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"The dozens of flowers you sent with notes of apology gave me a clue."

He reaches down for my hand, twining our fingers. His skin is warm and touch assertive. "The men responsible have been dealt with."

"How menacing," I say, trying again to tease, but it comes out a little breathless. Like I find it hot that he has dealt with whoever tried to hurt us. Hurt me.

His eyes hold mine, sparks tingle along my arm. "Angela." He searches my face, then glances quickly to where Alesana is standing in the shadows at the top of the stairs with his back to us. Omar leans in, his mouth close to my ear. Warm breath glides down my neck. "I wasn't the only target that night. You are in grave danger."

My breath freezes, my whole body stiffening at his words. "What?" I exhale.

His lips brush the shell of my ear. "Invite me in, we need to talk." Omar leans away to meet my eyes again.

I choose to show him fear and confusion. "Please come in," I say for Alesana’s sake, reaching behind me to twist the knob and open the door at my back.

"I'd love to." Omar smiles.

The fire in the hearth flickers light over the two armchairs in front of it, but the canopy bed and draped windows remain in shadow. Omar closes the door behind him, and I move further into the room, fidgeting, pretending to be nervous, to be confused. To be scared.

I'm not sure exactly what I actually feel. And it doesn't matter. What matters is convincing this man that I can’t imagine why I’d be a target. "It's okay," Omar assures me. My savior.

He likes this role. And why wouldn't he? White knight is a great character. Damsel in distress less so. Both are cliches, though.

We are dressed for our parts. Omar wears a dark suit with pinstripes of gold and blue running through it. His tie is paisley, shirt a dove gray. He looks like a prince—one here to save me.

I'm wearing a dress Zade and Lloyd argued over. Zade thought it saidfuck me. Lloyd thought it said:if you're lucky I'llletyou fuck me.

It's a gold metallic A-line silhouette mini-dress with a deep V neckline and long bishop sleeves—that's where the begging comes in, according to Lloyd. "Sleeves that long and billowy make it clear she isn't easy."

"The red-bottomed shoes screamtake me now," Zade insisted as they placed Louboutin heels into my suitcase. They then leveled me with an intense stare. "So don't wear them unless you're sure you want him."

"Zade!" Lloyd yelled. "Shoes are not consent!"

Zade just looked at Lloyd like he didn't understand fashion. Or fucking.

Omar definitely noticed the shoes, the dress, my hair…he seemed to notice everything and liked it all. A lot. He also seems to have noticed that I'm a target. How much does he know?

His eyes are soft and caring as he closes the gap between us—we're in the space between the sitting area and the bed—between the light and the dark. "I want to help you. But you'll have to trust me."

"I don't know what you mean." Which duplicity does he want me to drop?

Omar's hand rises slowly to my face, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. I shiver as the long strands tickle my shoulder blade. "If I had known your country was trying to kill you, I would have checked your purse that evening." He smiles like that's an inside joke between us now. Something we will tell our grandchildren.

"What?" My voice comes out choked, frightened. Fake.

Omar falls for it; his brow crinkles with concern, eyes dropping briefly to my parted lips and then coming back to meet my gaze. "You don't know?"

I shake my head, unsure of what he thinks I know. Is he talking about the explosion that left us both unconscious? Or the attack in the ambulance? Martin's billowing back fills my mind's eye—and the cold rage, the sick urge that soaked into my bones in that moment comes with it. The same one that still animates my dreams and seems to leach into my skin whenever I let my guard down.

Fuck, I have to work on not wanting to kill people. I am going insane. But there is no way Omar knows that. No one knows that.

Omar takes in a deep breath, his thumb stroking my jaw, fingers hooked behind my ear. "The attack at the restaurant—someone on your security team leaked that we would be there."

"To who?" I shake my head. "I don't understand." I step back, needing some space. He lets me go, his hand falling away. No grasping or gripping…he thinks he's trapped me. That I need him. Omar is convinced he's my champion.

"I thought it was a terrorist group angry with your family’s ties with the US." I try to remember what Ash told me. I just believed him when he assured me it didn't have anything to do with me. I trusted Ash. Was too afraid of my own rage to look into the incident further. I just wanted to bury the whole thing deep inside me. Use it for a film? Sure. But investigate it? No.

"Yes," Omar says. "I was the intended target—but our location was leaked by a member of your security team."

I shake my head, still stepping away from him, from the fire. The air grows colder as I back into the shadows. "Who? That doesn't make sense. Why?"