Page 33 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

When the doors open, Xander scans the hallway before motioning me forward. The corridor gleams with understated wealth—polished concrete floors, recessed lighting, numbered doors without nameplates.

He stops at 1902 and unlocks the door.

“Inside,” he murmurs, ushering me through with a hand at the small of my back.

The apartment radiates immaculate perfection and absolute sterility.

No photos, no personal touches. The furniture serves function over comfort, and the artwork reads as investment rather than passion.

In the corner stands a black cabinet without visible handles, projecting an aura of secrecy and danger.

“What is this place?”

Xander secures the door, activating what appears to be top-grade security. “A safe house. One of several maintained by my associates.”

“The Hemlock Society,” I say, testing the words. That’s the name he mentioned before.

His eyes lock onto mine with laser focus. “We don’t use that name.” He drops the bags, one hand scrubbing over his face—a rare display of human fatigue. “Not outside. I’ve shattered about a dozen protocols bringing you here.”

I venture deeper into the apartment, absorbing the expensive minimalism. “This belongs to your... associates? What exactly are they?”

“It’s a club,” Xander says, his back to me as he gazes out at the city lights.

I stare at him, processing these words against our luxurious surroundings. The museum-quality artwork. The security.

“A club?”

“Some people join country clubs to network. Same concept, just with more murder and fewer golf carts. Though the socializing part never came naturally to me—turns out watching people through cameras doesn’t translate to actual conversation skills.”

The pieces click into place. My mind races, possibilities multiplying faster than I can process them.

“How many are there?” I ask, circling the room like it might hold visual clues. “Is it just here in Boston, or—” I stop, a new thought forming. “Oh my God, is this international? Do you have branches? Like Murderers Without Borders?”

Xander turns, eyebrow raised.

“Is there a secret handshake?” I continue, questions spilling out faster than I can filter them. “Do you have annual conventions? ‘Best Dismemberment Technique’ awards? Is there a newsletter? ‘Killer Monthly: Ten Tips for Removing Blood from Suede’?”

“Oakley—”

“Wait, what about recruitment? Is there an application process? Essay questions? ‘Describe your first kill in five hundred words or less, focusing on methodology and clean-up efficiency’?”

“Oakley,” Xander says more firmly, but I can’t stop now.

“How deep does this go? Are there hundreds of you? Thousands? Is this some illuminati-level conspiracy with tentacles in every major city? Am I standing in the actual center of the universe of organized killing?”

Xander crosses the room in three swift strides and places his hands on my shoulders. “Take a breath.”

I inhale, suddenly aware I’d been spiraling.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

I glance at Xander, standing calm and composed, as if discussing dinner plans instead of a society of murderers. My stomach churns, but I force the nausea down. Whatever this is, I’ve crossed too many lines to retreat.

“You risked yourself bringing me here, didn’t you?”

Xander moves to the kitchen, opening cabinets with the familiarity of previous visits. “I made a calculation.”

“What calculation?” I press, following him.

He extracts two glasses, filling them with soda. “That keeping you safe outweighed potential consequences.”

The simple statement hits with unexpected force. Xander Rhodes, the stalker, the meticulous planner, has sacrificed his precious protocols for me.

“They’ll be angry,” I deduce. “Your... associates.”

He hands me water, his fingers brushing mine. “Probably.”

“Are they going to kill me?” The question emerges calmer than I feel.

Something flashes in his eyes—dark, determined, deadly. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”

“Why risk it?” My voice comes out softer than intended.

Xander’s gaze holds mine for a long moment before he looks away, scanning the apartment with professional assessment.

“I’ve spent my entire adult life observing people,” he says. “Collecting their secrets, documenting their sins, cataloging their weaknesses.” His voice drops lower. “I’ve watched hundreds of subjects. Followed them. Studied them.”

I lean against the counter, his oversized clothes hanging off my frame. “And?”

“And then I watched you.” He turns to face me, something raw and unfamiliar in his expression. “You’re different.”

“Different how?”

“You’ve got steel in your spine. You don’t bend. You fight.” His eyes soften. “They took your parents, framed your father, and you didn’t break. They killed your source, and you didn’t break. They beat you, stole your mother’s locket, and still—you didn’t break.”

The intensity in his voice sends electricity across my skin.

“Everyone breaks, Xander,” I whisper.

“Not you.” He closes the distance between us, one hand coming up to brush my cheek. “And it changed something in me. Watching you. God, that sounds creepy when I say it out loud. I’m not helping my case here.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. “Changed what?”

His thumb traces my jaw, barely there, yet burning like a brand. “Everything.”

The word hangs between us, loaded with meaning I’m afraid to interpret.

“When I saw those men in your apartment,” he continues, “I realized I would burn this entire city to ash before letting them touch you again.”

I reach for him, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him toward me.

“That’s the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me. I so want to fuck you right now,” I breathe against his mouth.

His entire body tenses, a visible shudder running through him as his hands seize my waist. “I’d love that—God, you have no idea how much—but we need to prepare. The Hemlock Society will arrive soon.” He pulls back slightly, eyes conflicted. “Terrible timing. Story of my life.”

I nearly choke. “What do you mean ‘they’ll be here soon’? Your serial killer club is coming here? Now?”

Xander moves away from me, already shifting back into that methodical efficiency I’ve witnessed before. “I had to notify them. Protocol when we’re compromised.”

“Compromised? You mean me?” I take a place on the couch. “I’m the compromise.”

“The situation is the compromise. Blackwell’s men finding your research on me, potentially discovering connections to others.” He checks his watch. “We have maybe twenty minutes.”

My mind races, cataloging what little I know about this mysterious organization. “How many people are in this...club?”

“Six, including me.” Xander moves to the windows, adjusting the blinds to obscure the view into the apartment. “Not everyone will come. Perhaps just Thorne.”

“Thorne? As in Thorne Ravencroft?” The name connects in my mental database of Boston’s elite. “The philanthropist?”

Xander pauses, giving me an appraising look. “Yes. He leads our organization.”

I struggle to reconcile what I know about Thorne Ravencroft—the titan of philanthropy whose foundation supports half the museums in Boston—with this new reality of organized killers.

“So what happens when they get here? Will they...” I trail off, unsure how to phrase the question. They’ll try to kill me? Punish you?”

“I don’t know. This is unprecedented.”

“Unprecedented, how?”

“No civilian has ever entered a Hemlock facility.” His expression darkens. “No outsider has ever met one of us knowingly.”

The gravity of what he’s done for me sinks in deeper. “And yet you brought me here.”

“Yes.”

“You seem nervous.”

“Nervous? Me? No. I just brought an outsider to a secret location of a murder club against every rule and protocol. I’m not nervous. I’m having a full psychotic break.”

The chime of the security panel cuts through the moment like a blade. Xander’s attention snaps to the screen.

“They’re here.”