Page 1 of Fixation

ANDERSON

A s an ER surgeon, you could say I’ve seen a lot.

Blood. Guts. Hearts stopping and starting again against all odds.

I’ve stood beside crying patients, accepted their shaky thanks, then slipped out as they turned to loved ones, relieved yet distraught, shouting, “Don’t you ever scare me like that again, you hear? I love you too much to lose you.”

As the Bratva’s secret assassin in New York, I’ve seen things no one, especially not a surgeon, should ever witness. Men and women dying without a sound. One prick of my syringe, and they’re gone.

Thankfully, that part of my life is almost over. Three months, and I’m done with murdering people.

At least that’s what my contract with the head of the Russian mafia says, the one my father passed on to me when I was eighteen. Sixteen years later, I’m still paying for his mistakes.

Three months , I repeat, then shake it off, taking stock of my new home instead. Where I get to start my new life early.

It’s supposed to be a fresh start. A better one.

At the thought, resentment simmers low in my chest. Because let’s be honest—a man like me will never be able to truly start over.

Some things will follow me around no matter where I go.

My only comfort is that in three months, I won’t have the physical reminder of the wrongs I’ve done.

Like the chemical toxins I use to end lives.

Like the hospital bed I’ll set up in my basement.

Or the medical tools I keep to treat two bastards I’m obligated to take in whenever they get injured. The Bratva’s boss, the Pakhan, and his second-in-command. They’re the ones who turned my father and me into secret weapons.

There’ll be relief when my contract ends. When I’m finally free of them.

Relief, not happiness. I haven’t experienced joy in forever, and I don’t see it happening anytime soon.

Restaurants and movies aren’t my thing. I brushed off a resident’s movie invite just last week. Outside of work relationships, I don’t have any friends. And women? I haven’t been with one in years.

Voices rise in the otherwise quiet evening, cutting into my thoughts. Two of my three movers talk as they climb the stairs to my home, carrying boxes full of my clothes.

They have no idea I’m a murderer. A man who heals to make up for the blood on his hands.

For them, I’m nothing but a job. It’s better this way, when the filthiest parts of me are hidden.

They’re inside the house now, and I drift back to thoughts of my other life and?—

My train of thought gets cut abruptly when a movement in the brownstone next door catches my attention.

What’s this?

Or more like…who.

A woman. And not just any woman.

A force, pulling me to her. Tugging. Yanking.

The world fades. All I see is her.

She’s in her home, my neighbor, taking a seat at what seems like a dining table. Something in front of her demands all her focus.

She’s oblivious to my existence.

I’m hyperaware of hers.

After years of being dormant, a defibrillator jolt cracks through my chest.

My eyebrows pull together as confusion settles in.

This calling. This pull. This fixation with the red-headed woman who shares a wall with me.

I don’t understand any of it.

I can’t look away, either.

My heart beats again. Rapidly. Fiercely. Uncontrollably.

It wants what it wants, and it wants her .

I take a step closer toward the woman in the window.

She remains blissfully unaware, letting me watch her. Adore her.

“Sir?” one of the movers asks.

Reluctantly, I’m forced to tear my eyes from the most beautiful profile of the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever come across.

The guy is about my age, his eyes a lighter shade of brown than mine. His hair, though, is the same color and texture. Thick, dark brown, and cut short.

He could be dead for all I care. “What?”

“Where did you say you wanted to put this?”

This as in my medium-sized dresser where I’ll stash my serums and chemicals once the movers are gone.

While his face betrays nothing, his biceps bulge.

I’m being rude, not answering his question.

Thing is, my mouth can’t form words.

I’m preoccupied.

Mesmerized, really.

Unable to restrain myself, I turn back to her.

This woman, with her fiery hair and slender hands working, working, working.

On what?

Why do I care?

“Sir?”

The vein in my throat pulses. I’m infuriated by the need to go up there and ask her what she’s doing. And why would she need a blowtorch?

Why. Do. I. Care?

For so long, I couldn’t find it in me to give a fuck about anyone.

Anyone.

Now I have to have her.

I have to, and can’t. I’m not supposed to.

My pulse kicks up. Frustration doubles in size.

Whatever she stirs in me, I have to lock it down before it shows on my face.

Especially if someone’s watching. They could be there, either one of my two bosses.

Once this woman is tied to me, both our lives would be ruined. They’d use her to blackmail me, just like they did with my mom.

A blank expression slides into place, and I return my attention to the mover. As far as the outside world is concerned, I don’t care about her or anyone else. That’s the right thing to do. The only way to save her life.

Whatever it is I want with her, I’ll figure it out in three months, when I’m a free man. When they move on and forget about me.

The mover changes his grip on the dresser, leaning its weight on his other side.

Right. “The attic.”

“The attic?” His brow furrows.

Sure, there’s plenty of space to showcase this unique piece of furniture. Except I don’t need that kind of filth staring me in the face every day.

“Yes, the attic.”

“Have it your way.” A small shrug from the mover, and he climbs the stairs and heads inside.

The two others follow, balancing my new king-size bed between them.

They disappear, leaving me alone with my neighbor.

The breeze whips at my short hair.

Night air presses at my back, nudging me a step closer to the woman.

Would she scream if she saw me out here, staring at her?

I’m not physically intimidating. A lean man in a plain pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

I am looking into her home, though.

So…yeah, she probably would scream.

I’d probably like it.

Another step in her direction. Another one.

Winter was rough this year, and spring is slow to catch up. It’s getting there, though. The biting cold is gone. It hardly rains anymore. Flowers are changing, growing. Blooming. The trees are green and lush around us.

They used to catch my eye, once upon a time.

Before I saw her.

What a beautiful creature, bathed in a warm light, her hair now tumbles down the front of her body.

Commotion reaches my ears from somewhere inside my house. Furniture is being placed and then scraped over the hardwood floors. Orders are passed around between the movers.

And.

I.

Watch.

Her.

I’m at war with myself, unable to decide whether it’s her emerald eyes I’m interested in the most or her hair. Maybe it’s her lips, so full and pink. I like them. They call to me.

Then her hands are in motion again. My attention is entirely on them. I still have no idea what she’s doing.

She moves her hands around, captivating me.

This, I decide, this is what I love the most about her.

Because it means we’re more alike than I imagined.

She reminds me of myself when I’m in the OR. Methodical. Thoughtful. Efficient.

I lean in closer, catching a glimpse of silver. Of a small hammer pounding at it.

She’s crafting.

My curiosity is a roaring fire. It’s new and unfamiliar, and I?—

I have to know everything about her.

But the angle I’m standing at is all wrong. Her table is too high. Her slender body is curved over it, hiding her secrets from me.

Edging a little closer, climbing to her doorstep, that might offer me the insight I need. Either that, or I could walk around to the alley where her other windows are.

Like the big, bad wolf I’m turning out to be, I’d be able to see her better. Every inch of her face. Her eyes. The light smattering of freckles and the cleavage that her off-the-shoulder black top offers.

Another time.

I won’t come for her before I’m free of my obligations to the Bratva.

I won’t let anyone hurt her. Anyone except me, that is. I’d hurt her so good.

Oh, fuck me. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear like that…

The little scrunch of her nose…

I curl my hands into fists. Plant my feet on the ground.

The things she’s doing to me. The strange way my heart reaches out to her.

“Mister.” The mover with blond hair and bright blue eyes is here. Before me. “The textbooks labeled boxes. You didn’t mention where you wanted those.”

Burned to the ground , I’m about to bark at him. It’s a visceral reaction to having him block my view.

Another response forms in my head. Who the fuck cares about textbooks when she’s here?

That alone is a problem.

It’s reckless. Dangerous.

Getting sloppy like this could get either me or her killed.

Problem is, I’m too far gone. I’m so hard I’d probably bruise her from the inside if I fucked her right now.

The word soon is a neon sign flashing before my eyes.

Soon and focus .

“Mister?”

“Second floor, last door to the left.” I look at him while forming a plan inside my head.

“Sure.”

He walks off.

I keep plotting.

I might not be able to take her right now.

Doesn’t mean I can’t start controlling her life from a distance.

Until I have her, I can pick the lock to her place. Install cameras and keep an eye on her.

Birth control, if she’s on any, I can tamper with that.

She shouldn’t shield her body from destiny. She needs to be ready to carry our children the moment I claim her.

Oh, and if another man comes sniffing around her? If there’s a boyfriend somewhere?

There are ways to handle them.

Nothing will come between us.

That’s a fucking fact.