Page 10 of Fixation

ANDERSON

P ower naps aren’t something they teach you in med school.

You learn that on the job.

You learn to do it as early as your internship.

While lying on any available surface. While sitting down.

Hell, by the end of the first year of your rotations, you can do it standing up.

You learn to wake up just as fast.

That’s how I fell asleep with Harper here. Though I wanted to spend every second watching over her, I had to close my eyes for a couple of hours.

I sat against the door to the basement and forced myself to sleep for her. So I could take care of her later.

Which I did.

I was there when she woke up.

I’ll be there in an hour when she comes to.

Thanks to my sedative, she’s getting her much-needed rest. And while I wait for her to wake up, I’m back here, sliding down the basement door. Leaning my head against the warm wood.

My eyes flutter shut.

Another hour. Just one more hour of sleep so I can recover.

Bzz.

My phone. Not Harper’s, which has been quiet ever since I got her here.

Not my beeper, either. No one at the hospital is looking for me, thank fuck.

The remaining option isn’t that great, either.

Sergey, the notification says.

I don’t open the message, because fuck him.

What I do is prioritize Harper. I take this moment to text her parents. I reassure them that she’ll call after she gets some rest, that her fever has broken, and that she’s resting.

Beau, her brother, is also close to her. I’ve been monitoring their conversations, listening in from her end. They love each other.

He gets a text that sounds a lot like his sister.

Harper: Hey, little bro. Please don’t worry. I’m okay, just need some rest.

Beau: Say the word and I’ll take the first flight to NY.

His response comes in when I head to the kitchen. Unlike Harper, my house doesn’t feel like a home. Other than the bare necessities, I don’t have much here.

Maybe now…

My heart warms and twists simultaneously. The thought of having Harper here—picking furniture, hanging paintings—does strange things to me.

Over the first year after my mother disappeared, I wished I could have someone on my side. A family member. A friend.

Anyone to reassure me I wasn’t alone.

Harper will be that person for me.

And I’ll be that person for her.

I pause in the middle of the kitchen to send an email to Emersyn on Harper’s behalf. Harper tells her there’ll be a week’s delay in her custom orders. She needs more time to rest than she thought.

I read her emails earlier. She told Emersyn she’d need three days before.

Yeah, no. She needs at least two days to recover.

Which is why Harper asks Emersyn to deal with her customers like they always do, since she’d need more time.

Emersyn shoots an email back seconds later. She says custom order delays never happen— fuck, I should’ve realized —but she suggests we offer a discount to compensate their customers.

I agree, asking her to email me back and give the bottom line.

Seconds later, I get an email from Emersyn. A few thousand dollars, that’s all.

I funnel the amount to one of Harper’s cash apps, not her bank account.

She won’t have to report it on her tax return, since this is a gift from me to her.

I’m more than her friend , though I don’t think the IRS cares about semantics.

This is between Harper and me.

My obsession. My woman.

Despite the fight she gave me a moment ago, it won’t be long until she realizes I was right.

She’s mine.

She makes me work to be hers. Just like I wished she would.

My lips curve upward. My cock thickens in my scrubs.

Emersyn asks what else she can do to help. I take the initiative and instruct her to handle my emails without asking for my input until I—Harper—contact her.

Harper trusts her, and so do I.

Worst case, I’ll pay for the damages she caused.

Emersyn says she’s on it.

She won’t have to be for long. Harper will see how useful I can be. How much easier her life gets when she leans on me.

Once she’s starts recovering, we’ll go through her emails together.

Just her and I.

Everything’s settled then.

Time to see what Sergey wants.

His text is simple, always is when he sends me to kill people. I don’t need more than a photo, date, and location anyway.

The bastard expects me to do this hit job in two weeks.

My last one.

Nothing in his message implies that we’re parting ways after this one last hit, confirming my suspicions.

He won’t release me after this last job.

Or so he thinks. I’ll deal with his shit another time. I’ll have to start planning. I will.

For now, I answer with a thumbs up, put the phone on the kitchen counter, and wash my hands.

Harper will need to eat when she wakes up.

Luckily, I have everything ready. I planned on fixing chicken soup for her later, but as the saying goes, no better time than the present.

Water heats in the pressure cooker. I pull marrow bones out of the freezer.

She might refuse to accept more of my help. To eat the food I’m making for her.

I scoff at the idea.

As if she has a choice.

As far as I’m concerned, she doesn’t. Sergey doesn’t have one, either.

He’ll be out of my life soon enough.

After that, Harper can make this house her home. She can decorate it any way she likes.

As soon as she gets used to the idea that she’s mine.

I have no doubt she will.

Next up, spices. I set them out along with the rest of the vegetables on the counter.

The chicken thighs are already there.

Nothing’s missing.

You see, that’s the thing about me.

Nothing in my life is out of place.

Nothing’s left to chance.

Absolutely nothing.