Page 47 of Fixation

ANDERSON

M y heart is going to rip itself out of my chest. Break the ribs. Leave me raw and open until I bleed out.

The thunderous beating is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

It’s a painful thing. A torture, to be in this body. To be in this car when Harper is there.

My heart wants to be with her.

I need to save her.

Her red hair is a fiery ocean in the taxi I just crashed into.

Her body flies forward. Head banging against the headrest of the passenger seat.

I’m dying. That’s what it is. I’m fucking dead.

She said she had her seatbelt on.

What the hell is this?

You were late. You are late. A weeping, grateful family member held you up after surgery, and you let them.

You remembered her interview would soon be over.

You failed to surprise her. You failed to protect her.

Motherfucker, you even changed out of your scrubs and into jeans and a T-shirt, took your sweet time instead of getting to her.

I thought I’d make it. I didn’t, but I wasn’t that late. I was there to watch her get into that taxi, and I figured— idiot —I could stalk her home. Surprise her when she least expects it.

Everything was going according to plan. Until the driver started driving in the wrong direction. He didn’t take her anywhere near her home.

That was when I failed Harper for the second time. I thought he was taking a shortcut for a few minutes.

And yet again, when I was focused on getting to her instead of calling her.

When I did, it was too late.

Too.

Late.

She didn’t have time to buckle up. And I’m here. Here instead of there.

I watch the scene unfold for what feels like hours. It’s actually seconds.

Traitorous concept of time.

My brain is splintering with each second she’s not in my arms. The pressure in my chest, goddammit, it’s too much.

You failed her.

From this angle, I can see the driver isn’t even fully inside the car anymore. His legs are still hanging over the blown airbags while his upper body dangles halfway out the window. Shards of glass have shredded his skin and he’s bleeding.

He’s probably dead.

I’ll have to make sure that he is. If not, I’ll perform the world’s most ruthless CPR, cracking his ribs until they punctured a million holes in his lungs.

Harper.

She matters.

My entire universe is inside that car. Limp. Helpless.

Anything could’ve happened to her, and I’m here. Sitting. Aching. Praying for a God who rarely listens, if He’s there at all.

Enough of this bullshit. I need to act. Need to focus.

Years in the ER kick in and pull me out of the spiral.

I’m thrusted back into my body.

I might be late, but I’m here now, throwing myself out of the car. It’s the fastest I’ve ever moved in my life.

A small crowd begins to gather on the sidewalk.

“You did it. You killed them.” A woman’s voice hardly registers. “I have the whole thing on my phone.”

Her accusations blur into noise.

The only thing I care about is getting Harper to a hospital. A real hospital, because fuck. She might be bleeding internally. I wouldn’t be able to tell without a CT scan.

We’ll get to the hospital soon enough. She’ll be fine, my Harper.

When I get to her, my stomach churns. Bile rises in my throat.

Her body’s limp. Her eyes are closed.

Her eyes. Are. Closed.

She isn’t dead. Can’t be.

I compartmentalize my love for her. Put it in a box to save for later.

How do I fix her?

First, I get her out of here.

The damn door closest to her won’t budge.

The son of a bitch locked her inside. I’m wasting precious seconds out here because of him.

If he hasn’t died yet, which I’m sure he has, I’ll kill him myself.

After I help her.

The driver’s door is locked too. I look left and right for something to help me break her window and—thank fuck.

A discarded metal piece from one of the construction sites in the area lies there, on the sidewalk.

A rod.

A lifeline.

Using my elbow to break the glass could’ve ended up damaging it. I need my arm. I need every part of me intact. So I could be Harper’s savior. Her surgeon, if it comes down to that.

Please, don’t let it come to that.

Someone hisses, “I’m calling the cops,” when I run to pick up the filthy rod off the floor.

Fuck them.

Before I go to Harper, I stalk to the front of the car. Check the driver’s pulse so that I can kill him in case he’s still alive.

Nothing.

His death thrills me for all of a second. Then I remember Harper.

Bang and the driver’s window splinters.

No one comes near me as I thrust the rod into it a second time. At last, it breaks. I hurl the rod at his window over and over until I create a hole wide enough for me to fit my arm into without risking injuries.

I unlock the doors. I curse him.

“Harper.” I yank the door open, willing my pulse to slow. For my mind to stop racing and focus, just focus on her. I won’t lose control. She can count on me. “Kitten.”

My hands move on their own as I brush my fingertips over her. Careful. Determined.

I look at her neck. Time her pulse.

There. It’s there, fluttering beneath my fingertips.

Then I curse as I look at that tattered, useless seatbelt that’s hanging next to Harper.

“Baby.” I accept her body into mine rather than pulling her aggressively out of the taxi. Can’t risk being careless when I don’t know what’s broken, cracked, or bleeding.

“Come here,” I say to the unconscious woman who has my heart in a vise grip.

Fear threatens to push through when her head lolls. Those lashes. Those cheeks. She’s painfully beautiful.

She’s breaking my heart.

I’m stronger than that. She won’t die on me.

Fucking ever.

“That’s it. Such a good girl.” I walk to my car, ignoring the frantic shouts. The people watching us. “Easy now. I’ve got you. Just let me help you.”

I’m being cautious. Hopeful.

She’s in the passenger seat. Soon, I’ll get her to the hospital.

The engine roars. I’m about to get the hell out of here.

“What about him?” A pair of fists bang on my window. “Why aren’t you helping him?”

A. He’s dead.

B. He stole my woman.

That’s why.

The police will understand. Harper will wake up, and she’ll tell them why I had to do it.

First, I need her to live.

I back up, then press the pedal to the floor.

“We’re almost there, kitten.” I have one hand on her neck, steadying her. “Hang on.” My voice turns into a bark when I instruct my phone. “Call Bennet.”

The chief of surgery picks up on the first ring. “Anderson.”

“My cousin. She’s hurt.” Now that Harper and I are a couple, I can shout the truth about her identity from the rooftops.

Thing is, explaining she wasn’t my cousin all along will take time.

I don’t have a single second to waste. “She’s been in a car accident.

She’s unconscious. A woman. Age twenty-two.

About five-foot-two.” I curse under my breath.

“I’ll be there in ten. Tell them to prep CT now. ”

“I’m on it. Elliot. Here, right this minute, go and—” he calls out and hangs up.

“Anderson.” My name, slurred and raw on her lips. I nearly slam into the bike in front of me. Swerve. Recover. “Anderson, he took me.”

“Shh.” I rub my thumb along her jaw. Blow past a red light. “I’m so sorry, kitten. So sorry. I should’ve been there. I fucked up.”

“Are we going to…” she sighs. “The basement?”

I want to laugh. Can’t. I can’t even breathe right now. I need air—I need her breathing.

“We’ll get there later.” Traffic claws at me, threatens to steal more time. I drive up on the curb. People honk and yell.

Unless one of them puts a bullet through my head, I’m not stopping for anything.

“No,” she whispers. “No, Ander?—”

She doesn’t finish. Her head falls back.

Adrenaline spikes like fire in my blood.

“Harper? Harper?” I glance over. She’s out cold.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. It won’t help her.

I search for her pulse. Steady.

She’s alive.

For now.

The hospital gates appear in the distance. They’ve never looked like this. Like heaven.

Three nurses. A surgeon. Bennet. A gurney is already out front.

I slam to a stop.

“Don’t touch her,” I shout before I even leave the car. “Don’t touch her.”

Mine.

They hesitate. Good. I grab Harper and carry her myself.

I call vitals and orders as we wheel her in. CT, pulse, everything I’ve got. When a staff member besides me slips the oxygen mask over her face, I nearly lose it. She has her hands on what’s mine.

Then her beautiful eyes flutter open and my heart warms.

If only for a second.

“Miss Arlington,” says the on-call surgeon, Tate, who’s just run over to join us.

My head snaps up. Jaw clenched.

Bennet brought an intern.

To treat my woman.

Fine. Fine. Fine.

If her injuries require surgery, he won’t be operating on her anyway. I will.

“Anderson.” Her eyes struggle to focus.

That weak gaze shatters me. It pleads.

She drives a fist through my chest.

This gaping hole won’t close. I won’t ever be the same after today.

This kind of agony changes people.

I’m deformed. Broken. Miserable.

We’ll carry this pain together, as one.

Once Harper is cleared of any internal injuries or bleeding—and she fucking will—I’ll show her the depths of my pain. What she’s done to me.

It won’t be a punishment for being kidnapped. This wasn’t her fault.

Thankfully, this wasn’t Sergey’s work, either. He would’ve gloated by now.

He hasn’t.

Someone just kidnapped her.

My hands, my mouth, my bones, every part of me demands that I reclaim her.

Only once she’s better.

“I’m here,” I repeat. I don’t let my emotions show. Not through my expression or the cadence of my voice. We move past the staff. Patients. Families. People. I squeeze Harper’s hand. Tell her, “I’m here.”

“I’m fine.” She coughs. “No need to take me to?—”

The basement.

She would’ve said it. Here, in front of my peers. But even wounded, she catches herself. My girl protects me by being quiet.

“Shh.” Her pulse beats beneath my thumb. I press it harder to her wrist, counting. “Seventy-three.”

Bennet is on the other side of the gurney, offering me a curt nod.