My bare feet dance a little on the cold tiled hallway, and I snatch the hospital blanket that had fallen earlier from Logan's shoulders and wrap it back around my mine. He twists the doorknob and leans his shoulder into the door, giving it a little shove open. I clutch the worn fabric tighter around me and shuffle across the threshold into the darkened penthouse. A wave of heat washes over my face, and Logan flips the light switch; the overhead lamps ignite, bathing the room in a warm welcoming softness. I quickly give the place the once over while he closes the door and slips the security lock into place. He struggles out of his jacket and tosses it with the keys onto a small desk by the door.

The penthouse is inviting and comfortably furnished with warm tan walls and various artwork strategically placed to make your eyes travel throughout the entire room. Chenille pillows scatter the furniture in complimentary colors, and a thick patterned throw rug stands out in the middle of the living room. A thick glass coffee table with multiple tiered candles is centered amongst plush earth-toned couches and chairs. The furniture looks comfortable and lived in with a promise that if you sit on it will envelop you in a warm comforting embrace after a long day of work. A large stone fireplace dominates the opposite wall, its mantle still full of holiday decorations and frames filled with familiar pictures. I had seen this backdrop before in pictures that Carly had sent me of Michael and Morgan opening presents at Christmas.

I trail my fingers over a soft burgundy blanket that lies across the arm of an oversized chair, and the missing pieces of the puzzle start to fall into place. "This is Carly and Sonny's old place."

"Yeah, the building has guards and a lot more security than my apartment does," he answers as I swallow hard watching him pull a gun from the small of his back, click on the safety, and set it down on the coffee table. He continues, oblivious to my gaze, "When it was just me, I wasn't too worried about it, but now that you are involved in this mess I need to make sure that you are safe. Bringing you here was actually Carly's idea."

My earlier annoyance at him fades when I hear the genuine concern in his voice, and I wander around the room, trying to put some space in between us. The past few days have been such a roller coaster of emotions that I still haven't been able to process it all. I skim my fingers over the marble mantle and continue, "I've never actually been here before, I had only seen pictures that Carly had sent me of the boys. When I moved back to Port Charles, they had already split up."

Logan shadows my movements, and I can feel the heat of his body behind mine. He pulls free the elastic band that had been holding my hair back, and I turn towards him, asking the one question I pray he knows the answer to. "Logan, what's really going on? Who were those men at the hospital?"

He pulls me into his arms, resting his head on top of mine. "I don't know, Lulu, but I don't want you to worry about it. I'll keep you safe while Sonny and Jason get to the bottom of it."

I lift my head off his chest and look up into his worried green eyes, wishing I could believe what he is promising. "And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?"

Leaning back, he tucks an unruly strand of hair behind my ear and kisses my forehead. "All we can do is sit tight and wait. Look, it's two in the morning, and you look exhausted. Do you want me to help you upstairs? Carly stopped over at the Quartermaines' earlier and packed a few bags for you, your stuff is up in the master."

I pull away from him, dubiously eyeing the staircase that is obscured on the other side of the room. "No, I can make it on my own."

He looks disappointed at my refusal for help but pulls his cell phone from his pocket. "Okay, I've got a few phone calls to make anyway, but just yell if you need me."

"Okay." I whisper, pulling at the blanket that trails behind me on the floor and slowly making my way up the stairs. I pause halfway up and look back at Logan as he checks his watch and flips open his phone. He presses a few buttons, collapses back on the couch, and leans back, staring at the ceiling.

"Tell me something I want to hear," he says into the phone with an impatience that I am way too familiar with. He pauses, swears, and, flipping the phone closed again, slams it into the seat cushion next to him.

I say nothing but continue silently up the stairs, wanting nothing more than to open my eyes to find out this whole night has been nothing but a nightmare.

The master bathroom is as large as my bedroom at the Quartermaines'. It's slick and luxuriously encased in black granite with brushed nickel fixtures. A soft throw rug of Egyptian cotton is centered in the room, and a pyramid of thick rolled towels guards the entrance to the glass walled shower.

This has got to be the most impressive bathroom I have ever seen, something right out of a magazine, and I'm not sure how Carly could have given this up. I weigh the pros and cons of the shower versus the Jacuzzi tub that is nestled in the corner but finally settle on the shower with its rain-like shower heads mounted in the ceiling.

Flipping the water on, I let it run to warm up while I drop the blanket to the floor and slip out of the thin hospital gown. My gaze is automatically drawn to my reflection in the mirror, and I am disgusted by the mottled purple and black-colored bruises that smear the pale skin of my ribcage. I watch until the steam blurs my image and then step into the hot shower, audibly moaning as a tingling sensation of heat races down from my head to my toes.

Warm water streams down my bare skin, washing away the days of memories and aching muscles. I close my eyes and let the water rhythmically massage my back until I'm too tired to stand any longer. Clutching the shampoo and conditioner bottles to my chest, I sit down on the warm wet tile, letting the water puddle around me. A sharp pain sears through my left side as I try to massage the shampoo through my tangled hair. The pain becomes too intense, and I give up and rest my forehead on my knees. letting the water wash away the apple scented product while tears trickle down my cheek.

His voice is muffled by the sound of the water as it bounces off the tiles. "Lulu, are you okay?"

Turning at the sound and cringing, I see him push the bathroom door open a little and peer around the corner. "Lulu?"

I can only imagine what he thinks when he sees a soaking wet heap huddled on the floor, half obscured by the steamed glass.

Before I can even open my mouth to tell him I'm okay, the shower door flies opens, and his voice is edged in panic. "What's wrong?"

Unlike him, I'm embarrassed and feel uncomfortable by my nakedness, and I wrap my arms tighter around myself. "Do you mind?" I snap and look away.

Smirking at me, his voice relaxes a little, and he leans against the door frame. "Lulu, it's nothing I haven't seen before."

It dawns on me that we haven't even been able to talk about what happened a few nights ago; I'm not even sure where I stand with him anymore. "Then stop staring at me," I sputter.

I flick water at him, and he steps back, reaching for a towel to wipe off his face. "I'm sorry; you've just been in here a long time." He wads up the damp towel and tosses it on the bathroom vanity. "Sue me for worrying about you. I'll just leave you alone."

He lets the shower door thump close, and I rest my chin back on my knees, debating whether or not I should tell him as his form retreats back to the bedroom. "Logan?" I ask, then continue, "I can't stretch back to wash my hair."

His blurred image stops, and as he turns back towards me, the tone of his voice changes from the annoyed jerk to a concerned drawl. "Do you want me to help you?"

I swallow the Spencer pride that wells up inside me, wishing I didn't need him, but concede my independence to the overwhelming desire to feel clean. "Yes."

Steam billows out of the shower as he re-opens the door. "All you had to do was ask."

He looks down at his shirt and slowly undoes each snap, but when he reaches the last one his green eyes dart up to catch me watching him. He shrugs his shoulders, flexing a little, and lets the grey and white plaid fabric tumble to a heap on the bathroom floor. He raises his head, watching me appreciate his defined chest and sculpted abs. My eyes dart to his waistband as the cocky son of a bitch makes a show of flicking open his button fly and pushing his jeans down over lean toned thighs. He is a perfect image of masculinity and of sexual prowess, and I sit here simply broken and at his mercy.

I shake my head but am unable to move away as he steps into the shower. "What are you doing?"

He stands under the showerhead, hovering over me. I watch as drops of water run in rivulets off his tanned taut muscles and onto me. He's quiet as he rubs his face under the spray. Letting out a sigh, he steps back, wipes water out of his eyes, and sits down on the tile behind me. "You said you needed help."

He scoots in behind me, his legs on either side of mine, and the heat from his body sends ripples though me. I look back over my shoulder at him. "I didn't mean for you to get in here with me."

"Why not? It will be easier this way," he murmurs, kissing my shoulder and reaching between us for the bottle of shampoo by my hip.

He rubs shampoo into my hair with an awkward tenderness that makes me smile. He lathers and rinses, only occasionally catching his fingers in the tangles, and he curses as I try not to complain. The water pours over us; I feel safe and taken care of, and it causes a scary tightness in my chest. He twists and wrings out the excess water from my long hair and tucks errant strands behind my shoulder.

His hands linger on my back. Careful fingertips brush over the angry bruise on my shoulder blade I had seen earlier. I hear his breath come in an uneven rhythm, and without even looking at him, I can picture his eyes hardening and his jaw clenching at seeing the result of the incident outside of his apartment.

I wish I could hide the bruises and the cuts; I hadn't wanted him to feel guilty for what had happened. If it wasn't for him, I could have been dead right now instead of sitting here with him. I twist a little and turn back to him. "Thank you."

His eyes are pained, and I see the regret creased into his face as he skims a cut on my upper arm. "How can you thank me? Look what happened to you. This is my fault, and I'm so sorry, Lulu."

I touch the side of his face, letting my thumb brush over his cheekbone, trying to sooth away the lines that formed there. "You didn't hurt me, you saved me."

He pulls me against him, and my face presses into the side of his neck. "I won't let anyone hurt you again, I swear."

We sit there for a little while, our wet bodies clinging together while the warm water rains down on us. For a few minutes, I forget about the outside world and let myself get lost in the swirling steam of the shower and the beat of his heart.

He clears his throat and lets me go as I turn away from him; he grabs the bar of soap from the soap dish. Crossing his arms in front of me, he traps me against him and flips the bar from hand to hand. I watch soap bubbles form and slip between his long strong fingers and drip onto my legs, making me remember the way his touch made my body feel so alive a few nights ago. He starts at my feet, and his soapy, calloused hands trace imaginary trails from my ankles to the inside of my knees then across my thighs to my hips. He nuzzles my ear and murmurs my name as I lean back against his chest and close my eyes.

I straighten my legs, and his fingers splay and skim up over my ribs and cup my breasts. His fingers swirl around my nipples, occasionally brushing over the peaks. Between the steady rhythm of the shower and the way he teases me, my breaths come quicker and my pulse races . One hand travels up higher, gliding across my throat until his thumb sweeps across the cleft of my chin. I hear the bubbles pop and crackle, and it tingles as the suds slip down my skin, making it seem like he is touching me everywhere at one time.

I press harder against him as the traveling hand heads south to the apex of my thighs. I stiffen when I feel his hardness against my lower back and sit up straight, thrust back into reality. "Logan, we can't."

He looks at me with his wary, soulful eyes, and then looks away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you the other night. "

My heart aches for him and I press the palm of my hand against his cheek, turning his face back towards mine. "No, that's not it. I'm just out of sync with my pills, between the hospital and …" He silences me by pressing a single finger to my lips, understanding that I do want to be with him, but my reluctance is only not wanting to rely strictly on condoms for birth control.

He lets out the breath he had been holding and rests his forehead against mine. "You had me worried. Lulu, I don't have to have sex with you to show you how I feel." He stands up, pulling me with him. His hands glide up and down my body as he rinses the soap off and reaches around me to turn off the water.

He steps out of the shower and grabs a rolled up towel, securing it low around his waist. The cooler bathroom air creeps into the shower area, causing goose bumps to pop on my arms. He holds out a cream-colored towel, and I step into him and the warm fabric. "Come on, let's get you dry."