark eyes raked over him like a cat's.
There was a long pause before Michael finally said, "Yes."
Madeline pondered Michael's answer for several moments, before replying, "I'll discuss it with Operations. Anything else?"
"I want three more days with her. Then I'll bring her in."
"Very well. Three days."
"Thank you."
* * *
"You can sail." Nikita laughed. She sat on the deck, with her arms around her knees, watching Michael maneuver the sailboat out of harbor.
"You dreamed I could, didn't you?" Michael replied, smiling faintly.
She laughed again. "I love being right about you. So, where are we going?"
"Where would you like to go?"
"Actually . . . ."
She paused and looked at the horizon. "Anywhere we can be alone would be fine. I remember walking on a beach and having a campfire. Is there anywhere nearby that we could do that too?"
"I think it can be arranged."
Nikita got to her feet and walked over to where Michael stood. Standing behind him, she wrapped her arms around him and leaned her head against his shoulder. Michael reached around and drew her into a one-armed embrace.
"Want to steer?"
"Yeah!" She looked up at him with eyes bright with delight.
Michael nudged her forward and let her take the wheel. He had to steady her when she turned it too sharply, but after a moment let her sail on her own and let his hands rest on her hips. It gave him time to watch her and to think.
Michael questioned his motives for this trip. Was it selfish of him to delay her treatment? He didn't want to believe he might lose her. Part of him still had hope that Fletcher was wrong, that perhaps the drug in her system would wear off, and yet, the Section side of him coldly reminded that it was usually hopeless to hope.
Michael was familiar with soul searing disappointment. In the face of that, it was difficult to believe anything would change for him. And so, he had given himself the gift of three days. Three days to show Nikita how much he loved her, three days in which to say goodbye.
Goodbye was the most crushingly, obscene word in the English language. Michael's arms slid around Nikita waist as his thoughts tormented him. He didn't know if he could bear losing her again. Seeing her under the influence of the Gelman process had been a living hell. He knew the pain of that. What he didn't know was if he could stand it all over again. But what choice did he have if he wanted her to live?
"How am I doing?" Nikita interrupted his thoughts.
"Fine." He kissed her neck. "Was this all there was to your dream?" He asked seriously.
"No." She turned her head and grinned at him. She reached down and took each of his hands and playfully placed them, one by one, back on the wheel. Once that was done, she turned to face him and put her arms around his neck.
"There was this. . . " She kissed him.
As always happened when she touched him, Michael was overcome with feelings of tenderness. He loved her, had great passion for her, but it was tenderness that kept him at her side. He saw in her, a soul unsullied by the corruption that was Section. He had fought to protect that innocence, and prized it more than his own life.
In her arms, Michael forced himself to forget they only had three days left and kissed her back, pouring his passion into hers and igniting them both.
"I remember dropping an anchor, right about now," she whispered mischievously and slid her hands up his back beneath his sweater with provocative intent. She made him smile and was delighted by her achievement.
"How about over there? There's your beach." Michael answered, with a nod of his head in the direction of a stretch of sand along the shore."
"Looks like the place to me," Nikita teased and kissed his throat with a wet, sassy kiss.
He laughed, then grew somber again as he kissed her forehead. "I love you," he whispered."
She glanced up at him in astonishment. "What did you say?"
Michael let go of the wheel, placed his hands on either side of her face and looked at her intently. "I love you." He repeated softly.
"I never dreamed you saying that," she murmured seriously. "Maybe because I was never sure how you really felt."
Her eyes dropped briefly before his.
"Once, I wasn't free to say it." Michael stroked her hair as he spoke. "For a long time, I was afraid to say it, but never doubt that I've always wanted to say it." Michael whispered, fervently. "And never doubt that it's true."
Nikita's arms went around him and hugged him close.
"I never thought you'd say it . . . oh say it again, Michael. I have to be sure this isn't a dream too."
Michael said it again, in every language he knew, kissing her in between the words. He also managed to drop the anchor and maneuver her down the short steps to the cabin below.
They stood together in the cabin, as they once had done long ago in Nikita's apartment, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, heart to heart, and slowly danced to music only they could hear. It was a mutual seduction, as it had been then, only now there would be no interruptions.
Nikita made the first overt move, sliding her hands down his back, and coyly pulling up Michael's gray sweater. He raised his arms, unresisting, and let her pull the garment over his head.
Always the more impatient of the two, Nikita reached for her own sweater to take it off as well, but Michael stopped her with a kiss, and did it for her. His warm hands started at her midriff, cupping themselves against her ribs and feeling their way slowly up her slender body, shoving the knitted material out of their way as they went.
The sweater slipped over her head, with a crackle of static electricity that mussed her hair. Michael tossed the sweater aside, smoothed her hair, and gently nudged her backwards all in the same economy of motion.
The cabin bed was slightly lower than a regular bed and Nikita felt off balance. She bounced a little when Michael pressed her back onto it then lay atop her.
He looked down at her somberly, studying her face with his eyes and the tips of his fingers.
"There is something else I've wanted to say to you," he said.
"What?" She asked softly, afraid something was wrong; he was so serious.
He hesitated and looked away.
Michael wasn't sure where the idea came from, but it suddenly seemed to be what he wanted most in the world. He hesitated only because the rush of feeling that came with the thought almost overwhelmed him. He controlled it and looked at her again.
"I want what's between us put out of the reach of Section."
"What do you mean?" She asked puzzled.
"Marry me." He whispered. His olive jade eyes studied her face intently.
Nikita's lips moved in surprise, repeating his words, but nothing came out.
"It's the one thing we can give each other, that Section can't touch." He explained.
She looked up him with something like pity and stroked his face.
"Michael, Section's never going to find us."
Michael hid his face against her shoulder so she wouldn't see the horror written there. She was back in her dream again. It took him a while to cover the anguish in his voice.
"I know," he said, finally, entering into her fantasy for her sake. "It's hard to accept they won't."
"They won't. I sank both our files. They can't." She assured him, while her fingers combing lovingly through his hair.
Michael raised his head and looked at her again. She looked like she always did, beautiful. Nothing about her expression reflected the inner stresses that were tearing her mind and memories apart a bit at a time. And now Michael knew without doubt that she would soon be lost to him.
"Marry me anyway." He said, forcing a smile. "Marry me because I love you."
"When?" She said, returning his smile.
"Today, . . . now." Before it's too late, his mind wept.
"Just now?" She asked comically, looking around the cabin. "We aren't quite dressed for the occasion." She ran her hand down his bare chest as a reminder, and rose up to kiss the tip of one flat nipple with her tongue.
She wanted to continue, and Michael couldn't, not mentally or physically. He needed time to cope with her words and what they meant.
"A wedding means a wedding night," he whispered against her ear. "And we have to find a church." He leaned off the bed and retrieved their sweaters.
She sat up as well. "You're serious!" She said pleasantly surprised.
"Yes." He said gently pulling her sweater over her head.
"Oh Michael! This is the happiest day in my life!" She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him with her sweater bunched like a collar around her neck.
Her words pierced him through the heart and he hugged her close to hide the pain. A moment's happiness was so little to give her after all he had taken from her in the past.
* * *
Rings, flowers, and wedding clothes were found and purchased in two hours and twenty minutes. Nikita smiled as she pulled on her satin dress. Who knew Michael was a traditionalist? She would have married him in jeans, but he insisted everything be special. As she put the finishing touches on her hair, and veil, she stared at her face in the mirror and was startled by its beauty.
People had always told her she was pretty, but the face that looked back at her was exquisite. Someone, somewhere once said all brides were beautiful, now Nikita knew this to be true because their happiness made them so. She smiled, wondering if the same went for grooms. Could Michael be more handsome that he already was?
"Yes," Nikita whispered beneath her breath in answer to her own question. She was escorted down the church aisle on the arm of an elderly priest, who seemed delighted at the duty. He handed her over to Michael's care with a smile, a blessing and the sign of the cross.
Michael was more handsome that she'd ever seen him, all formally attired, and looking at her like she was candy and he, a hungry little boy.
For a moment Nikita felt a little uncertain of what she must do. While it wasn't a true statement that she had never been in a church, it wasn't a place with which she was very familiar, other than having received charitable services from one as a child.
Hers eyes asked Michael's was she was to do. Silently he answered by taking her hand, kneeling, and pulling her gently down with him.
The service was, for the most part, in Latin and French, until the officiating priest called on Nikita to repeat her vows. In very accented English, he gave the words she must repeat.
Feeling completely calm, as if knowing what she was doing was absolutely right, Nikita spoke the words that would bind her to Michael forever. When the ceremony was completed, the kindly priest took Michael's hand and Nikita's, held them together, blessed them and pronounced them married.
Michael turned to kiss his bride, raising her veil and folding it back. Blue eyes looked into green and Nikita was touched to see a gloss of tears in Michael's as he bent to press his mouth to hers.
Bathed in campfire light, Michael toasted his bride with champagne, as they supped on wedding cake at the beach. Nikita reclined on the blanket, drew up her knees and laid her head in Michael's lap.
"It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" She grinned happily.
Michael looked at the overcast night sky and smiled faintly. In truth, it looked more like it would rain.
"Almost as beautiful as you are," he said, stroking her hair.
She took his hand and kissed its palm, then tugged on it.
"C'mere." She said, wanting him closer.
Michael put down his glass and carefully maneuvered himself until he was lying with Nikita on the blanket, face to face.
"Cold?" He asked as he pulled her close.
"Á little," Nikita replied with a little smile to cover a shiver. The wind off the ocean had strengthened and turned frigid.
Michael pulled the corner of the blanket over them both.
"Better?"
"Hmm, perfect." She pulled him down to kiss.
Michael let her draw him down, past his grief and into hope. He put everything out of his mind except Nikita.
She trembled beneath him as he covered her with his body. She made him tremble too as her hands, smooth and cool, traced circles on his back beneath his sweater. His body was taut against the softness of hers and he groaned when she slipped one hand between them and ran her palm over the hot, rigid bulge in his jeans.
Michael felt Nikita's saucy smile against his mouth suddenly turn into a moue of dismay as a large raindrop splashed against her cheek.
"Oh no!" She pouted.
"Mais oui!" He corrected, pushing himself to his knees and pulling her with him.
They scrambled to collect their things and dump them helter-skelter into the raft as the heavens opened up and the deluge began. By the time they got back to the sailboat, both of them were cold, soaked to the skin and laughing.
After batting down the hatches, and making sure the raft was secure, Michael followed Nikita down below.
The cabin was dimly lit, and the soft golden glow occasionally flickered as the boat rocked, making the mood decidedly romantic.
Shivering, Nikita flipped off her shoes, peeled her wet pants down her legs, then kicked her way out of the clinging material. Michael tugged off her soggy sweater and tossed it atop the growing pile of waterlogged clothing, before attempting to remove his own sweater.
"My turn," Nikita said, staying his hands, then began to slowly undress him. When she was finished, she wrapped her arms around him, her chilled nipples conspicuously raking his chest. Both of them were cold, but one part of Michael's anatomy radiated with not so subtle heat as it pressed against her.
"Mmmmichael," she sighed against his neck and cupped that velvety heat against her abdomen.
Carefully, as if Nikita were made of fine porcelain, Michael lowered her onto their bed and covered her chilled body with his own, following that with a heavy comforter.
"Hmmm, you feel so good." Nikita shivered with pleasure and wrapped her arms around him. She let her hands trail down his back, loving each rise and fall of firm, contoured muscle. Michael's body was warm, nearly hot against hers, and Nikita luxuriated beneath him as he pressed her into the blankets.
Leaning over her, Michael balanced his weight on his elbows as he kissed her mouth with gentle with gentle reverence.
Nikita responded in kind, her fingers threading their way through his hair and playing with his curls.
"Love you," she whispered, closing her eyes and lifting her lower body in invitation to his.
"Love you too," he replied then added in French, knowing she would not understand, "and always will, no matter what else happens." He cupped her face between his hands.
Nikita opened her eyes at his curiously somber tone, studied his sad expression, and frowned slightly. "Is there something wrong?"
Michael steeled himself and didn't answer; instead he bent and kissed her like it might be the last time. It was a ruthless, hot ravishment of her mouth igniting Nikita's senses and inviting her to return it.
Many times in his life Michael cursed his fate to be in Section, and this night was no different, but there was one blessing amid the ruins, one talent that he was now grateful to have. He made love to Nikita using every nuance of skill and training he had accumulated over twelve years, but it was skill warmed by passion and wrapped in tenderness-the giving of his heart and soul.
He played with her, first gently, then with an intensity that lifted her off the bed, gasping with ecstasy. He used his mouth and tongue like a brush against the canvas of her body, painting her nipples with light, tender strokes, then suckling them with a hot, impassioned mouth.
Michael moved lower, trailing his lips like a hovering butterfly, down Nikita's belly to the pink petals below. He tasted her, felt her move, and heard her moan. His hands slipped beneath her then came around her hips to hold her still.
He tasted her again, his tongue hot against her flesh. She moaned and lifted up, offering him more, . . . wanting more, and he gave it, again, and again until Michael felt her body coil up, trembling, on the verge of release. Only then did he move to plunge himself inside her to claim the reward of her body convulsing around his in pleasure.
Slowly descending from heaven, Nikita opened her eyes to look up at Michael. He was very still above her and hadn't moved to complete his own pleasure, though he was still hot and hard inside her.
She smiled, and pulled him down to kiss, then rolled over with him.
"My turn," she whispered astride him. She watched him lovingly as she gently rocked her body, stroking him internally. He returned her gaze with passion-hooded eyes, his body tense and trembling slightly beneath hers, craving release. In response, Nikita moved faster and watched his eyes close with need.
"Michael . . . " Nikita leaned down and kissed him. "I love you," she said breathlessly.
Nikita felt his hands on her hips, pulling her hard against him, then felt his taut body rise and pulsate with explosive heat inside her.
Blissfully happy and sleepy from fulfillment, Nikita relaxed atop him, and listened to his heart still hammering in his chest.
Michael's arms came around her, his hands skimming gently across her back and tangled themselves lovingly in her hair. It made her feel treasured and totally safe.
"Merci," he whispered.
"Hmmm, any time. . ." came her contented, drowsy reply. "This certainly fulfilled the "for better" part of the vow."
Michael heard the smile in her voice and squeezed her tighter in answer, even though his eyes closed over tears. For he knew for every "for better", a "for worse" was sure to follow.
Michael stroked her back and felt Nikita's body relax in slumber, but he could not bear to close his eyes. There was so little time left, so very little, and even watching her sleep was precious to him now.
* * *
Nikita awoke to faint sunlight through the small porthole across from her bed. She opened her eyes, only to close them again as she stretched and yawned.
It took Nikita a moment to orient herself as to where she was. Looking at the slender gold band around her finger she smiled in remembrance, and rolled over seeking Michael. He wasn't there.
"Michael?" She asked with uncertainty. He didn't answer, but the sailboat was moving, and she decided he had only gone topside.
Bounding out of bed, she went into the small bathroom to tidy up and dress, before joining Michael on deck.
She found him tacking the boat to starboard to catch the wind in its sails. The boat dipped in a frisky bounce as the stiff canvas became pregnant with the breeze. The rush of wind and tide made the sea spray hiss against the side of the hull, and splash onto the deck.
The morning sky was still bruised with gray and threatening clouds and the wind was cold and damp. What little sunlight there was, was diffused and pale, making the ocean seem more like liquid charcoal than water.
Nikita smiled as she watched Michael's hair fluttering into his eyes. He shook his head to clear his vision and gave the wheel a quick turn to the right, shifting the boat further in that direction.
"Good morning," she said, wrapping her arms around him from behind. Michael pulled her around in front and kissed her briefly, before sandwiching her between himself and the wheel.
"Where are we going?" She asked, noticing they were heading inland.
"Germany, for breakfast."
"Potato pancakes?" She asked with a grin.
"Ja." He replied in German. Placing her hands on the wheel, with a firm order to "steer", Michael let her control the boat while his hands found mischief and warmth by sneaking up under her jacket and sweater and cupping themselves over her breasts.
At first, his cold hands made Nikita squeal and giggle, trying to dislodge them, but eventually, they became warmer and inquisitive.
His thumbs made lazy circles around her nipples, teasing them into peaks, and making Nikita catch her breath and hold it. The sensation made her weak in the knees and she leaned back against him, only to feel him, hard, through two layers of jeans-hers and his.
Warm lips pressed against her neck and caressed a tender spot beneath her ear. It made her shiver and briefly loose her grip on the wheel.
Without stopping or lifting his head, Michael caught the wheel, righted it, and let Nikita regain control.
She felt his hands everywhere: holding her breasts, as if gently assessing their weight; stroking warmly over her ribs; raking his fingers up and down her hips and thighs, only to finally cup her most sensitive area in one hand and pull her back against himself.
Just as Nikita was going to suggest dropping anchor and catching brunch instead of breakfast, another vessel, motored towards them from shore.
Alert to possible danger, Nikita's body went rigid as she watched the other boat's approach.
Michael's hands went reluctantly to her waist.
"It's okay," he whispered against her ear.
She turned her head towards him. "How do you know?"
There was a pause before Michael answered, then he pointed at the other boat. "See? They're turning out to sea."
He felt her relax against him only when the boat disappeared into the distance. She turned at looked at him again, this time coyly and murmured, "Pancakes are wonderful and all, but I'm getting cold, and you just started something I think we should finish."
Just in case he didn't immediately get the hint, she reached behind and teased one hand down the front of his jeans.
She found ample evidence that he felt the same way.
They raced to drop the sails and anchor before slipping below and back into bed, fully clothed.
Wrestling playfully with clothing, they did mock battle for dominance, with Nikita gaining the upper hand, giggling at Michael's pained expression as she cupped him with cold hands, then smoothing over his discomfort by taking him inside her mouth, which was hot by comparison.
Michael's body went rigid in everyway it could, with a groan of pleasure.
Nikita smiled and continued her assault, pressing down on his thighs, and feeling the resistance in the hard muscles of his legs. She teased and seduced with lips and tongue until Michael trembled on the edge of release.
Abruptly she stopped, taunting him by slowly kissing the insides of his thighs. He returned her treachery by pulling her up to kiss and burying himself to the hilt inside her. Rolling her onto her side, he pulled her hip up over his and began to rock his body into hers. Slowly at first, then in a rhythm that was primal.
Nikita hung on for dear life, feeling him push her higher and higher, closer and closer, until she struggled to breathe, to think, to do anything but feel, his warmth inside her, his arms around her.
In a moment that was eons long, she felt him shudder and watched the terrible beauty of his face as he climaxed. The sight tumbled her over the precipice into pleasure and into tears. Tears because she loved him. Tears because she knew it couldn't possibly last; she couldn't be so lucky.
Michael's fingers gently stroked the soft skin on Nikita's back as she lay atop him. At first he thought she was asleep, she was so quiet, but then she shifted in his arms and pushed up onto her elbows to look at him.
"What happens now?" She asked seriously.
"What do you mean?" He returned softly, brushing back her hair from her face.
"Where will we go? Where will we live?"
"Where would you like to go?" Even as he asked it, Michael felt the cold hands of despair close upon his heart. The question was academic. Tomorrow they would both return to Section One and she would be made to forget. Forget all that had happened in her life. To forget that she loved him, and that he loved her. It was the agreement he made so that she would live. A deal with the devil to save her soul and damn his own.
She lowered her head and rested it against his chest before answering, "I don't really know. I never thought this far ahead."
"We have time to think about it," he lied, cursing himself as he said the words. "We'll have the boat for a while yet."
Nikita frowned, suddenly remembering that Mr. Jones was expecting her to return to Section. The suddenness of this realization made her heart jump into her throat. How could she have forgotten that?
Fear and confusion rushed through her as conflicting memories and thoughts warred with each other for dominance.
For one panicked instant, she couldn't even remember how she had arrived on the boat. Then she looked at the slender gold band on her hand and the details of her wedding came through the confusion, clear and true. Afraid to delve further into the chaos, Nikita clung to the memory of the wedding and to Michael to anchor her.
How could she explain what she was thinking and feeling to Michael, when she couldn't even explain it to herself?
Was she losing her mind?
Suddenly she remembered with shrill panic being tied down and electrodes being applied to her temples.
"No!" She lifted up and tried to push the electrodes away.
"Nikita?" Startled, Michael caught her flailing arms and pinned them to her sides.
"No!" She screamed the second time and struggled against him.
"Ni-ki-ta! What's wrong?"
She looked over at him with pure rage etched on her face.
"You left me there! You let them do this to me!" She shouted, her anger entwined with grief and tears. She saw faces staring down at her, laughing at her expense. The sight of white coats and the smell of rubbing alcohol surrounded her. She stared at Michael with terror-wide eyes.
Stunned, he released her, only to have her strike his face with the side of her fist.
"You left me!" She cried and stumbled off the bed to get away from him.
"Left you where?" He whispered softly. But it was a rhetorical question. He knew the answer. He hadn't ceased to carry the guilt of that day and now the consequences of his actions had come back to roost.
"Why? How could you?" She wept, curling up like a child upon the floor.
Michael knelt on the bed in silence and stared down at her. How could he, indeed.
He had lost her and they hadn't even had to return to Section for it to happen.
Detaching himself emotionally, Michael got up and went over to where his jacket hung in the closet. He reached inside a pocket and withdrew a small, one-dose hypodermic. His fist balled around it as he turned to inflict one final betrayal.
She didn't have time to struggle. The drug worked almost instantaneously. But she did have time to flash him a look of pure hatred before her eyes closed.
Solemnly, Michael picked her off the floor, carefully placed her on the bed, and covered her. Mechanically, he dressed himself, then her, then sat on the edge of the bed and took her left hand in his.
The gold band glowed warmly against her pale skin as he slipped the ring from her finger. He stared at it in the palm of his hand. No longer a symbol of love, but the symbol of the emptiness of his soul.
Removing his as well, Michael pocketed the bands and stared at the wall wondering what he needed to do next. But he couldn't think for the pain. Instead he lay down beside Nikita and pulled her unresisting into his arms.
He tried to beg her forgiveness, but choked on the words and his tears. And it was hours before he had the strength to leave her and sail the boat back to land.
