Page 36 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Xander

I hand Oakley the burner phone. The stark white walls of the safe house press in around us, sterile and unyielding.

“It’s clean,” I say. “Untraceable. Use it to call Zara.”

Oakley takes a deep breath, steeling herself. The number beeps as she dials, and I notice how she holds the phone a few inches from her ear as if preparing for an explosion.

“Zara? It’s me,” she says.

The tinny sound of panicked shouting bleeds through the speaker. I can’t make out the exact words, but the pitch and cadence tell me everything I need to know. Oakley winces, pulling the phone farther from her ear.

“I know, I know. Just—Zara, please—” Oakley attempts, but the stream of words from the other end bulldozes right over her.

I smile and kneel between Oakley’s legs, sliding my fingers up her thighs and pulling her sweatpants down.

She jumps under my touch, trying so hard to maintain composure with Zara that I can’t help wanting to dismantle that control piece by piece.

“Z–Zara, slow down,” Oakley manages, her free hand gripping the edge of the armchair.

I trace patterns up her inner thigh, just shy of where her legs meet. Her sharp intake of breath feels like a victory. I glance up, catching her eyes as I slide my hand higher.

“I’m fine, I swear,” Oakley continues, her voice hitching as my fingers brush against her center through the thin cotton. Her legs tense and part wider—an invitation I’m all too happy to accept.

Through the phone, Zara’s voice rises to a pitch that even I can hear now. “Your apartment looks like a crime scene! The door was kicked in. Everything’s torn apart—your research, your dad’s files—everything! I’m calling the police right now!”

Oakley’s eyes flash with panic that has nothing to do with my wandering hands. “No!” she blurts, then softens her tone. “Please, Zara. No police. They won’t help.”

More questioning comes through the speaker. I catch something about numbers and phones.

“I switched phones,” Oakley says, trying to keep her voice steady despite my continued attention. “You can reach me at this number from now on.”

Another burst of rapid-fire questions that I can't decipher, but Oakley's growing tension tells me Zara isn't satisfied with the explanation.

I increase the pressure of my fingers, making small circles that pull a gasp from her lips. She covers the phone, shooting me a look that’s half warning, half plea .

“What was that?” Zara demands through the phone.

“Nothing,” Oakley says, her thighs quivering under my ministrations. “I just—I dropped something.”

I lean closer, my breath ghosting across her skin as I pull the fabric aside. The look on her face is everything—desperate to maintain control while fighting the urge to surrender.

“Listen to me,” Oakley says, her voice dropping an octave as she struggles to focus. “I’m staying with a friend. I’m safe.”

“What friend? You don’t have friends except me,” Zara counters.

I push my finger inside her, slow and deliberate. Oakley’s back arches as a moan escapes her lips before she can stop it.

“What was that?” Zara’s voice turns suspicious. “Oakley, are you... Are you having sex right now?”

“No! Of course not,” Oakley denies, her eyes locked on mine in a silent plea. But I don’t stop. I curl my finger just so, finding that perfect spot that makes her breath catch. Her free hand grips my shoulder, nails digging into my skin.

“You sound weird,” Zara continues. “Why are you so out of breath?”

Oakley tries to respond but can only manage short, clipped words as I work my finger in and out. Her hips move against my hand, betraying her body’s wants even as she attempts to maintain the conversation.

“I’m just—I was—running around,” she manages, swallowing hard.

“You are!” Zara’s voice rises. “Oh my God, you’re having sex right now! While you’re talking to me! ”

Oakley’s cheeks flush crimson. She covers the phone again, shooting me a glare.

“No, he’s—” She clears her throat, removing her hand from the speaker. “He’s just a friend.”

My eyes narrow at her words. A friend? After everything we’ve shared? After Wendell? After I killed for her?

I pull my fingers from her. Standing up, I wipe my hand on my jeans and step back, creating space between us.

“A friend?” I mouth, my eyebrows raised.

Oakley’s eyes widen with recognition of her mistake. She fumbles with the phone, pressing it tighter against her ear.

“Z, I need to go now,” she says. “But don’t worry, I’m fine and I’m handling it. No need to call anyone.”

I cross my arms over my chest, watching her squirm under my gaze. My jaw tightens as she continues her hushed conversation.

Zara’s voice carries just enough for me to catch her words. “Go get your orgasm. It’s been a while. Perhaps you should clear the cobwebs first. Do you even remember how it’s done?”

Oakley’s face flushes crimson. “Zara!”

“Bye. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” comes the reply.

“Too late for that,” Oakley mumbles as she hangs up the phone.

The room falls silent. Oakley looks up at me, still half-disheveled, her breathing uneven. I narrow my eyes at her, heat rising in my chest.

“A friend?” I repeat, this time aloud, my voice quiet.

Oakley adjusts her clothing, tugging her shirt down. “Well, I couldn’t say ‘my serial killer stalker friend,’ could I? ”

She looks up at me through those impossible lashes, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

“I’m anything but a friend.”

Her smile widens as she watches my expression darken. “You’re cute when you’re angry.”

“I’m not cute,” I growl, crossing the distance between us in two strides. “Serial killers aren’t cute. Puppies are cute. Babies are cute.”

I grab her hand, yanking her up with enough force to make her gasp. Without breaking eye contact, I pull her after me through the apartment into the kitchen with its stark lighting and clean surfaces.

The island stands in the center of the room. Solid butcher block on a steel frame. I spin her around, grip her waist, and lift her onto the counter. Her legs dangle over the edge as I step between them, my hands still on her hips.

I stare at Oakley sitting on my kitchen island, her breath coming in short gasps. Above her hangs the pot and knife rack, casting long shadows across her flushed skin. The overhead lights highlight the pulse jumping in her throat. An idea sparks.

“Don’t move,” I command.

Her eyes widen, but she stays perfectly still as I reach for her hips. In one fluid motion, I hook my fingers into her panties and yank them down her thighs. The fabric tears slightly in my haste. She lifts her hips just enough to help me, her breath hitching as cool air hits the exposed skin.

I drop the scrap of fabric to the floor and step back to grab my bag from under the counter. Oakley watches me, her chest rising and falling rapidly as I pull out a length of soft black rope .

“You trust me?” I ask, the rope sliding between my fingers.

She nods, eyes never leaving mine. “Yes.”

Above her, the knives gleam in the kitchen light. I reach up, selecting a paring knife first—small, precise. I trail the flat side along her arm, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. She shivers but doesn’t pull away.

“Your skin,” I murmur, playing the knife across her collarbone. “So perfect. So alive.”

I exchange the paring knife for a larger one, this time dragging the dull edge up her inner thigh. She’s trembling now, her arousal evident on the butcher block beneath her.

“Please,” she whispers.

I set the knife aside and gather her wrists in one hand, wrapping the rope around them. The black bindings contrast beautifully against her skin. Once secured, I position her arms above her head, back against the countertop.

Reaching up, I select a carving knife with a narrow blade. I test its weight in my hand before aligning it with the ropes binding her wrists. With controlled force, I drive the knife through the rope and into the butcher block, pinning her hands above her head.

She gasps, testing the restraint. The knife holds firm.

“Spread your legs,” I order.

She complies, opening herself to me. I choose two more knives and pull out more rope. I bind her ankles and secure each to the island’s corners with the blades, embedding them deeply into the wood. The position leaves her exposed, spread-eagled across my kitchen island.

I step back to admire my handiwork. Oakley’s splayed across the kitchen island like an offering—wrists pinned above her head by a carving knife, ankles secured by knife-points driven deep into the wood.

Her chest rises and falls with each ragged breath, pupils blown wide with a cocktail of fear and desire.

“So,” I say, unbuckling my belt. “Just a friend, huh?”

She tugs against her restraints, testing them. The knives don’t budge. I’ve done this before.

I shrug out of my shirt, letting it drop to the floor. I step between her legs, hands sliding up her thighs.

“What am I to you, Novak?” I ask, my voice low. “What exactly are we doing here?”

She opens her mouth to answer just as my thumb finds her center. Whatever words she planned, die on a gasp.

“I think,” I continue, working her slowly, “that you like the idea of being with someone dangerous. You get off on it.”

Her hips buck against my hand, seeking more pressure. I give it to her, watching her eyes flutter closed.

I lean over her, pressing my body against hers. Above us hang the remaining kitchen knives—chef’s knife, boning knife, cleaver—suspended on hooks, points gleaming just inches from my back. One wrong move and they could slice into me.

Oakley notices them too, eyes widening as she registers how close the blades hover above us. A thread away from cutting into my skin as I position myself above her.

But the danger doesn’t frighten her. Her breathing quickens, lips parting.

“You like it, don’t you?” I whisper against her ear, letting my weight press her further into the butcher block. “Being on the edge.” I nip at her earlobe. “Like on that rooftop.”