Page 7 of Fixation

ANDERSON

T he bathroom fills with the sound of running water while Harper waits for me in her bed.

Warmth spreads through my chest as I take in her bathroom again.

She has both a shower and a bathtub—just like me.

And since the tub looks new, I’m guessing she bought it for the same reasons I did.

Sore muscles.

For all my practice in killing people and keeping them alive, I’m still human.

My back gets stiff. My fingers cramp.

Thing is, I’m short on time and even shorter on sleep.

A massage doesn’t fit into my schedule. From what I’ve seen, it doesn’t fit into Harper’s, either.

But Harper isn’t me.

She’s important. She can’t keep treating herself like second best.

She should be pampered. Nurtured. Worshipped.

This woman—who most days works ten times harder than I do—hasn’t taken care of herself the way she should.

I’m here to amend that.

Putting my concerns aside, I turn off the tap and go back to my patient.

I stop at the edge of her bed, removing my clothes. My shoes. They go in a neat pile on the armchair.

Harper’s next. “Let’s get you ready for your bath.”

I’m being technical about stripping her. Clinical, like I’m checking off a task on a patient chart. And still, it isn’t easy. It takes me a while to relieve her of three layers of pants, two T-shirts, and the green sweater that matches her eyes.

I don’t linger on her pink, taut nipples. Or the red splotches on her flesh. The dip of her navel. On her bare pussy.

“I’m here to help. I’m going to pick you up and move you to the bathroom,” I inform her, my voice detached.

Again and again, I remind myself this isn’t sexual.

That carrying her is just another form of care. I remind myself that she needs me, not the other way around.

Regardless, staying on top of it tests every shred of discipline I’ve got left.

“Deep breath,” I say when I lower us into the tub. She winces when I dip her head beneath the water. “And here we go.”

The sensation bothers her, and yet her body is too far gone to wake up for this.

Seems like I underestimated how badly she needs this rest.

How badly she needs me .

“There. You can relax.” With one arm around her, I keep her sitting upright while I reach over for her shampoo. “I’m here for you.”

My cock stirs as soon as her head rests on my shoulder.

To shake it off, I force a sharper kind of torment to the forefront of my mind.

Like…this one. The first time Sergey Ivanovich barged into my home. Right after the last of the guests left my father’s wake.

“Mom?” I walked up to the front door of our old home when I heard a noise coming from there.

Hope, the filthy monster, surged through my body, curling hot and sharp beneath my ribs like a knife waiting to twist.

My mother had left two days before Dad was lowered into the ground. She’d said she needed a moment to herself.

She hadn’t been back since.

I was eighteen, so technically, I didn’t need her.

But fuck if I didn’t wish she’d come home. That she hadn’t left me too.

“No,” a man barked, his accent heavy. “Not your mother.”

I stopped at the kitchen, my nose scrunching. I didn’t recognize his voice.

My family had lived in the suburbs of New York. I knew each and every one of my neighbors.

None of them sounded like that.

Without thinking, I snatched a knife from the counter. I’d never killed a man.

I’d never wanted to die young, either.

Dad had to have thought the same thing when the semitrailer crashed into his car and stole him from us.

“Who the fuck are you?” I growled at the muscular man who took up the entire space in our foyer.

We were about the same height, around six feet five inches, but back then, I was innocent.

Na?ve.

Nothing about this man, in his black suit and the Cyrillic letters tattooed all over his hands and bulging neck, suggested na?veté.

The aura surrounding him was dark and ominous.

I held the knife to him, anyway.

It was all I could do.

“Your father had a contract he failed to fulfill.” His brown eyes glimmered. His light blond hair, which he had cut short, appeared almost white in the late afternoon sun. “You’re his only remaining family. I’m here to collect.”

“There isn’t much left, and my mother needs that money.” I wielded the knife, moving closer to the man. “I’m not giving it to you. Get out. Leave.”

His lips twisted in a disgusted snarl. “I don’t need your money. I need your skills. Your father, he bragged about you. Said you’d be a better chemist than he ever was, if you put your mind to it.”

What could this man want with me? What skills?

I didn’t ask. Couldn’t.

“And while I’d rather keep you alive and taking care of business for me, trust that there’ll be consequences if you refuse to do as I say. I won’t hesitate to kill you, then rape and chop your absent mother to pieces.”

Fear had my stomach churning.

“What did he say I could do?” With Mom’s life at stake, I forced myself to ask, “What do you want from me?”

“I want sixteen years of your life.” The man straightened his back. Rolled his shoulders. “Sixteen years were left in Sean’s contract with me, the future head of the Bratva. The Russian mafia. That’s what I want.”

The Russian mafia.

I let the words sink in.

Then my stomach dipped. I swallowed around the lump in my throat. “Doing what?”

“Killing people. Fourteen years ago, he began working for me and me alone as an assassin. He had his serums that never left a trail behind him. He signed a contract that promised me thirty years of his service. You have to fulfill what’s left.

I’m Sergey, by the way. Your only contact with the Bratva. Your new boss.”

“No.” I shook my head so hard my brain hurt. My heart hurt. My dad? My hero? Taking people down for the mafia? And I was supposed to take his place? I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. It was sick. It wasn’t right. “No way.”

He said nothing while he slid his hand under his suit jacket, patting a gun.

Mom, raped and hacked into tiny pieces. Me, dead and unable to help her.

My stomach was about to reject my late lunch. I swallowed again.

It was a lost cause to argue with him. He didn’t strike me as a man who ever lost a fight. A man who issued empty threats wasn’t him, either.

“Fine, I agree.” The best I could do was to counter the damaging effects of the horrors he’d asked of me. I could and I would undo a sliver of the damage I was destined to cause. “On one condition.”

“A condition?” Sergey lifted an eyebrow, amusement flashing in his eyes. “Well, wonder kid. Let’s hear it.”

“I’m going to be a doctor. My scholarship only covers some of my college tuition. You’re going to cover the rest.” Lowering my guard around this monster equaled sure death, so I pointed the knife at him while I made my demand. “Any expenses I have, you’re responsible for them too.”

“Hmm. A doctor. Another skill we could use.” A firm nod. My blood thickened in my veins. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Harper shifts in the tub, bringing me back to the present moment.

I’m holding her tight. Too tight. For too long, if I had to guess.

At least I’m not hard anymore.

The absence of lust doesn’t mean the danger’s passed.

It’s just settled. For now.

“You’re absolutely right. I’ve been neglecting you.” I squirt shampoo into my hands and massage it into her scalp. “Let’s amend that.”

Without another word, I rinse her hair. Then I move on to the conditioner and to soaping her body.

Her nipples break the surface of the water, tightening in the cold. Her pussy is hot and clenches when I dip two fingers in to clean her thoroughly.

When I’m throbbing again, it’s nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

I breathe through it, focusing on the steady thump of her heartbeat against my chest.

This time, it’s easier to remember that this is about her, not my pleasure.

Eventually, I get the job done, then climb out of the tub.

Harper is safe in my arms. I dry her body. Run a comb through the knots in her hair, then dry it with a towel.

The clothes I put on her are hers. Just until we get to my place, where I’ll change her into mine.

With my scent on her skin.

Not a single thread on her won’t come from anyone other than me. But first, I have to make her bed.

Gently, I place Harper in the armchair by the wall while I strip the dirty sheets and replace them with fresh ones from the closet.

The soiled linens and covers are placed in the washing machine. The clean clothes from the earlier cycle are moved to the dryer. I’ll come back later to fold them. Put them back in her closet.

Harper, on the other hand, won’t.

Until I decide she’s healed and rested, Harper won’t be setting foot back here.

She belongs where I can see her.

Where I can keep her safe.

In my home, where she should’ve been all along.