Berlin in autumn was gray and beautiful, full of history and hope.
Dr. Elena Voss met them at the clinic—a severe woman in her fifties, brilliant eyes, no patience for small talk. "Mr. Thorne, your condition is advanced. My treatment might work, might do nothing, might accelerate the deterioration. Do you understand?"
"I understand." Adrian lay on the examination table, Nancy holding his hand. "But I also understand that the alternative is surrendering to a woman who wants to own me. I'd rather die free than live as property."
Dr. Voss nodded, approving. "Ms. Clark, you'll need to leave. The procedure takes six hours. You can wait in my office."
"I'll wait here."
"Ms. Clark—"
"Here." Nancy squeezed Adrian's hand. "Where he can feel me. Even if he's unconscious."
Dr. Voss shrugged. "Suit yourself. But if you faint, I'm not stopping to catch you."
The procedure was long, tense, filled with beeping machines and whispered consultations. Nancy sat through it all, never releasing Adrian's hand, sending him every prayer and intention she possessed.
At hour four, there was a crisis—Adrian's heart stuttered, stopped, restarted with violent urgency. Nancy watched the monitors, helpless, as doctors worked with controlled panic.
At hour five, stability returned. The new cells were integrating, Dr. Voss reported. The heart was responding.
At hour six, Adrian opened his eyes. Looked directly at Nancy. Smiled.
"Still here," he whispered.
"Always," she promised.