Page 109 of Fixation
I ball my hands into fists, refusing to care what he likes or doesn’t like.
I like myself. Isn’t that good enough?
It is.
It has to be.
18
ANDERSON
The early evening has set over the city. On my way out of the hospital, fluorescent lights illuminate the halls. People’s chatter surrounds me. Some of them scream. Some cry.
“She’s unresponsive,” Dr. Peterson—one of the interns—says a little too loudly. “Let’s get her into the OR.”
They rush by me, the gurney wheels clattering on the linoleum floors.
Usually, I’d drop everything I was doing and throw myself into the surgery, whether they wanted me there or not. No matter when. No matter what.
I’d finish a twelve-hour shift like I just did now, and I’d still go in the OR with them.
The need to pay for my sins is a constant burn. An impulse.
This evening, and every evening since Harper has turned from my prey to my patient, my feet drag me in the other direction.
My heart hammers in its cage, restless and hopeful.
A strange sensation. I’ve learned to recognize it. Accept it. This insatiable need for Harper.
It hasn’t stopped in the last two days that I haven’t had her in my home.
Two days when no green eyes stared at me with a variety of emotions. Hurt, lust, hatred. Fear and gratitude.
Two days without tracing my fingers up her neck to her jaw and past her lips.
I miss owning her like that. Feeling her submit on instinct, not thought.
I miss shoving my cock in her mouth.
I miss her.
Every minute of every hour.
That’s a problem.
I’m supposed to be in control of the situation. I am.
Instead of reveling in how everything’s going according to plan, I’ve beenthisclose to spiraling.
This.
Close.
Especially after she left me a note on her dining table that first night she’d been away from me.
On the same spot I’d organized her mail.
Thank you. Still hate you.
