Sam watched herself in the mirror as she carefully probed along her hairline, attempting to slip a special tool under the putty-like, prosthetic "make-up" that had transformed her features into those of Insenstil, the reclusive Ashoran billionaire. To her relief, the stuff lifted up fairly easily. She hadn't been certain she'd given the special solvent enough time to soak through and dissolve the adhesive. After working at it for a few minutes, she ended up holding a rubbery sort of "mask" in her hands, and her own, fair-skinned features had re-emerged from beneath Insenstil's darker countenance. All that remained of Insenstil's likeness were the circles of dark pigment around her eyes. She looked like a raccoon, but besides that her face was her own again.

Sam turned her gaze to the collection of solvent bottles and odd implements arranged around the sink in the bathroom of the "safe house." She had already removed the special contact lenses and "false fingerprints," as well as the tiny, subcutaneous devices that had helped alter her electronic identity. Now, she just needed to wash the rest of the dark coloring off her body and out of her hair.

The sophisticated disguise, and the special solvents and stuff for removing it, were all courtesy of Nara's dissident friends – along with this nondescript "safe house" in a suburb of Ashora City. She couldn't bring Jack home because her house-servants reported to the New Start Program, and she and Lagash already had a tricky enough time keeping them in the dark. As a further security precaution – in case the Syndicate was somehow watching – Sam had covertly switched vehicles with one of the dissidents at a fueling station just outside Ashora City. She had then driven Jack to this safe house in a ground car, while the dissident had continued away from the City in "Insenstil's" air car.

Sam felt nervous that Nara's dissident group knew so much about them, but without the disguise they had provided she didn't know how she would have gotten Jack out alive. After all, since the Syndicate had taken illegal control of Jack's Collar by somehow falsifying his death, it was logical to assume they had total, unrestricted access to all the Collar's capabilities – including the Death command, which could normally be accessed only by authorized Government personnel. She had planned Jack's rescue on that assumption, and Jack had confirmed she had been correct. The Syndicate could have killed him with a thought.

Sam experienced a wave of intense relief that left her slumped against the edge of the sink, her body as loose as a wet noodle. Jack is safe now, she thought. Alive and safe. She suppressed the need to see his face once again, to reassure herself that he was really okay. She knew he was somewhere nearby, restlessly exploring the safe house.

Better give him some space, she thought, since it's obvious he's avoiding me. Sam looked at herself in the mirror and saw sad resignation. Because, of course, she couldn't blame Jack for that. Yes, she had rescued him, but it was her fault he'd needed rescuing in the first place. It was her fault he'd spent almost two weeks at the mercy of criminals, without even the minimal protections that chattel-males normally got on Ashora.

Sam's gut clenched as she remembered the Rainbow Room. It had been such a glorious relief to finally see Jack alive for herself. To touch his cheek, and look into his dark eyes once more. To see him look back at her with recognition, and feel him lean his face against her hand. For a moment, the room around them had fallen away – as if she and Jack had been teleported to an alternate dimension in which they floated together, completely at peace.

Then that horrible Syndicate woman, Elal, had made it clear what she'd done to Jack. Sam had been consumed with rage. Her hands had literally twitched with the need to snap Elal's skinny neck. She'd barely managed to get herself under control again, because she knew what it meant to be raped. Even though her memories of what the Atrosians had done to her were only partially intact, they still haunted her.

What must Jack be feeling right now? What wounds were hidden behind that expressionless facade? He'd said so little on the way here. He'd listened almost in silence as she filled him in on everything that had happened while he'd been held by the Syndicate. She'd told him about Daniel, and the New Start Program, and the Ashorans who were helping them now. She'd briefed him on the status of their plan to escape Ashora – emphasizing the progress they'd made, but not glossing over the problems still posed by the sheer number of guards at the Ashoran Stargate Facility.

But Sam hadn't really explained why she'd left Jack locked in her bedroom, alone and helpless. She'd meant to confess to him and beg forgiveness, but Jack had been so strangely passive and distant. The car had been filled with the sound of her voice – giving a dry, "scientific" recital of facts – and it had felt like a desperate attempt to fill some great, echoing emptiness. It was as if Jack weren't really present; as if his soul had retreated behind a tremendous wall hung with "Keep Out" signs. The connection she'd thought she'd experienced in the Rainbow Room was utterly gone.

So when Sam had tried to speak of what happened that fateful morning, the words had caught in her throat. How could she tell Jack that she had allowed Lagash to confuse her about him? How could she confess to such a failure of trust, when the result was that Jack had been left vulnerable to attack? Though the conspiracy hadn't succeeded in killing him, their attempt had resulted in his being enslaved and raped – and undoubtedly tortured, too. How could she expect him to forgive her for that?

Sam gave herself a stern look in the mirror. Jack was alive, and she had the privilege of helping him. That was enough.

She looked down at the bottles around the sink and started reaching for the pigment solvent, but then remembered there was one more thing she should to do before showering the color from her skin and hair. Sam selected a different bottle, unscrewed the lid, and put some of the fluid in her mouth. Tossing her head back, she gargled with the stuff, then spit it out with a grimace.

It tasted foul, but it had done its job loosening the vocal distorter that had disguised her voice. She could feel it at the back of her throat. Reaching in with a finger, she managed to hook the device – which looked like a loop of thread – and pull it out. But she almost gagged herself in the process. She leaned over the sink for a moment, coughing, and then splashed water on her face and in her mouth.

"You okay?" said his voice.

Her heart skipped a beat. It was ridiculous the effect his voice had on her.

She looked over and there he was, standing next to the bathroom wall, looking like the golden idol of some god. Though he was no longer completely nude, his black loin-cloth did little to reduce the impact of the Syndicate's "paint job." The gold body-paint, with its overcoat of wet-looking "glaze," really did accentuate the beautifully masculine contours of his body. Subtle dustings of glitter followed the shapes of his muscles, while bright swirls of metallic gold were splashed on his chest and stomach. His hair looked as if it were made of very fine gold wire, and his large, long-lashed eyes were outlined in black, emphasizing their sensuality.

Seeing him like that filled Sam with conflicted feelings. She had to admit he looked gorgeous – extremely sexy – but she felt guilty for thinking that, because the paint was also a reminder of his enslavement and abuse at the hands of the Syndicate.

She gave a nervous smile and said, "I'm fine, sir. Just getting rid of the vocal distorter."

His brows drew together. "You called me 'sir,' " he said.

Sam blinked. "Did I?"

"Yeah. Guess that means your memories are getting closer to the surface, and that's a good thing, but…" He paused and frowned. "I prefer Jack," he finally said, voice and eyes softening.

Sam's heart flew into her throat. Maybe he wasn't as angry with her as she'd feared.

"Of course, Jack," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

He smiled a little and shifted awkwardly. Then he said, "Glad you got your voice back." He gestured. "And your face, too."

Sam nodded. "Yeah." Whatever that meant. Her guts were fluttering with a mixture of hope and confusion. What was going on with him?

"So," he said, "guess now you just need to…." He stopped. For the first time since their escape, there was a trace of real animation in his face. "Hey," he said, looking at the collection of bottles, "you must have something to get that color off your skin, right? Think it'd work on this paint?" he asked, pointing to himself.

"Yes," said Sam, kicking herself for not having thought of that, "it probably would." Sam grabbed the container of pigment solvent and held it out to him. "You're supposed to use this with water, as if it were liquid soap." It occurred to Sam that she could help him wash the paint off – that they could help each other – but she didn't dare suggest it. Apart from whatever resentment he was feeling toward her in particular, she knew only too well that being raped could make sex in general seem repulsive.

"Thanks," he said. He took the bottle and walked briskly to the large shower stall. Opening the frosted glass door, he stripped off his loin-cloth and stepped in. Sam caught a glimpse of his shapely butt before he closed the door, and then wondered guiltily if she should have looked away. Soon, the water was running, and steam began to drift out from above the glass door.

Sam sighed as she watched his golden silhouette moving behind the glass. It was obvious he couldn't wait to wash the paint off, which made her feel even guiltier for admiring the way it made him look. But her mood had lightened considerably. Jack seemed to be reaching out to her. Maybe he was willing to forgive her after all!

She recalled the stunned joy she'd felt when Ifefal first told her she had seen Jack alive. Sam had been almost afraid to believe it. Could Jack really have evaded the Government conspiracy by falling into the criminal underground? But Ifefal had been certain, and when the truth sank in, Sam had felt as if she, too, had come back from the dead. Only then had she realized how grey her world had become, how drained of all color and life – because, suddenly, the colors were back!

But her joy had been short-lived. It had soon been replaced by an almost unbearable tension between hope and fear. Jack was alive, but in the hands of a criminal Syndicate. He was being forced to perform before a crowd in ways she knew he would find demeaning, and who knew what other abuse he was experiencing? She'd worked feverishly, day and night, to prepare his rescue. And the entire time, she'd been tormented by the thought that her rescue attempt would fail, and result in Jack's death, so that the nightmare she'd been living before she got Ifefal's news would become real after all. Jack would be dead, and it would be her fault.

She didn't think she could have survived that. She really didn't.

But it didn't happen, she told herself sternly, so pull yourself together! The plan worked. Jack is out of the Syndicate's hands. He is once again in your Keeping.

Then Sam winced, ashamed to have felt such satisfaction at the thought of controlling Jack's Collar. That had been "Jamora" – the part of her that had learned to think like an Ashoran. To "Jamora," it was only right and proper to have that kind of power over "her" male. But in her gut, Sam knew better. She knew the imbalance of power was an alienating wedge between them.

During their journey here, she'd had to explain to Jack that even though his Collar was now tuned to her neural implants, that didn't mean she could disable it. The Collar didn't permit that. The best she could do was turn off the anti-aggression programming. But she'd also told him they should be able to free him soon. After all, the Syndicate had already cracked the Collar System – and Jack's Collar contained the secret of how they'd done it.

Even before finding out about Jack, she and Ifefal had identified the "Death Protocol" as the key to defeating the Collar System. What they'd since learned about the Syndicate's operation confirmed they were on the right track, but working out the details had proven to be slow going. By examining Jack's Collar with the proper equipment – which Ifefal was bringing tomorrow – Sam was sure they'd be able to finish their work quickly.

Sam had related all this to Jack with enthusiasm, seeing it as good news. But then she'd seen the expression on his face – or rather, the lack of expression – and realized Jack didn't want to hear that he'd be free of the Collar soon. He wanted his freedom now.

Was that when Jack had become so remote? No, he'd been withdrawn even before that. But hadn't that conversation caused the emotional temperature to drop even further? How must he feel, knowing that she was, in effect, his slave master?

Sam's troubled chain of thought was broken by a sudden loud clunk. Jack had thrown the shower door open, causing it to swing around and smack the wall. He stood there naked, still covered with gold paint and "glaze," but now dripping wet as well. His flesh shone with a hard gleam, and his hair was a cap of molten gold.

There was a molten quality to his expression, too. His dark eyes glowed with volcanic heat. It was easy to imagine that the steam wafting around his body came from him, not the shower.

He held up the bottle of solvent, clutching it so tightly the plastic caved in. "Sam!" he barked. "Why isn't it working?"

Sam goggled for a moment. "It must be the wrong formula," she finally said. "But I'm sure Nara's friends will be able to…"

Jack threw the bottle. He threw it with such force that it bounced several feet off the tile floor, ricocheted off the wall, and bounded back across the room before coming to a rolling stop, dribbling fluid. Then Jack stepped back against the side of the shower and slid down until he was sitting on the floor of the stall, with his back against the wall, his legs folded close to his body, and his forearms on his knees. He stared straight ahead, at the other wall of the shower, expressionless and absolutely still. Behind him, the water continued to fall, its white noise muffling all other sound and creating a kind of thick silence.

Sam reeled at the sudden change in the emotional atmosphere. Jack had been remote in the car, but this was a lot worse. It felt to Sam as if he had retreated behind a powerful force field – on the other side of the universe. Despite that, she could still sense his pain and rage. She gazed at his stony profile in anguish. She felt helpless in the face of his withdrawal.

Without conscious thought, Sam found herself moving toward him. It felt like moving through a freezing, intergalactic void. She reached the shower door and crossed the threshold, into Jack's steamy redoubt. But Jack didn't even look at her. His only acknowledgement of her presence was to turn his head fractionally away. Sam sat down in a heap, not able to get any closer. Jack's personal force field was too powerful, and she was too unworthy.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been sitting there, in a trance-like state of misery, when his voice said, "Hey." Blinking away tears, Sam saw that he was actually looking at her now. His face was blank, but pain flickered in his eyes. "Stop that," he said. "Can't you stop crying?" His voice was toneless. It didn't even sound like him.

Instead of stopping, Sam started sobbing wildly. "I'm sorry!" she cried. "I'm sorry!" She took a desperate breath, trying to get some control back, but she had lost it. "Please… I know it's my fault, but, please…" She didn't get any further. She was crying too hard to get any more words out, and besides, she suddenly realized how stupid the words were: Let me help, don't shut me out, let me make it up to you… Her sobbing started morphing into hysterical laughter. Sure, I'll just ask Jack to let me make it up to him. That's guaranteed to impress!

"Stop it!" snapped his voice. And suddenly, he was there. His hands were gripping her arms, and his face was inches from hers, full of fiery irritation. "Pull yourself together!" he barked. Sam drew a breath and felt herself doing just as he asked – because this sounded like Jack. He'd come back; he was present again. A shudder of relief passed through her.

Her hands reached out, touching his arms, resting on his shoulders. And as she gazed into his eyes, she saw them soften. His mouth lost that hard line. "C'mere," he murmured.

Her heart turned over. She crawled into his arms and closed her eyes, luxuriating in the touch of Jack's body against hers. It felt so amazingly good. His skin was cool with wetness, emphasizing the heat where their flesh pressed together. Her clothes were getting more and more soaked from the steam and stray shower droplets, but the chill of wet cloth was offset by the warmth of his arms. She felt enclosed in a protective bubble, hidden and safe. She had joined Jack behind his force shield.

Sam shuddered again as another wave of tension left her. She could feel her body gradually relaxing, ridding itself of all the anguish and stress – and she could feel the same thing happening to Jack's body. So, was she somehow comforting him after all? That was good – because he was the one who'd just come back from enslavement and abuse, yet she'd ended up crying on his shoulder. How exactly had that happened?

Do you have to analyze everything? she asked herself. She snuggled against his chest. Yes, this was infinitely better than trying to think things through – or talk them out. If only she could stay here like this forever, wrapped in the sensual comfort of his steamy embrace.

Sam sighed. If only.

Perhaps sensing the change in her mood, Jack shifted his hands to her shoulders and looked at her. "You doing better?" he asked.

Sam did not miss the irony of the question. She searched his face, but he looked normal again. "Yes," she said. "Much better." She paused, quailing a little, before adding, "And you?"

He raised his chin a fraction and said, "Oh, I'm doing great. Just wonderful. Fabulous. Peachy."

Sam had to smile. She loved this man. He was mocking his need to hide his emotional vulnerabilities – and using the self-mockery to hide his emotional vulnerabilities. Who else could pull that off with such finesse?

"So," he continued, turning the subject back to her, "are you over that 'it's all my fault' crap?"

"I am if you've forgiven me."

"Nothing to forgive," he said.

Sam found herself biting her lip. That was just a little too easy. "Jack," she whispered, "I left you alone. I should never have left you for so long. I should never have let Lagash confuse me like that…"

"Sam," he interrupted. His voice was soft but full of authority, his gaze serious. "Of course you were confused. These people were messing with your head for months! They took away your memory, and then pulled out all the stops to worm their way into your confidence. There's no way you could have instantly snapped back from that kind of brain washing. I think you recovered pretty damn fast, considering."

The corners of his mouth turned down, and pain flashed in his eyes. "Considering you lost a whole year of your life," he said, voice very soft. He looked down. "Never should have let the two halves of the team get so separated," he muttered.

Sam felt a kind of shock go through her. He blames himself, she thought. He blames himself for my kidnapping, and everything that's happened to me since. He's been blaming himself for a year! Sam's perspective underwent a seismic shift. Her spirits grew strangely lighter, as if she'd been relieved of an enormous weight.

"Oh, God, Jack," she said. "We're quite a pair."

Jack raised his eyebrows, obviously not getting it.

"You are not responsible for what's happened to me over the past year, Jack! The Atrosians kidnapped me, and beat and raped me. The Ashorans stole my identity. They are responsible, not you."

Jack scowled. She could almost hear what he was thinking: Of course I'm responsible! I was in command! As she sat there facing him on the floor of the shower, their legs touching, and watched the stubborn thunder gathering in his face, she felt a tremendous sense of closeness. It was the opposite of the awful distance she had felt before. It felt wonderful – but there was a touch of sad irony in it, too. Because, in some ways, she and Jack were all too alike.

Jack opened his mouth – undoubtedly to argue with her – but she cut him off. "Jack!" she cried. "Can't you see you're doing the exact same thing that I did? Blaming yourself for my ordeal on account of some tiny lapse in judgment – if it was even that – when it's obvious where the real blame lies?" She threw up her hands in exasperation. "Just look at us. We've both been through hell! We've both been kidnapped and tortured and raped. And," she added, more softly, "we've each been through the hell of believing the other was lost forever." Her voice caught. It hurt to remember. A slight, poignant smile touched her lips. "Why do we have to make everything even harder on ourselves than it already is? Couldn't we give ourselves a little more slack?"

Sam watched her words penetrate. She watched the irritation give way to a carefully masked thoughtfulness. And as she studied Jack's face, and saw the fire of his remarkable spirit subtly reflected in his eyes, she felt overwhelmed by love for him, and full of gratitude for being able to be with him like this. For an instant, the love she felt for him seemed to open up into something larger, like a river leading to the sea. She felt suspended in peace and love, lifted above all the pain she had ever known – and all the pain she would yet know. Thank you, she silently prayed. Whoever You are, thank you. I promise to get to know You better.

After a moment, Jack put on that open-mouthed, dumbfounded look he was so fond of, and said, "We are quite a pair, aren't we?" One side of his mouth tipped up, and a gleam of mischief came into his eyes. "I look like King Midas's lawn ornament, and you look like… a panda."

"A panda?" exclaimed Sam. But, unfortunately, she understood – black body, white face, black circles around the eyes. She winced at the mental image of what she must look like right now, in her partially removed disguise and soaked Ashoran clothes.

Jack's smile had widened. "Did I ever mention," he said, "that I think pandas are damn cute?" His eyes flicked over her body, glowing with warmth, humor – and something more.

Sam's stomach fluttered. "Did I ever mention," she said, her voice rough with emotion, "that I love you?"

Jack's smile grew tremulous, his gaze serious. "Not in so many words," he murmured.

"Then I guess it's about time," said Sam, thinking back to that other conversation they'd had in a bathroom. An interrupted conversation, which they were at long last getting the chance to finish. "I love you. And I want to be with you for the rest of my life. If you'll have me," she said.

Jack's eyes shone in response, making her heart leap. He reached out, taking her face into his hands. "That's a 'Yes,' " he said. And then he leaned in and kissed her.

His mouth was hot and velvety. Sam felt the warmth of the long, tender kiss seeping into the core of her body. She melted against him, once again luxuriating in the feel of his cool, damp flesh quickly turning hot against hers. But this embrace was different. There was an pleasurable tension to it that had been missing before. Their bodies began to rub slowly against one another, and their hands went exploring…

Sam pulled back, her heart thudding with excitement – and fear. She searched his dark eyes, which seemed larger and more richly brown than ever, thanks to the eyeliner and gold shadow. She remembered how she had admired the effect of the body-paint earlier, feeling aroused by the fantasy of making love to Jack in such a hyper-erotic guise. But now that the fantasy had become a real possibility, she found she didn't care about the way he looked. She only cared about him.

"Are you sure?" she whispered. "Are you sure it's not…"

"Ah!" he exclaimed, raising an admonitory finger. "You're thinking too much. Didn't we agree you'd quit doing that?"

Sam felt torn between amused affection and exasperated worry. "We agreed to 'give ourselves more slack.' That includes you not pushing yourself to be Mr. Invulnerable."

"Don't you mean Mr. Incredible?" asked Jack. "That was a pretty good cartoon, though not my favorite."

"Jack!" She gave him a pleading look. "Don't try to bluff your way through this. If it's too soon, I totally understand. Remember, I know how it feels."

"You don't know how it feels to me!" he suddenly snapped. Then he scrubbed his face, and the anger left him. "Are we going to start bickering like an old married couple already?" he asked. "What happened to the honeymoon?"

"Jack," she said again, this time helplessly. His mask was wavering, giving her glimpses of what lay beneath: love as deep as the ocean, pain like a transoceanic rift.

"Look," he said, "I know why you're worried. I know I kinda checked out on you before, but that's 'cause I wasn't thinking straight. I got this idea in my head that if I could get this paint off," and he gestured toward the gold on his body, "I'd feel more like myself. Like I said, I wasn't thinking straight. It's just paint. But when I couldn't get it off…." He stopped, and looked away. Sam waited, knowing that Jack was stepping beyond his normal boundaries.

When he met her eyes again, there was something uncharacteristically exposed in his gaze. "I was afraid," he said simply. "Ever since you got me out of that place, I've been feeling scared that what happened to me there would come between us. And I'm so goddamn sick of something always coming between us, Sam." There was a hard light of anger in his eyes, now – but she knew it wasn't directed at her.

Sam's throat was tight. She was close to tears again. "And I thought you were angry at me," she said.

"Yeah," said Jack. "I finally figured that out. If we're ever going to make this work, Sam, there's one last thing we need to keep from coming between us." He gave her a lopsided smile. "Us."

She smiled and slipped back into his arms. It felt so utterly natural to be there.

He stroked her back, and spoke against her hair. "It's okay, Sam. You don't have to worry, 'cause I'm not afraid anymore. You took that fear away." He paused. "I know what I want. I want to be close to you."

She pulled back enough to look at him, and held his eyes as, without a word, she removed her soaked Ashoran jacket. Then she began unfastening the bodice – the same peacock-blue, bare-breasted bodice she'd worn on the first night they'd made love. She smiled slowly as the memories washed over her, and she saw from the heat in Jack's gaze that he was remembering, too.

"Careful with that outfit," he said. "I'm kind of attached to it."

"Don't worry," she said, smiling. "I'm pretty fond of it, too."

By the time he helped her pull off the skirt and underpants, it was clear his ordeal at the Arena hadn't damaged his libido.

It was different from their first night together. It was especially different from that first time together, when they had attacked each other frantically. Tonight, they drifted into a timeless zone of erotic tenderness. It was fortunate that the shower stall was spacious, and that Ashoran technology ensured an endless supply of hot water, because they took a long, long time.

Making love felt like that steamy embrace that had first bridged the distance between Jack and herself – the one she'd wished could last forever, because she'd felt so close to him. Except this embrace was more intense, more intimate, more complete.

Now, they were even closer.

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