Page 20 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Xander

O akley steps onto The Harrington Hotel rooftop like she owns it, silhouetted against Boston’s skyline—a dark goddess surveying her kingdom. I’ve been watching her for weeks now, and still, the sight of her steals my breath. She doesn’t know I arrived twenty minutes early just to see this moment.

The wind catches her hair as she surveys her surroundings, her eyes flicking over the space with the careful precision of prey that knows it’s being hunted.

And yet, as she crosses the rooftop, framed by the glittering Boston skyline like some noir film heroine, my brain short-circuits to its basest programming. She’d look fucking magnificent on her knees.

My breath catches at the thought, sharp and unbidden, my cock straining against my pants as if it has a mind of its own. I grit my teeth, forcing the thought back into the shadowy part of my brain where I’ve shoved every other filthy fantasy I’ve had about her.

Thirty-two stories above Boston, the city lights spread below us like a board of possibilities or a crime scene map, depending on your perspective. I’ve used this rooftop before. Once to monitor a target in the building across the street, once to end a corrupt judge who thought he was untouchable.

But never for this. Never for something that makes my palms sweat like I’m thirteen again, asking Melissa to dance while sporting an unfortunate combination of braces and a voice that cracked mid-sentence.

“Okay, don’t be weird,” I coach myself. A lifetime habit from growing up in empty mansions, where talking to yourself was the only conversation available. “Just be normal. Whatever that means.”

I step from the shadows like the dramatic asshole I am.

Her shoulders tense, then relax as she recognizes me.

I’m wearing a mask again, black and streamlined, covering everything from my nose up.

My mouth is exposed, which feels like a tactical error when she keeps looking at it like she’s calculating the precise pressure needed to bite my lower lip.

There’s nothing I would like more.

“I wasn’t sure you’d show,” she says, her voice carrying on the wind.

“I always keep my appointments.” Her lips part, just enough to have me imagining what they’d feel like trailing down my chest and wrapping around my cock as I thrust into her mouth.

Christ, I’m a walking cliché of male depravity. Next, I’ll be sending unsolicited dick pics and calling her “baby. ”

Stop. Thinking. About. That.

I shift my weight, the movement doing nothing to relieve the pressure building in my pants.

The mask I wear feels suffocating, not because it covers my face, but because it doesn’t cover enough.

She can see my mouth. My jaw. The way my throat tightens when I swallow.

She’s watching me too closely, and it’s unraveling every ounce of control I have left.

“Nice mask,” she says, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Is it for anonymity or for drama?”

“The mask serves multiple purposes,” I say, tilting my head as though I have my shit together instead of calculating how many steps it would take to pin her against the nearest wall.

“Identity protection, dramatic effect, and it maintains the mystique.” I lean closer, lowering my voice.

“Some things are better left to the imagination.”

What I don’t tell her is how grateful I am for the concealment. How the mask hides the way my cheeks flush. Let her think there’s something dangerous lurking beneath, not an awkward stalker who’s memorized her daily schedule down to her preferred bathroom breaks.

She laughs, and the sound ricochets through me like a bullet finding its target. Having that laughter directed at me, because of me, is like someone switched on a circuit I didn’t know existed.

“You’re weird,” she says, studying me like I’m an exotic animal that just did something fascinating.

“I’m aware,” I reply dryly. “It’s part of my charm.”

“Yes, it is.”

She steps closer, the heels of her boots clicking against the concrete. Her movements are calculated, deliberate, but not predatory. It’s more like she’s testing the water, seeing how close she can get before I bolt. Spoiler: I don’t bolt.

“Why did you want to meet again?” she asks, tilting her head. “Your message was vague.”

Because I can’t stop watching you. Because I’m starting to wonder if you’re the only person on this godforsaken planet who might understand me. Because I’m dangerously close to breaking every rule I’ve ever followed just to keep you in my orbit.

“You’re investigating something interesting. I’m investigating something interesting. Thought we might compare notes,” I say, as if I haven’t been obsessively tracking her movements for weeks. “I have more information for you.”

“The file you gave me on Blackwell was amazing,” Oakley says, leaning against the rooftop railing with casual confidence. “Not something a hobbyist puts together.”

I allow myself a small nod of acknowledgment. “I have certain skills. Mostly useless ones like memorizing pi to a hundred digits and knowing how long it takes you to walk from your apartment to the coffee shop on Tremont Street, but occasionally something practical slips in.”

“Like killing people who’ve escaped justice?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

It’s a trap. It has to be. Nobody walks into a conversation like this without an angle. But Oakley Novak isn’t asking a question. She’s making a statement, like she knows it’s true.

Somehow, my face remains perfectly still. My expression doesn’t change, my body doesn’t tense, my breathing stays even. Inside, every alarm system I’ve ever installed is blaring simultaneously.

How could she possibly know? I’ve been meticulous. Perfect. No connections, no patterns, no evidence. We’re ghosts—invisible, untraceable. We’re the Fight Club of murder. The first rule is you don’t talk about it. Ever.

The second rule is you don’t fall for nosy journalists with a death wish and legs that make you forget your own name.

I laugh. “That’s quite an accusation,” I say, making my voice light, amused. “What’s next? Am I secretly Superman? The Tooth Fairy? The person who designs plastic packaging that’s impossible to open without industrial scissors?”

“I know I’m right.”

“I told you I’m not The Gallery Killer,” I say.

She steps closer, close enough that I can smell the faint sweetness of whatever she last ate.

Definitely those sour gummy worms she keeps in her desk drawer, third compartment on the right.

The ones she stress-eats when working against a deadline, twisting them between her fingers before biting their heads off first.

Not that I’ve been watching her that closely. That would be creepy. And I’m not a creep. I’m just...detail-oriented.

“Oh, I believe you,” she says, her voice dropping to something between a whisper and a dare. “You’re not The Gallery Killer. But you never told me you aren’t a killer.”

I laugh again, but the sound rings hollow. It’s the laugh of a man who’s just realized he’s standing on thin ice while wearing lead boots.

“That’s an interesting theory, Ms. Novak. I’m a private investigator. I track people. I gather information.” I gesture to the folder on Blackwell. “That’s what I do. That, and apparently now having existential crises on rooftops with beautiful journalists who think I’m a murderer. ”

She doesn’t blink. “You track people who deserve punishment. And then they disappear.”

The night air turns to concrete in my lungs. I can’t breathe. She’s not asking questions—she’s making statements with absolute certainty. I’ve never felt more exposed, and I’m wearing a fucking mask.

“Most people,” I manage, “would be running in the opposite direction if they believed what you’re saying.”

“I’m not most people.” She steps closer still, invading the calibrated personal space I maintain between myself and the rest of humanity. “And neither are you.”

“What do you want?”

Her eyes never leave mine, searching for something behind my mask. “I want Richard Blackwell to answer for what he did to my parents. I want the justice the system won’t give me.”

The pieces click together with sickening clarity. Oh. Oh no. This isn’t an accusation. It’s a job interview.

“I want your help,” she says. “He’s protected. Untouchable through normal channels. I’ve spent ten years trying to get enough evidence to bring him down.” Her voice catches. “He killed my source. He’ll kill anyone who gets close.”

“So your solution is to find someone to murder him for you?”

“My solution is to recognize when my methods aren’t working. To find someone with a unique skill set.” She takes a breath, then reaches out, her fingers brushing against my forearm. The touch sends electricity through my skin. “Someone I trust.”

I should recognize this for the trap it could be. Instead, something unfamiliar uncurls in my chest. Something that makes me want to slay dragons for her, which is ridiculous because I’m not a knight. I’m the dragon.

“You’re asking me to kill Richard Blackwell?” I state the unspoken request plainly.

“I’m asking you to help me get justice,” she corrects, though we both know it’s just semantics.

“The kind of justice the system will never provide.” Her fingers trail up my arm, burning paths across my skin.

“And I’m asking you because...something happens when I’m with you.

Something I can’t explain. And your eyes tell me you know exactly what I mean. ”

“You’re drawn to a man you believe is a killer?” I ask. “That doesn’t strike you as concerning?”

“It should,” she admits, her eyes never leaving mine. “But you don’t scare me. You should, but you don’t.” She steps closer. “I’ve never felt safer than when I’m with you, which makes absolutely no sense.”

I study her face, looking for signs of manipulation or deception, but find only raw determination tinged with vulnerability. It’s the same expression I’ve seen through my surveillance cameras when she works late into the night, chasing leads that always end in dead ends.

“Is this just about Blackwell?” I ask, needing to know. “Are you only here, only interested, because you want me to kill for you?”

She shakes her head, a strand of hair falling across her face.

My fingers twitch with the need to brush it away.

“No. I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t part of it, but.

..” Her gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes.

“I’ve never met anyone like you. Never been drawn to someone the way I am to you.

It terrifies me and thrills me at the same time. You make me remember I’m alive.”

The Hemlock Society exists because we maintain distance, never form connections, never allow personal entanglements beyond our club.

We select our own targets, we never take outside jobs, we never become killers for hire.

And here I am, already breaking those rules, already too invested in a woman who’s either going to be my downfall or my salvation.

“You understand what you’re asking?” I need to be certain.

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“What makes you think I’d consider this?” I ask, needing to hear her say it.

“Blackwell is exactly the kind of person you already target,” she says, pressing her advantage. “I’m just pointing you toward him sooner rather than later.”

I watch her face as she lays out her proposal. This woman, who knows too much and fears too little, stands before me, asking me to kill for her with the same directness she’d use to order coffee. The tactical part of my brain is screaming “ trap .”

“No,” I say, my voice firm despite the unexpected desire to say yes. “You’ve got the wrong person, Ms. Novak. I’m a surveillance expert, not a killer.”

Her expression shifts, disappointment washing across her features before she can mask it. The sight tugs at something in me, something I’ve spent years ensuring doesn’t exist.

“Too bad,” she says after a moment, a slight slump in her shoulders betraying how much she’d pinned on this request. “I thought you might understand.”

“Goodbye, Oakley.” I walk toward the edge of the rooftop, away from the elevator access and sheltered garden area. The wind picks up as I approach the perimeter, thirty-two stories of nothing but air between us and the pavement below. I expect her to leave.

She follows.