Page 23 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Xander

A high-pitched alert jerks me from sleep, cutting through layers of unconsciousness.

My phone buzzes against the nightstand, emitting the distinct pattern I’ve assigned to Oakley’s apartment sensors. Sleep, the rational part of my brain argues. Ninety-seven percent of nocturnal alerts are false positives.

I grab the phone anyway.

My fingers fumble across the screen, clumsy with sleep. The feed loads, four angles of Oakley’s apartment filling my screen.

The overhead view captures her staggering through her front door. She drops her bag, locking the door behind her. Just Oakley. No masked intruders or shady characters. Crisis averted.

Wait. Something’s wrong.

I switch to the kitchen angle for a better view. I zoom in. Clothing disheveled, right sleeve torn at the shoulder seam, dust marks on the knees consistent with falling.

My throat tightens. Something happened to her.

I switch to the living room camera as she collapses onto her couch. Her face turns toward the light, revealing a darkening bruise along her left cheekbone, split lip, and the unmistakable purple swelling of a black eye.

“Fuck.”

My fingers grip the phone until the case creaks. Blood rushes to my head, pounding in my ears as heat spreads across my chest. A primal instinct surges through me. Protect her, shield her, destroy whatever caused this. My muscles coil, ready to strike at threats that aren’t even in the room.

She touches her neck, again and again. Searching for something missing.

My spine straightens, muscles seizing one by one until I sit statue-still. On screen, Oakley folds inward. Her shoulders shake, each tremor rippling through her frame as sobs tear from her throat—raw, wounded sounds that slice through my speakers and into my chest.

“Oakley...” The whisper escapes my lips.

Who fucking touched her?

I’m up, keys in hand, before the thought completes.

The door slams behind me as I take the stairs two at a time, my brain locked on a single directive.

Get to her. Now.

The underground parking garage echoes with my footsteps. I unlock my car from thirty feet away, sliding inside and starting the engine in one fluid motion. The tires squeal against concrete as I speed up the ramp.

Boston’s streets blur past my windows. I run a red light. Then another. I cut across three lanes of traffic. I take corners too fast, the G-force pressing me against the driver’s side door.

None of this is me. I calculate. I plan. I don’t react.

But I can’t stop seeing her face, the tears tracking through the dust on her cheeks. She never cries .

I pull up outside her building and kill the headlights. My breathing still hasn’t normalized, my heart banging against my ribs.

Through the windshield, I scan the exterior of Oakley’s apartment building. Fourth floor, west side, lights still on. I spot a path through the landscaping that offers cover from the street lamps.

I reach into my glove compartment and pull out my black face mask—the same one I wore on the roof. I slip it on. The fabric presses against my cheekbones, narrowing my field of vision to tunnel-like focus. My breath warms the material with each exhale.

“This is stupid,” I mutter to myself, the material of the mask catching my breath. Breaking pattern. Acting on impulse. Everything I’ve spent years training myself never to do.

I exit the car, easing the door shut. The night air hits me, cold enough to sting my exposed skin. I stick to the shadows, moving toward her building.

A couple emerges from the front entrance, laughing. I duck into the ornamental bushes lining the walkway, flattening myself against the ground. Their footsteps pass within feet of me, but they’re too absorbed in each other to notice the man hiding in the landscaping.

I track their laughter until it fades into the night. My heartbeat slows to a steady rhythm—the familiar calm that settles over me during surveillance operations.

Once they’re gone, I extract myself from the bushes, brushing leaf fragments from my clothes.

I slip into her building through the side entrance, the one with the broken security camera I noticed three weeks ago during my initial perimeter assessment. The main lobby poses too much risk of being seen.

Elevators equal cameras. Too much exposure. I take the stairs instead, counting each flight, to the fourth floor.

“You’ve lost control of the situation,” I mutter to myself, adjusting the elastic around my neck. “Protocol exists for a reason.”

At apartment 4F, I hesitate. I’ve been inside her apartment seven times since installing the first cameras. Each time through the rear window with the faulty lock, or the bathroom skylight, or the fire escape. Never through the front door like a normal person.

Now I stand before her door like any other visitor, hand raised to knock. The normality of it feels more transgressive than any of my previous entries.

Soft knuckles against the wood, then silence. I wait thirty seconds, listening for movement inside.

Nothing.

I reach into my pocket for the copy of her key I made during my first surveillance installation. I slide it into the lock, metal scraping against metal as I turn it. The door opens an inch, then stops—the security chain blocks my path.

Through the narrow gap, I glimpse her living room, hear her muffled crying.

The chain won’t stop me. I pull a thin metal tool from my jacket pocket, slide it through the opening, and work at the chain’s mounting bracket.

Three seconds of pressure on the right spot, and the screws give.

The chain goes slack, letting me push the door just wide enough to squeeze through.

I slip inside, easing the door shut behind me. I stand frozen in the entryway, not sure how to let her know I’m here without scaring her half to death.

I clear my throat, the sound too loud in the quiet apartment. “Oakley.”

A startled yelp echoes from the living room. Something flies at me—a book, judging by the weight and trajectory—and smacks against my shoulder.

“ Oof .” I stagger back a step, more from surprise than pain.

“Stay back!” Her voice trembles between fear and fury. “I swear I’ll—” She freezes mid-threat, confusion replacing terror as she squints through swollen eyes.

“Oakley, it’s me.” I hold my hands up, palms outward, staying just inside the doorway. “Your stalker?”

That didn’t sound weird at all.

Something sharp jabs into my ass cheek. I jerk forward, hand flying to the stinging sensation.

“What the—” Another jab, opposite side. I twist around, trying to see what’s happening.

“What’s wrong?” Oakley’s voice shifts to concern.

“I don’t know!” I slap my backside, feeling something small move beneath my fingers. “Something bit my ass!”

Another pinch, sharper this time. I yelp, leaping like I’ve been tased .

“Let me see.” She approaches, her bruised face now etched with curiosity rather than fear.

“No, it’s—” The words die as something crawls inside my pants. “Fuck!”

My hands fumble with my belt buckle, dignity becoming a secondary concern to whatever’s attacking me. I hop, yanking down my pants while twisting to reach behind me.

“Hold still,” Oakley commands, moving closer.

“I can’t hold still! Something is treating my butt cheek like an all-you-can-eat buffet!” My voice scales octaves I didn’t know existed. I wrestle my way out of my underwear, hopping on one foot while trying to maintain some semblance of balance.

Oakley circles behind me, unfazed, her analytical gaze fixed on my posterior.

“I can’t see anything. Stop moving.”

I contort my neck, trying to see over my shoulder. The expression on Oakley’s face sends a fresh wave of panic through me.

“What is it?” My voice cracks like I’m thirteen again. “You can say it. I can take it.”

She doesn’t respond, just continues staring with intense concentration.

My mind races through terrifying possibilities. Spider? Tick? Some exotic flesh-eating parasite that’s been dormant for centuries?

“Is it bad?” I ask, voice edging toward desperation. “Like, really bad?”

Still no answer. Just that unwavering, focused stare.

I follow her gaze, contorting further, but can only glimpse my own pale ass cheek. Whatever horror she’s witnessing remains out of my line of sight.

“Oakley? Say something. Anything.”

The continued silence wrecks what little composure I have left. Here I am, pants down in the apartment of the woman I’ve been surveilling, my ass apparently showcasing something so horrifying she’s been rendered speechless.

This is not covered in the Hemlock Society handbook.

“I’m going to die,” I whimper, feeling another pinch. “This is how it ends for me. Death by ass attack.”

Another pinch, sharper than the others. I jump and slap my ass. “Holy shit, what is it? A black widow? Brown recluse? Is it laying eggs? Please tell me it’s not laying eggs.”

“Stop. Being. Dramatic.” Oakley’s voice breaks through my spiral of panic. The clinical focus on her face cracks, replaced by something that looks like amusement.

“You think this is funny?” I twist further, nearly toppling over. “I could experience anaphylactic shock any second.”

“It’s ants.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Just some red ants.”

“Ants?” I repeat, voice still embarrassingly high.

“Yes, fire ants. Little insects? Six legs? Work together to lift things ten times their weight?” She makes a pinching motion with her fingers. “These bite.”

Relief floods through me so fast that I nearly pass out. “Oh, thank God. I thought it was— Ow!” Another sharp pinch interrupts me. “They’re still biting!”

“Well, yeah. That’s what ants do when they’re trapped against warm skin.” She gestures toward my exposed lower half. “Though I have to say, that’s a really fine ass you’ve got there. ”

I freeze mid-hop, pants tangled around my ankles, dignity a distant memory. “I... What?”

“Your ass.” She points matter-of-factly. “It’s nice. Firm. Symmetrical. Good muscle definition.”

“Uh...thanks? I do squats.”