Page 32 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

T he mattress dips beneath me as I roll over, my hand stretching across empty, cooling sheets. My eyes snap open, disorientation dissolving into recognition. Xander’s bedroom.

But no Xander.

“Xander?” My voice slices through the apartment’s perfect silence.

Nothing.

I just had mind-blowing sex with a serial killer.

The thought hits me. And the weirdest part? I’m not even bothered by it.

I stare at the ceiling, waiting for the panic to set in. The moral crisis. The “oh God, what have I done” moment. Nothing comes.

“Please don’t be dismembering someone in the bathtub,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the bed’s edge. “I’m not ready for that level of relationship commitment.”

Cool air pebbles my skin beneath his oversized t-shirt. The soft cotton falls to mid-thigh, leaving my legs exposed. His shirt carries his scent—clean laundry infused with something spicy and distinctly him. He has excellent taste in detergent.

The hardwood chills my bare feet as I pad toward the door. Unlike my apartment—a chaotic collection of research papers and coffee mugs—Xander’s space contains nothing without purpose. No clutter, no excess, just carefully selected furniture with clean, deliberate lines.

“Serial killers really are the ultimate minimalists,” I whisper to myself. “Marie Kondo has nothing on him.”

I peer down the hallway, which stretches dark except for a faint blue glow pulsing from somewhere deeper in the apartment. My toes curl against the cold floor.

“Xander?” I call. “If you’re doing anything stereotypically serial killery right now, I’d appreciate a heads-up. Is this a ‘hide under the bed’ situation or more of a ‘pretend I saw nothing’ scenario?”

No response. Great.

I creep down the hallway, aware I’m behaving like the idiotic woman in every horror movie who investigates the strange noise instead of running. But curiosity has always been my fatal flaw. It’s what made me a journalist. It’s what will get me killed someday.

Today? No, I don’t think so. Not by him, anyway.

Through the gap in the door, I see Xander seated at a desk surrounded by monitors—six screens, each displaying different camera feeds.

His shoulders form a tense line under his thin t-shirt, attention locked on the central screen.

Not dismembering anyone. Just being creepy in a different, more surveillance-oriented way.

I push the door wider. “What’s going on?”

He doesn’t startle—of course not. He probably has cameras on his bed, too.

“Someone’s at your apartment,” he says without turning, voice clinical and precise, stripped of the intimacy we’d shared hours before.

“What?” I cross to the desk. His words slice through my lingering sleepiness like a scalpel.

He gestures at the central monitor. “Four men. Professional. They’ve breached your building.”

The screen reveals my apartment hallway from an angle I’ve never seen—one of his cameras. The timestamp confirms its live footage. Four men in tactical dark clothing approach my door with coordinated precision, moving like a single organism with multiple limbs.

“Who are they?” I ask, already knowing the answer in my gut.

“Blackwell’s people,” Xander replies, fingers dancing across keys that cycle through different camera views. “Has to be.”

My chest constricts as one produces an electronic device, pressing it against my door lock. Within seconds, they infiltrate my home.

“They’re in my apartment,” I whisper, indignation blazing through my veins as they violate my space with mechanical efficiency. “They’re touching my things.”

One man beelines for my desk, another for my laptop. The third begins tearing through my bedroom while the fourth guards the door.

“That bastard is raiding my research,” I hiss as the desk searcher pulls out folders, photographing contents.

Xander watches in dangerous silence, a new tension radiating from him—the coiled readiness I recognize from the clinic. The predator is preparing to strike.

The man pulls out a thick red folder. My heart stutters.

“Xander.” My fingers dig into his arm before conscious thought.

“What?” His eyes remain fixed on the screen.

“We’ve got a problem.” My voice sounds distant, detached.

“I know. They’re after you.”

“No, that file—it contains everything I’ve gathered about you. All my research on you.”

Now he looks at me, expression shifting from concentration to something razor-edged. “Define ‘everything.’”

“Everything I suspected.” I meet his gaze. “Surveillance photos I took following you. Your name. My theories about your...extracurricular activities. No hard evidence of actual killings, but enough to identify you. Connect the dots.”

For three heartbeats, he turns to stone.

“We need to leave. Now. They’ll be here in minutes.”

He rises in one fluid motion, grabbing a phone and typing rapid-fire commands. “How detailed is your research?”

“Detailed enough to expose you,” I say, conscious of wearing nothing but his shirt as he moves through the house with lethal purpose. “Theories, methods, connections—it’s all there. ”

“Fuck,” he breathes, the rare profanity revealing the severity more than shouting ever could. “We have minutes. Maybe less.”

Xander freezes mid-stride, pivoting toward me with burning intensity.

“Does your research mention the Hemlock Society?” His voice tightens like a garrote.

I blink, confusion fogging my brain.

“What? What is that?”

His shoulders release tension, a controlled exhale escaping. “You don’t know. Good. So we can use their hidden location.”

The confusion must broadcast across my face because he crosses back to me, hands gripping my shoulders.

“The Hemlock Society. You didn’t uncover that connection?”

“No, I... I tracked you. Your movements, your identity.” I shake my head, frustration mounting at this detour when we should be running. “What the hell is the Hemlock Society?”

“It’s where we’re going,” he says, releasing me and resuming preparations with calculated efficiency. “Somewhere even Blackwell can’t reach.”

He extracts a pre-packed bag from a hidden compartment in his closet and tosses it on the bed. “Dress. Quickly.”

“My clothes—” I glance around for our discarded garments.

“No time.” He throws me a pair of sweatpants from a drawer. “These will work. Too big, but better than nothing.”

I yank on the sweatpants, rolling the waistband multiple times while he inventories his bag’s contents. Even in crisis, his movements remain precise, mathematical .

He checks his watch. “Five minutes, tops, before they find my address and head here.”

I’m tying my sneakers when his phone buzzes with another alert. He stiffens, muscles locking as he reads the screen.

“What now?” I ask, recognizing the shift in his posture.

He turns the phone toward me. A similar black SUV from my apartment now idles outside his building.

“They found you,” I whisper, stomach plummeting. “How did they get here so fast?”

“Multiple teams,” he says. “We move now.”

Xander tosses me a leather jacket that swallows me whole as he shoves a sleek laptop into a black duffel. His movements remain economical despite the urgency, selecting only essentials.

“What about clothes? Food?” I ask, my journalist brain still cataloging details despite my thundering heartbeat.

“We’ll have everything we need where we’re going.” He zips the bag and slings it over his shoulder, extracting two more bags from beneath the bed. “Take this.”

The bag lands heavier than expected in my arms. I peek inside—bundles of cash, a metal case, and a handgun nestled at the bottom.

“Jesus,” I mutter.

Xander pauses at his bedroom window, scanning through a gap in the blinds. “Garage exit. Now.”

He guides me down a narrow service stairwell. The sweatpants slip from my hips, requiring one hand to keep them from pooling at my ankles.

“Car’s here,” he murmurs.

We emerge into an underground garage, and Xander strides toward a nondescript gray sedan. Not the sleek black vehicle from before.

“Get in,” he orders, tossing both bags into the backseat.

I slide into the passenger seat as he starts the engine. The car awakens with barely a whisper.

“This isn’t your car,” I say.

“Not on record,” he confirms with grim satisfaction, pulling from the space. “But one of several clean vehicles I maintain.”

His attention divides between the rearview mirror and the exit ramp as we climb toward street level. My pulse hammers in my throat as we approach the gate, expecting Blackwell’s men to materialize.

Instead, the gate rises, and we merge into empty pre-dawn streets.

Xander drives with surgical focus, executing random turns through residential neighborhoods.

I twist to scan through the rear window. “Are we being followed?”

“I don’t think so, but we assume yes until proven otherwise. Healthy paranoia is basically my love language.” His hands remain steady on the wheel, knuckles white with tension. “Check the glove compartment.”

Inside sits a metal box containing several burner phones.

“Take one,” he instructs. “Power off your real phone and remove the SIM card.”

I comply, feeling calm despite circumstances. Perhaps shock, or perhaps acceptance that I’ve crossed into Xander’s world now.

We drive nearly an hour, zigzagging through the city before heading toward an upscale neighborhood lined with modern high-rises.

“Where are we?” I ask as he parks between two luxury SUVs.

“Somewhere secure,” he replies, collecting our bags. “A place known only to certain people. This building is owned by someone I know.”

He guides me to a private elevator requiring a key card. The doors part to reveal a mirrored interior.

“Nineteenth floor,” he says as we step inside. “No surveillance in the elevator or hallways. The building’s security operates on a closed network.”

The elevator ascends, and my reflection stares back at me from mirrored walls—hair wild, face pale, drowning in Xander’s clothes. I look like a fugitive.

I guess I am a fugitive.