Page 58 of Fixation

In the meantime, I’ll nurse her back to health. I’ll drill into her head that there’s no one else for her but me.

“I hate you.” Her nerve is back, so self-assured that I won’t kill her or punish her right this minute. If she only knew there were worse things than death. Like how hard it is for me not to fuck the resistance out of her. I put every ounce of my focus into undoing the restraints around her ankles. “You know, I’m not actually obeying you. Staying where I am.”

“You couldn’t run if you wanted to, which I assume you do.” I massage the areas where the foam kissed the skin of her ankles. A sharp pang of need bursts through me. I’m better once I let her foot drop to the bed. “You have a fever, Harper. You have to stay in bed and rest.”

“Fever? That’s my problem? What about the fact that you drugged me?” Her lips twist in a snarl, but she takes the hand I offer her. “I need to rest from that too.”

I help her to the floor with my other hand placed over her waist. The touch is impersonal. It’s there to support Harper.

“One step on your own and your knees will buckle.” My eyes and hers collide. “You might sprain your wrist. Break your nose. You need me.”

“What I need is my freedom. What I need”—a shuddered inhale—“is to live.”

“I won’t kill you.” Not now, not later. Together, with the IV pole, we head to the bathroom that’s located behind her bed.

After two months of stalking her. Of wanting her. After all this time, this feels surreal.

Talking to her, touching her, caring for her.

Mine.

“You think I’m lying. That’s okay.” It’s either I talk to her, or I throw her back on her bed, spread her legs, and suck on her clit until she cries. “I’ll show you. You’ll see.”

We reach the bathroom. I open the door for her, my other hand remaining firm on her waist. I wasn’t exaggerating earlier. She could stumble. She could hurt herself.

No one damages what’s mine.

“Careful.” I guide her inside, slipping in there behind her.

As soon as I lift my hand from her body, Harper catches mine. Her grip is more of an impulse than a conscious move. She curses under her breath. I fight to smother a smirk.

Then I turn around, allowing her privacy while she sits on the toilet.

She does so while clinging to me. To my hand, instead of balancing herself by using the IV pole.

Jesus Christ.

I have to stop fixating on how sweet she is. She hates me and she trusts me, and fuck.

Her ass meets the toilet, and Harper lets go of my hand. “Get out.”

“Not happening.” I cross my arms over my chest.

Her growl is adorable. “Get. Out.”

“Best I can do is keep my back to you.”

“I’m too weak to run. You said so yourself.” The scowl in her voice, I want to eat it up. “So get the fuck out.”

I shake my head.

No one’s here to stop me from being meaner. From taking what I need.

My ethics are the reason I look away. Why my eyes are locked on the bed where she’ll spend the next few days. The part of my home that, years from now, we’ll remember was where I took her out on our first date.

“You’re sick. Get out.”

A few beats pass. Eventually, she relents. The sound of her pee breaks through the deafening silence.