Page 35 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

“Oh, someone’s jealous,” Calloway singsongs, looking delighted. “Are we keeping her? Like a pet journalist? Because I am here for this plot twist.”

“She’s not a pet,” Xander says through gritted teeth.

“No,” Thorne agrees. “She’s a liability. Or an asset. The question is which outweighs the other.”

“This tie is coming out of the cleaning deposit if we have to dispose of her,” Calloway mutters, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “Blood splatter is so last season.”

“I’ve been hunting assholes for years,” I say, stepping alongside Xander. “I have sources, evidence, connections that none of you have. If you’re after the same thing I am—justice—then I can help.”

Thorne studies me, his expression unreadable. “And if we decide against your continued existence?”

Xander tenses beside me, but I hold Thorne’s gaze. “Then you’re not who I think you are.”

A heavy silence fills the room. Calloway looks between us with undisguised glee.

“What in the Bob Ross happy little accident is this standoff?” he whispers.

After what feels like an eternity, Thorne straightens his already perfect cuffs. “A probationary period,” he declares. “ Under Xander’s complete responsibility. Any breach, any risk—it falls on both of you.”

Relief floods through me, but Xander remains wary. “And the others?”

“I’ll handle Lazlo and Ambrose,” Thorne says. “Darius will want to assess her himself.”

“I could use this portrait of moral ambiguity for my next exhibition,” Calloway muses, examining me with renewed interest.

“She stays with you,” Thorne continues, addressing Xander. “Not here, not at her place. Take her to the Berkshires property. It’s completely off-grid and cannot be traced back to us.”

Xander nods, some unspoken understanding passing between them.

Calloway smiles. “Well! This has been absolutely thrilling. A midnight summons, a damsel in distress, the breaking of sacred murder club protocols... I haven’t been this entertained since we eliminated that art critic who called my installation ‘derivative.’”

Thorne checks his watch. “We have a situation to contain. Blackwell’s men have evidence that could expose Xander, potentially all of us. That must be addressed immediately.”

“We’ll handle it,” Xander assures him.

“See that you do,” Thorne replies, heading for the door. “Full briefing tomorrow. We’ll come to you.” He pauses, turning back. “And Xander? If this ends poorly, it won’t just be her life at stake.”

With that parting comment, he exits the apartment.

Calloway lingers, eyes bright with fascination.

“ Could you tilt your defiant head about thirty degrees? The lighting is perfect, and this is so going in my portfolio.” His hand brushes my shoulder, the touch fleeting and performative.

“Xander never brings his toys to our playgroup. You must be special.”

“Calloway.” Xander’s voice drops an octave, a warning lurking beneath the single word.

“So territorial,” Calloway observes with delight.

“I’m just appreciating the aesthetics, darling.

Though I’m beginning to see why you’re so invested.

” He winks at me, but the gesture doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Welcome to our little murder collective, Oakley Novak. Do try not to get blood on the upholstery. I just had everything redecorated.”

With a dramatic flourish worthy of a Broadway exit, he follows Thorne out the door.

As it closes behind them, Xander’s shoulders slump, tension draining from his body.

“That went better than expected,” he murmurs.

“They were going to kill me,” I state, the reality of the situation hitting me.

“They were considering it,” he corrects, moving to reset the security system. “There’s a difference.”

“Not from where I’m standing.”

Xander turns to me, his expression softer than I’ve seen it before. “You did well. Standing up to Thorne like that—most people can’t.”

“Was it stupid?”

“Incredibly,” he admits with a half-smile. “But effective.”

I hesitate, then ask what’s been nagging at me since Calloway swooped in with his theatrical flair. “What happened to him? ”

Xander glances up, confusion crossing his features. “What?”

“Calloway. He’s all happy and flirty on the outside, but his eyes...” I trail off, unsure how to articulate what I sensed. “They don’t match the rest of him. Like looking at a cracked mirror.”

Something shifts in Xander’s expression—surprise, followed by a guarded respect. “You noticed that?”

“Journalist, remember? Reading people is part of the job description.”

Xander shakes his head. “Well, if you want to know, you’ll have to ask him.”

“Like that’s going to happen.”

“Smart call. His origin story isn’t exactly bedtime material.” Xander’s expression darkens. “Not unless you want nightmares.”

I lean against the wall, my body suddenly weighing a thousand pounds. “So what now? They’ve given me a stay of execution, but for how long?”

“For as long as you’re valuable to them,” Xander says, his honesty jarring.

“Great. No pressure.”

“I have a plan.”

“Even after I recognized Calloway?” I ask. “That wasn’t part of your plan.”

A wry smile crosses his face. “None of this is part of my plan. Especially not you complimenting his work.”

“Jealous?” I test, stepping closer.

“Concerned,” he corrects, though the tightness around his eyes suggests otherwise. “Though I’d appreciate it if you didn’t fan his artistic ego. It’s already the size of a small planet.”

The intensity in his eyes makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with fear. Three attractive, dangerous men in one room, and it’s this one—with his awkward honesty and unexpected vulnerability—who affects me most.

I touch his face, feeling the slight stubble against my palm. “I only have eyes for one killer in this room.”

“God help you if you didn’t,” he murmurs, leaning into my touch.

I’m standing in a safe house after narrowly avoiding execution by a secret society of vigilante killers, confessing feelings for a man I’d watched commit murder. A man whose cameras I’d found in my apartment weeks ago. A man who’d been stalking me long before I knew his name.

And yet, despite all logic and reason, I can’t deny what’s happening between us.

“Were you willing to die for me back there?”

He pauses, not meeting my eyes. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re mine.” His voice catches on the word, as if surprised by his own admission. “Mine to watch, mine to protect...” He swallows hard. “Mine to fuck, mine to love.”

The simple possessiveness in his voice makes my chest tighten. “Love?”

“Yes.”

“I should be terrified of you,” I whisper, my thumb tracing the outline of his lower lip. “I should be running as far away as possible.”

“Why aren’t you? ”

“Because I’m falling for you,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can reconsider them. “God help me, but I am.”

His breath catches, pupils dilating as he processes my words. For a moment, he looks almost afraid, as if my confession is more dangerous than anything else we’ve faced tonight.

Then his control breaks. His hands frame my face, pulling me to him with desperate need. Our mouths collide in a kiss that’s all hunger and heat and barely restrained violence.

I grip his shirt, holding him against me as if someone might try to tear him away. His tongue slides against mine, and I taste the faint remnants of coffee and lust.

When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, our shared breath creating an intimacy that feels more dangerous than the kiss itself.

“We’re both insane,” I whisper against his lips.

“Clinically speaking, probably,” he agrees, the hint of a smile in his voice. “Though I prefer to think of it as uniquely compatible forms of damage.”

I laugh, the sound strange in the tense atmosphere. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

His hands slip to my waist, keeping me close, as if afraid I might still run. “What would you call it?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I just know I’ve never felt this...seen. Even with all your watching, your surveillance—no one has ever seen me the way you do.”

“The real you,” he murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “The one who held that scalpel. The one who didn’t run when she should have.”

I nod, unable to deny it. “The real me. ”

My life has become unrecognizable in the span of a night.

Yet, I don’t feel the panic I should. Ever since last night with Wendell, something has shifted inside me. A line crossed that can’t be uncrossed.

As if sensing my thoughts, Xander studies me with that penetrating gaze that seems to see everything.

“You’re thinking about Wendell,” he says.

I nod. “I keep wondering if that was the moment that led to this. If I’d run away last night instead of staying...”

“But you didn’t run,” he reminds me. “You stayed. You participated. You crossed that line willingly.”

“I know,” I whisper. “That’s what scares me. Part of me should be horrified by all of this—by you, by them, by myself. But instead...”

“Instead?”

“Instead, I feel alive for the first time.”

He takes a step closer, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face. “There’s no going back, Oakley. Not for either of us.”

“I know,” I say again, and I do. Whatever happens next, I’m in this now. Not just with Xander, but with all of it. The darkness. The justice. The terrible, necessary balance we’re fighting to restore.

I must doze off mid-sentence, because I wake to the scent of cedar and mint flooding my senses as arms slide beneath me .

Xander lifts me effortlessly, his heartbeat steady against my ear where my cheek presses to his chest.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip to cradle me closer as he carries me toward the bedroom. “Your neck was at a forty-five-degree angle. You’d have woken up cursing my name.”

“I’m awake now,”I mumble into his shirt, though my limbs feel like melted wax.

“Barely.”His voice holds a smile.“Your eyelids haven’t fluttered once. You sigh in your sleep, you know. Like a frustrated kitten.”

He lays me on the bed,his hands meticulous even now, smoothing the twisted hem of my shirt, peeling off my socks because “restricted toes disrupt REM cycles,” and tucking the duvet around my shoulders with military precision.

When I shiver, he retrieves the cashmere throw from the footboard and layers it over me, his knuckles brushing my collarbone in a way that’s decidedly not clinical.

“Stay,”I slur, pawing at his sleeve as he turns to leave.

The mattress dips under his weight as he settles beside me, his body a furnace even through layers of fabric.

“Wasn’t planning on leaving.”His thumb sweeps a strand of hair from my forehead, lingering to trace the shell of my ear.“You’re a menace when you’re sleep-deprived. Someone needs to ensure you don’t face plant into your coffee tomorrow.”

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. His body tenses, but he doesn’t move.

“Aren’t you going to check that?”I whisper.

“Later.”His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against him.His nose brushes my temple, inhaling deeply like he’s committing my scent to memory.

Xander’s phone buzzes with another alert. He sighs and reaches for it.

“Another security alert,” he says, his voice tight.

My stomach drops. “Blackwell’s men again?”

“No.” He pulls up the feed on his tablet and hands it to me. “It’s a woman. Do you know her?”

The image on the screen makes my breath catch in my throat.

Zara stands in the middle of what used to be my living room, her hands covering her mouth in horror.

My apartment looks like a war zone—furniture overturned, books scattered across the floor, my investigation board torn to shreds.

Blackwell’s men weren’t just looking for evidence; they were sending a message.

“That’s Zara. My best friend.” I watch as she picks up a framed photo of us from college, its glass now cracked. “Shit. She has a key. She must have gotten worried when I didn’t answer her texts.”

On screen, Zara pulls out her phone, her movements becoming more frantic as she surveys the destruction. I know who she’s calling.

“She’s trying to reach me,” I say, my chest tightening with guilt.

Xander nods. “Your phone is at the bottom of that dumpster six blocks from here.”

Zara holds the phone to her ear, then pulls it back to look at the screen with confusion. She tries again, her free hand running through her braids in a gesture I know means she’s worried. After a third attempt, she takes pictures of the apartment with her phone .

“She thinks I’ve been kidnapped or—” I can’t finish the thought. “If she doesn’t hear from me soon, she’ll go to the police.”

Zara is now moving more purposefully through my apartment, touching things as little as possible, clearly preserving what she sees as a crime scene.

“I need to call her,” I say, turning to Xander. “If I don’t, she’ll file a missing person’s report, and we’ll have the police looking for me too.”