Page 24 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

“It shows.” Her eyes linger a moment longer, then her fingers press against my skin, plucking something tiny from my flesh. I feel the sharp pinch as she pulls another one off.

Here I am, pants around my ankles, ass exposed, hopping around Oakley’s apartment like a deranged flamingo—because of fucking ants?

I yank my underwear back up, my dignity in tatters.

The laughter fades from her face as she sits back on the couch, wincing with the movement. My focus sharpens, embarrassment forgotten as I cross the room toward her.

I kneel before her, eyes assessing each visible injury. Split lip. Bruise darkening along her left cheekbone. Right eye swelling. Raw scrapes across both palms.

“May I?” I gesture toward her hands.

She nods, extending her arms. I take her right hand in mine, cradling it like something fragile. The scrapes look painful—skin torn where she must have caught herself falling. Small bits of gravel are still embedded in the wounds.

I rise and move to her bathroom, returning with a first aid kit. I set it on the coffee table, opening it with practiced movements.

“This might sting,” I murmur, dampening a cotton pad with antiseptic.

I hold her wrist steady with one hand, my thumb resting against her pulse point. With the other, I dab the cotton against her palm, my touch light as a whisper. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.

I clean each abrasion, removing tiny fragments of debris. My fingers brush against her skin between strokes, a silent apology for the pain. When both palms are clean, I apply antibiotic ointment, spreading it in the gentlest circles.

The bandages come next. I unroll the gauze across her right palm, wrapping it just tight enough to protect without restricting movement.

I secure it with medical tape, smoothing the adhesive with my thumb.

I repeat the process with her left hand, working in silence, broken only by her occasional sharp intake of breath.

Her bandaged hands rest in mine, small and vulnerable. Something shifts in my chest, a tectonic movement of emotion I can’t control. I lift her right hand and press my lips to her fingertips, just above the edge of the bandage.

I lower her hand. “Better?”

She nods, her eyes wide.

“Who did this to you?” My voice emerges sounding alien. Quiet, deadly.

Oakley looks up, surprise flickering across her face at my tone. “Blackwell’s men. Three of them. They were waiting by my car after work.”

I move to the kitchen, filling a plastic bag with ice, wrapping it in a clean dish towel. Back on the couch, I gently press it against the swelling around her eye.

“Keep this here. Ten minutes on, ten minutes off.” The clinical instructions help me maintain some semblance of control.

She winces at the cold but holds the ice pack in place. “ They said it was a warning to stop asking questions about Blackwell. That next time they wouldn’t be so gentle.”

My hand stills on her arm.

“They mentioned Martin. Said his ‘accident’ should have been message enough.” Her voice cracks. “They knew about the calls I made today. The people I contacted were from your flash drive.”

I rise, pacing the small space between her couch and the coffee table. Three steps one way, three steps back. Deliberate movement to redirect the energy building in my body.

“What else?”

Her hand drifts to her neck, fingers tracing the empty space where something should be. “They took my mother’s locket. It was all I had left of her.”

I stop pacing.

“Your mother’s locket?”

Oakley nods, fresh tears welling. “I’ve worn it every day since she died. It had her picture inside. Her and my dad.”

The room falls silent except for the ticking of a clock somewhere and the soft sound of her breathing.

They could have just beaten her. They could have threatened her. But they took the locket—a deliberate act of cruelty designed to wound beyond physical pain.

My fingernails carve half-moons into my palms. The pressure in my chest builds, a dark, unfamiliar rage that feels nothing like my usual calculated planning.

“Describe them to me.” My voice emerges unnaturally calm, at odds with the chaos churning beneath my skin. “Everything you remember. Height, weight, distinguishing features, voices, scents, anything unusual about their clothes or hands. ”

My phone is already in my palm, thumb hovering over an app that will access every surveillance camera within a mile radius of her office.

“Tell me where it happened. What time. Which direction they came from. What vehicle they used.”

She tells me everything. The black van that blocked her escape route. How they grabbed her, threatened her, warned her to stop investigating. The gun pressed against her ribs. The deliberate cruelty when they tore her mother’s locket from her neck.

My jaw tightens. They were watching her. Tracking her movements. Planning this.

“They won’t touch you again,” I say. They won’t. Not if I have anything to do with it.

Oakley looks up, her face still tear-streaked, blue eyes shining.

“Your mask is slipping,” she says, voice hoarse.

Her fingers reach up, brushing against my temple as she adjusts the elastic band.

Her hand drops, her bottom lip trembles, and fresh tears spill over already wet lashes .

I freeze. This wasn’t in any contingency plan. Physical injuries have protocols. Ice for swelling, pressure for bleeding, elevation for sprains. Emotional collapse has no corresponding manual.

“I—” My voice catches. I have nothing to say that fits this situation. No template to follow. “Should I call someone? A friend? That dog-groomer you mentioned with all the colorful braids?”

She shakes her head, hair sticking to her damp cheeks. “Don’t leave me,” she manages between sobs. “Please.”

I lift my arm, expecting her to flinch away. Instead, she leans into me, her body curving against mine, seeking comfort like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her head finds the hollow between my shoulder and chest.

My arm hovers before settling around her shoulders, my hand resting against her upper arm with the gentlest pressure. Her warmth seeps through my clothing, her heart rate elevated but slowing.

“I’ve never been good at this,” I admit, the confession slipping out before I can analyze its wisdom.

Her soft laugh vibrates against my shoulder, unexpected and startlingly pleasant.

“You’re very good at this.”

Her breathing steadies against me, the violent sobs quieting to occasional hiccups. I maintain my position, arm still curved around her shoulders, uncertain if I should move or speak.

“I want them to pay.”

She looks up at me, eyes still swollen but now burning with something beyond tears. “I want Blackwell to pay.”

Her jaw tightens, shoulders squaring, fingers curling into loose fists. She drags a hand across her face, wiping at the tears like she’s trying to erase them.

“Not just exposed in some newspaper article that his lawyers can bury,” she continues, each word sharper than the last. “I want him destroyed. I want him to lose everything—his reputation, his empire, his life.” Her voice drops even lower.

“I want him to know why it’s happening. That it’s for what he did to my parents. ”

She rises from the couch, unsteady but determined, pacing the same path I did earlier. “I’ve spent years trying to build a case against him through legal channels. I’ve played it straight. I’ve worked within the system. Look where that got me.”

She gestures to her bruised face, her torn clothing, the empty space at her throat where the locket should be.

“They murdered my parents. Framed my father. Took the only thing I had left of them.” Each statement emerges like a bullet. “The police won’t help. The courts won’t help. The papers won’t help.”

She stops pacing in front of me, eyes locked on mine through the ridiculous eye holes of my makeshift mask.

“I don’t want justice anymore. Justice is too clean for what they’ve done. I want vengeance.”

“Oakley.” I keep my voice calm. “This isn’t a world you want to enter.”

She objects, but I raise my hand, silencing her with the gesture.

“The line you’re considering crossing—it can’t be uncrossed. The things you’re asking for require methods that change you. Permanently.”

Her eyes narrow. “You think I can’t handle it.”

“I think you shouldn’t have to.”

She holds my gaze, unflinching. “I’m not asking permission. I’m asking for help.”

I stand, closing the distance between us, stopping close enough that she has to tilt her head up to maintain eye contact.

“They hurt you to send a message to stay away.” I reach up, brushing a strand of hair from her face, careful to avoid the bruised areas. “If you continue, they won’t stop at warnings. ”

“I’m not stopping.”

The silence between us grows dense with possibility and danger. It’s clear she’s not going to back down.

Numbers calculate automatically in my brain. If I help, risk to Hemlock Society operations increases by thirty-one percent, personal exposure jumps to dangerous levels, but her survival probability increases by seventy-eight percent.

The most logical choice is obvious. But logic has nothing to do with why I’m still here.

“You should put fresh ice on that eye,” I say, defaulting to practical concerns when emotions become too complex to process.

She doesn’t move, just keeps looking at me with that unwavering stare.

“I need to go,” I say, standing.

Her hand catches mine before I can turn away, fingers wrapping around my wrist with surprising strength.

“Does this mean you’ll help me?”

I should say no.

“Stay safe,” I say, pulling my hand free. The words hang in the air, too small for what I mean, too shallow for what I want to promise. A poor substitute for everything I can’t bring myself to say. “I’ll be in touch soon.”

I turn toward the door, forcing my feet to move. I don’t look back, but her whisper follows me into the hallway.

“Thank you.”

The door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it for a moment.

They won’t touch her again.

They won’t get the chance.