He takes the glass from my hand. “I can help you wash.” His eyes are knowing yet gentle.

“No, it’s okay. I can do it.” My voice comes out shaky and small.

“Your arm hurts. Let me help you.”

He turns around, reentering the bathroom. Hesitantly, I follow behind.

Moving to his knees, he turns the tub faucet on. He runs a hand beneath the spray, presumably to check the temperature. Satisfied, he lifts a small bottle off the bath’s ledge and squeezes liquid into the water. Bubbles immediately spring up. Blinking, I stand there, staring. Should I stop him? The smell of vanilla wafts through the air.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” His voice is strong, deep, and soothing, like a balm.

I can’t tear my eyes away from him.

“You think you can get undressed on your own?”

I shake my head, biting my lip and trying not to cry. My arm hurts so badly, and just the sight of my bloodied legs has my stomach turning. “I can just get inside the bath with my clothes on. That might be easier for me—”

“I’ll undress you. Looks like we’ve got a pattern between us, eh?” A little smile sits on his lips.

“You realize you’re making a joke right now?”

The smile finally reaches his eyes, green with swirls of blue. Nothing about them is dark. He’s gorgeous.

Holding the top of my dress with his left hand, he drags the front zipper down with his right, not breaking eye contact. Trust me, his body seems to say. His hands don’t rush, as though he’s trying not to startle me.

Still, I shake.

The dress is undone, but his hand keeps it from falling. Slade takes a towel draped over the tub and presses it against my chest when I gasp,“I was supposed to call my friends.”

He holds me in place. “The police must have gotten over there quickly. Call now.”

He lets go, and I jet back into the bedroom, finding my purse on the floor. I tear it open, pulling out my phone.

I dial, and she answers after the first ring.

“Sanam?” My voice cracks with relief.

“Yes, it’s me. Oh God, Lauren. Where are you?”

Keeping the towel up with a shaking hand, I turn to face the wall. This is my small attempt for privacy. Tears well in my eyes, tickling my nose. If I allow myself to cry hysterically, it will be impossible to stop. I swallow hard, trying to control my emotions when I ask, “Is everyone okay?”

“Yes. We were hiding under the table. But you … you were gone,” she sobs. “Shots were everywhere. It was gang-related. A rap feud. They said a gunman went into the bathroom—”

“No, I wasn’t inside at the time,” I assure her.

Wetness slopes down my face.

“Thank God,” she whispers like a prayer. “Reza is sending a jet for us in a few hours. Come meet us. No one wants to stay in this horrible place for another second. It’s hell here.”