Page 29 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

I crouch behind the desk, knees cramping from holding this position too long. My stomach twists with each wet, sickening sound from across the room. Whatever I expected when I followed Xander here, it wasn’t... this .

I’d told myself I could handle it. I’ve seen crime scenes before. Photographed bodies. Interviewed survivors of unspeakable violence. But witnessing the act itself differs from viewing its aftermath, like sunshine differs from shadows. Fantasy crashes into reality.

Dr. Wendell’s muffled screams vibrate through my bones, primal and desperate. I press my fist against my mouth, fighting the rising bile in my throat.

Yet beneath the nausea, something electric pulses through me. A dark curiosity I’ve never admitted to anyone.

The drilling stops. Silence follows, thick and terrible.

Then Xander’s voice, casual as if commenting on the weather.

I shift, trying to relieve the pressure on my cramping calf muscle. My elbow bumps the desk drawer. The softest sound, barely audible to my own ears.

But enough.

I freeze, holding my breath.

“You know what they never tell you about DIY neurosurgery?” His voice is conversational, almost friendly. “The absolute mess it creates.”

He’s getting closer. I should run. Scream. Do something. But my body refuses all commands. And part of me—a part I’ve hidden for years—wants to watch what comes next.

The safety click of a gun shatters any hope of escaping unnoticed.

When he rounds the corner of the desk, weapon aimed, I’m still frozen in place, camera clutched to my chest like a shield.

His eyes widen behind the mask. He's wearing a full plastic suit over his clothes, surgical gloves covering his hands.

“Oakley?” The gun lowers. “What the hell are you doing here?”

My stomach revolts against my mind’s perverse fascination. I hold up one finger in a desperate “just a second” gesture, lunge for the trash bin beside the desk, and empty everything into it. Convulsions rack my entire body, tears streaming down my face.

The clinical part of my brain notes I’m in shock. The rest of me is too busy being sick to care.

When the spasms finally subside, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, death-gripping the trash bin like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

Humiliation burns hotter than the acid in my throat.

Nothing says “take me seriously as your murder accomplice” like decorating someone’s wastebasket with your half-digested lunch.

“I knew it,” I manage, voice raw. “I knew you were a killer.” Another wave of nausea threatens an encore performance, but I swallow it down with sheer willpower. “I wanted to show you I could handle it. That I could help with Blackwell.”

I gesture toward the surgical table, focusing on literally anything else. “Well, that audition went spectacularly. From badass potential sidekick to vomiting mess in sixty seconds flat. But I can improve. I promise.”

The eagerness in my voice surprises even me. What am I promising exactly?

Xander stares at me, mask still in place, eyes unreadable. The gun hangs at his side now. His free hand clenches and unclenches, the controlled man struggling with uncontrolled circumstances.

“You followed me.” Not a question. His voice sounds different. Tighter, controlled in a way I haven’t heard before. “You saw everything.”

The words carry undercurrents of disbelief. The master of surveillance followed without noticing. His perfect system, compromised.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak again. My stomach heaves, but there’s nothing left to expel.

“And you came here voluntarily?” The disbelief in his voice would almost be comical in another context. “To what? Observe? Participate? Report me?”

“I needed to see,” I say, setting the bin aside and wiping my mouth again. “I needed to see what it really meant. ”

He pulls up his mask.

I swallow hard as he reveals himself to me. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw with just a hint of stubble, and lips that shouldn’t look so sensual on someone who just drilled into a man’s skull.

“Oh,” slips out of my mouth before I can stop it.

He’s as beautiful as I remember. In a raw, intense way that makes my already unsteady stomach flip for different reasons. There’s blood spattered across his neck, a crimson constellation against pale skin, and I hate myself for still finding him attractive.

The same sick fascination that draws me to crime scenes has morphed into something else, something I refuse to name.

His eyes narrow, confusion flickering across his features.

Xander hands me a water bottle from a nearby cart, along with a small tin of mints. I rinse and spit into the trash bin, then gratefully pop a mint into my mouth. The cool peppermint helps settle my stomach and masks the lingering taste of bile.

“Thank you,” I manage, wiping my mouth again with a clean tissue he offers.

He nods, then reaches into a supply drawer and pulls out a plastic protective suit similar to his own.

“Put this on over your clothes,” he says simply. “And these.” He hands me a pair of surgical gloves.

I slip into the gear with shaking hands, the plastic crinkling with each movement. The gloves feel strange, creating a barrier between me and the world that somehow makes what we're about to do feel both more real and more distant.

“You’re not what I expected,” I whisper, forcing myself to stand on shaky legs. “I mean, I knew who you were from the photos, but seeing you like this...”

His expression shifts. The man who tortured someone to death seems suddenly lost, vulnerable in his exposure. One hand rises to touch his face, as if he’s forgotten the mask is gone. The last barrier between us gone.

“You’re supposed to be afraid,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You watched me. You should be running. Screaming.”

I take a step closer instead, pulled by some gravitational force my brain can’t overrule.

“Should and are occupy different zip codes in my mind right now.” My voice emerges unfamiliar, husky.

This is wrong. I’m wrong for wanting to touch him, for wondering if his mouth tastes like danger. For the dark fascination that’s always flickered to life when researching killers, and the one now standing before me with a pulse.

“What’s happening?” he asks, bafflement replacing the cold calculation in his eyes. His gaze searches my face, clearly hunting for the fear and disgust that should be there.

“Excellent question with zero helpful answers,” I admit, taking another unsteady step toward him. The gun still hangs at his side, forgotten. “But I think we both went past normal a long time ago.”

“So now you know.” His voice is flat. “What are you going to do about it?”

The question carries the weight of lives. His. Mine. The future victims or beneficiaries of his justice.

I look past him to the surgical table where Dr. Wendell lies, eyes fixed open in a grotesque parody of awareness. The exposed brain matter glistens under the surgical lights. I should be screaming. Running. Calling the police.

Instead, something dark unfurls in my chest. This man hurt people. Killed them. Used his position of trust to experiment on the vulnerable. And now he’s experiencing what he inflicted on others.

“I get it,” I whisper, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. “The people he killed. There was no justice for them. He deserves this.”

Something shifts in Xander’s expression.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” He moves closer, studying me like a puzzle with missing pieces. “What are you going to do now, Oakley?”

I force myself to look directly at Dr. Wendell.

At what Xander has done to him. The nausea returns, but alongside it rises something else—a grim satisfaction that catches me off guard.

This man is experiencing the terror he inflicted on others.

There’s a certain balance to it that appeals to something primal inside me.

“I want to see this through,” I say, the words surprising me as they leave my mouth.

“Why?” Xander asks, genuine confusion in his voice. “This isn’t a journalist’s investigation. This isn’t something you can write about or expose.”

“Because this is what I’m asking you to do to Blackwell,” I say, the truth of it settling into my bones. “If I can’t handle seeing it, I have no right to ask for it.”

He studies me for a long moment, then nods. “There’s a difference between watching and taking part, Oakley.”

“I know.” I take a deep breath, steadying myself. “But I’m already part of this. The moment I asked you to help me with Blackwell, I became involved.”

“What did you have in mind? For Wendell, I mean.”

The question catches me off guard. I look at the surgical table, at the instruments laid out with such precision. My mind works despite itself. Ideas I shouldn’t have flow easily.

“He falsified records, right?” I ask, pieces clicking together in my head. “Used his medical authority to help cover things up?”

Xander nods once.

I stare at the medical instruments gleaming under the harsh lights. My pulse quickens.

“He used his tongue to lie,” I say, my voice trembling but resolute. “To manipulate and cover up what he did. Maybe... Maybe he should lose it.”

Xander tilts his head, observing me. “Go on.”

I swallow hard, throat tight with nausea and adrenaline. “If he can’t speak, he can’t lie anymore. He should taste the consequences of his own deception.”

“He’d suffocate on his own lying tongue,” Xander completes my thought, his clinical tone at odds with the horror of what I’ve suggested. “Poetic.”

I nod, a distant part of me screaming about what I’m becoming. But the louder part, the part still raw from Blackwell’s men and losing my mother’s locket, whispers that this is justice.

My eyes drift to a scalpel on the tray, its edge catching the light. “I want to do it.”

I force myself to approach the table, fighting the instinct to run.

“You’ll need to remove the gag,” I say. “And I’ll cut. ”

“You understand what you’re about to do?” Xander asks, studying me. “Once you cross this line...”

“I crossed it when I followed you here,” I say. “I crossed it when I asked you to kill Blackwell.”

The reality of what I’m becoming should terrify me more than it does. Instead, I feel a strange relief, like stepping out of a costume I’ve worn my entire life.

The system failed my parents. Failed me. Failed Wendell’s victims.

“You’re adapting faster than I expected,” he says, removing the strap from Wendell’s mouth. The doctor gasps, drawing ragged breaths.

“I’m a quick study.” I hold up the knife. “And I want Blackwell to pay as much as you want Wendell to.”

I catch Xander watching me, his eyes calculating but also curious, as if seeing me for the first time. Whatever he sees makes him smile.

I grip the scalpel, trying to steady my hand. The weight of it feels wrong, too light for what I’m about to do. Wendell’s eyes bulge as I position the blade against his tongue.

Wendell thrashes against the restraints, his screams growing more frantic as the scalpel nears his mouth.

The first cut is shallow. The scalpel slices through the pink flesh, bringing forth a bright line of crimson. Wendell screams—a high-pitched, animal sound.

I press deeper, determined to follow through, but my muscles betray me. The blade jerks, making a jagged cut rather than the precise incision I intended. Blood wells up, flowing over Wendell’s lips and down his chin. His screams turn gurgling .

My hand shakes, the scalpel wavering. The clinical detachment I’d imagined having evaporates in an instant. This isn’t like writing about violence or photographing its aftermath.

My stomach lurches again. Cold sweat breaks across my forehead. The gap between fantasy and reality yawns wide—a chasm I can’t bridge.

“I can’t—” The words catch in my throat.

Warm fingers wrap around mine, steadying the trembling blade. Xander’s chest presses against my back, his breath warm against my ear.

“You did great,” he whispers. “That’s enough for tonight.”

His hand covers mine, guiding the scalpel away from Wendell’s mouth. I let him take it, relief washing over me even as shame burns in my chest.

Xander steps around me. Without hesitation, without ceremony, he delivers a single, precise strike to Wendell’s throat. The blade sinks deep, severing the carotid artery. Blood sprays in a perfect arc, splattering across the plastic sheets.

Wendell’s eyes widen, then dim as the life drains from them with each weakening pulse.

A clean kill. Merciful, in its way.

I stare at Wendell’s body, at the clean arterial spray across the plastic sheets. This isn’t what Xander planned. His meticulous setup, the mirrors, the tools—everything had been arranged for something far more elaborate. Something I’d interrupted.

“I ruined it for you,” I whisper, the words scraping my raw throat. “All your preparation, your planning. I messed it all up.”

Xander’s eyes meet mine, and I expect to see frustration, maybe even anger. Instead, there’s something else—a softness out of place in a room splattered with blood.

“No,” he says, setting the bloodied scalpel down. His voice drops to a whisper. “You made it better. Perfect, actually.”

His eyes dilate, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of color remains. The intensity in his gaze makes my skin prickle—it’s hunger and wonder and something close to worship.

I blink. “Better? I threw up and couldn’t even finish what I started.”

“You here, with me,” he whispers, eyes burning with reverence, “is everything. I’d burn worlds to keep this moment. To keep you.”

Xander’s hands frame my face, his fingers cool and steady against my overheated skin. His eyes meet mine, and the storm inside them mirrors my own.

The darkness I’ve hidden all my life recognizes itself in him.

I close the distance, my hands fisting in his shirt as our mouths collide. The kiss burns through me, igniting every nerve ending. His lips taste of copper and sin, and I drink him in like salvation. His hands slide into my hair, gripping tight enough to hurt, anchoring me to this moment, to him.

There’s no way back.