Page 42 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

“ I never thought I’d measure intimacy by how comfortable someone is teaching me to kill,” I say, watching Xander arrange the weapons on the polished oak table. “But here we are.”

He looks up, those intense eyes catching mine. “Most couples have cooking classes. We have this.”

“Is that what we are now? A couple?”

His hands pause over a curved knife, a rare smile cracking his usual mask. “I’ve watched you sleep, memorized your coffee order, and know which drawer holds the twenty-three emergency snacks. I’d say we’re well past the awkward dating phase.”

He delivers this with such deadpan sincerity that laughter bubbles out of me. Only Xander could make stalking sound like relationship milestones.

I pick up a scalpel and balance it between my fingers. The same type of instrument I’d held over Wendell. “ I like whatever this is,” I admit, both to him and myself. “Now show me everything.”

His eyes darken. “Everything?”

“Everything,” I confirm. “If we’re taking down Blackwell together, I need to know how to do this right.”

The training begins with the basics. Proper grip, stance, approach.

“Grip it like you mean it,” Xander says, adjusting my fingers around the handle. “Not like you’re cutting the world’s most disappointing birthday cake.”

I tighten my grip. “My cake-cutting technique happens to be quite aggressive. Ask anyone who’s seen me at an office party.”

His body molds behind mine, one hand on my waist, the other guiding my arm. His heat burns through my clothes, his breath tickling my ear.

“Extend your arm,” he instructs, voice dropping lower. “Like this.”

He guides me through a controlled, stabbing motion. My body follows his lead, muscles already memorizing the pattern after five repetitions.

“Better,” he murmurs, still pressed against me. “Now try it without me.”

I execute the movement again, trying to mirror his precision.

“Your stance is off,” he says, circling me. “Spread your legs more.”

He trails off as I widen my stance to something ridiculous.

“What?” I blink. “Is this not optimal for stabbing bad guys? ”

His lips twitch. “You look like you’re about to lay an egg.”

“That will be my signature move. The chicken stance. They’ll never see it coming.”

He shakes his head, but I catch the smile he’s trying to hide. He steps in again, this time kneeling down to position my feet correctly with his hands.

“Hip width,” he says, tapping the inside of my foot. “And turn your back foot outward for balance. Unless you’re trying to kill them with comedy.”

His hands linger on my calves longer than necessary. When he rises, our faces are inches apart.

“Like this?” I settle into the proper stance, skin buzzing where he touched.

“Better.” His eyes lock onto mine. “Again.”

I run through the sequence, ending with the blade positioned where he showed me—angled upward beneath the ribcage, where it would slide between bones and puncture vital organs.

“You’re a quick study,” he says.

“I’ve always been good with my hands.” I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively.

“Focus, Novak.” But his voice rasps, giving him away.

We move to the next technique, a defensive maneuver against a larger opponent.

“That’s it,” he says after I twist out of his grip and position the practice knife at his kidney. “Perfect.”

Sweat beads along my hairline, heart pounding from more than just physical exertion. “I never thought stabbing could be so...”

“Intimate? ”

“I was going to say ‘sweaty,’ but sure, let’s go with intimate.”

He retrieves a bottle of water from the nearby table and hands it to me. “How does it feel?”

I know he’s asking about more than just the knife work. I gulp down half the bottle before answering.

“Good,” I admit. “Too good. Shouldn’t I be more freaked out about all this?”

“You’re still processing.” His eyes dissect me. “The reality will hit, eventually.”

“Maybe.” I twirl the knife between my fingers, a move he taught me an hour ago. “Or I’m finally being honest with myself.”

“About?”

“About how long I’ve fantasized about hurting Blackwell. About how right this feels.” I study the knife’s edge, catching light like a diamond.

Xander steps closer, his gaze locking onto mine. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting justice, Oakley.”

“Is that what this is?” I ask, tilting my head. “Justice? Or are we just indulging our darkest impulses?”

His lips quirk. “Can’t it be both?” He watches me with laser focus, seeing parts of me I didn’t know existed until recently.

“And what does that make me?”

“Human. Complicated. Like the rest of us.”

“Even you?” I step closer, the knife still dancing between my fingers. “The stalker who screamed like a five-year-old when those red ants attacked?”

Color floods his face. “They were fire ants. Venomous.”

“Mmmhmm. Very dangerous. Super intimidating how you jumped three feet in the air and danced around slapping yourself.”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” I grin. “It’s tattooed on my brain forever. The great stalker Xander Rhodes, defeated by insects smaller than my pinky nail. The way you shrieked? My God. I think dogs in the next county heard you.”

He groans, but his hands find my hips, drawing me closer. “I prefer when you were afraid of me.”

“No, you don’t.” I press the flat of the blade against his chest. “You like that I know exactly what you are, and I’m still here.”

Something darkens in his eyes. “And what am I?”

“A killer with blood-stained hands,” I say, my voice low and certain. “A predator who watches from shadows. A man who’s crossed every line I was taught to fear.” My fingers trail down his chest, possessive. “And I want every dark, twisted part of you. Mine.”

His eyes burn into mine, something primitive and wanting behind them. With my fingers still wrapped around the knife, I press forward until our chests meet.

“Say it again,” he whispers.

“Mine,” I repeat, feeling the words vibrate through me with unexpected heat.

The training knife clatters to the floor as Xander’s mouth crashes into mine. His hands grip my waist, lifting me onto the table. Weapons scatter like bowling pins as he pushes me back, climbing over me with single-minded focus.

“Is this what you want?” he asks against my neck, teeth grazing skin. “The monster? ”

I grab his face between my hands. “I want all of you. Especially the parts you hide from everyone else.”

He reaches for the knife I dropped. Lightning strikes my spine as he places the blade against my collarbone.

“How much of my darkness do you want, Oakley?” The cold metal slides down between my breasts.

My lungs forget how to work. “All of it.”

The knife traces my ribs through my t-shirt, his eyes watching my reaction. He slices through the fabric, splitting it open without scratching my skin.

“These are skills I’ve never used quite like this,” he says, restraint straining his voice.

“First time for everything,” I gasp as cool metal traces my stomach.

He uses the knife to push aside the torn fabric, exposing my black bra. “Say stop.”

“Not going to.”

He slices through the center of my bra, the elastic snapping apart. “The thrill of control,” he says, “and the thrill of surrender.”

I reach for him, pulling his shirt over his head. “I surrender nothing.”

“Good,” he says with a crooked smile. “I’d be disappointed if you did.”

He sets the knife aside to strip off his remaining clothes. His eyes never leave mine, a playful challenge in them that makes my pulse quicken.

“Like what you see?” he asks, catching me staring.

“It’s adequate,” I say with mock indifference, though we both know I’m lying .

He laughs, the sound warming me from the inside. “Just adequate? That’s not what you said last night.”

“I was being polite,” I counter, trying not to smile.

“Really?” He kneels between my legs. “Let’s see about that.”

When his hands return to my body, they’re gentle, a stark contrast to the dangerous game we’re playing.

“Xander,” I whisper as he takes his time, “you’re teasing me.”

“Absolutely,” he agrees, tracing circles on my inner thigh. “Problem?”

“Yes. You’re talking too much.”

A gasp escapes me as Xander flips me over, stomach pressed against cool wood. My heart hammers against the table.

“Careful with the merchandise,” I quip, looking over my shoulder at him.

“Trust me,” he says, his voice playful but heated. “I know how to handle you.”

His hand traces down my spine, making me shiver. “Promises, promises.”

“Hold still,” he commands.

The flat of the knife comes down against my ass with a sharp slap that sends shockwaves through my body.

“Oh God,” I moan, the pain blooming into something electric.

Another strike lands, harder. My body jerks forward, nerve endings confused between pleasure and pain. But then his palm follows, caressing the heated skin, his touch gentle as he soothes the sting away. The contrast between sharp pain and tender care makes me dizzy with want .

“Too much?” Xander asks, his breath scorching my ear.

“Not enough,” I challenge, surprising myself with how much I mean it. “Is that all you’ve got?”

His laugh is low and dangerous. “Just warming up.” His fingers trace the spot he just struck. “Pink looks good on you.”

The knife comes down again, the cool metal striking my flesh with calculated force. Each impact sends waves of heat spreading through me, awakening parts I never knew existed. My fingers claw at the edge of the table, desperate for an anchor.

His hand slides between my legs, his fingers finding me embarrassingly wet.

“Don’t move,” Xander commands.

I grip the table's edge, knuckles bleaching white. My thighs quiver as he trails the cool metal along my inner thigh, danger whispering against my skin.

“Not even a twitch,” he warns.

The smooth handle of the knife traces circles between my legs, teasing at my entrance. My breath catches in my throat as he presses it forward, the unfamiliar sensation both strange and thrilling. I bite my lip to keep from bucking my hips as he slowly pushes the handle inside me.

“Stay perfectly still.”

My muscles clench around the intrusion. The handle slides deeper, filling me in a way that’s both uncomfortable and exhilarating. The knowledge that one wrong move could bring the blade against my skin makes every sensation sharper, more intense.

He pulls the handle out, then flips the knife and brings the flat side down against my inner thigh with a sharp slap .

I gasp, my body jerking before I can stop it.

“I said don’t move,” Xander reminds me, his voice tight.

“Sorry,” I whisper, forcing my body back into stillness.

The handle returns, pressing deeper this time. My body grips it hungrily as he sets a rhythm. My breathing shatters while I focus on not moving despite the tidal wave building inside.

I grit my teeth, fighting against the instinct to writhe.

“You’re dripping.”

The handle withdraws, leaving me empty and desperate. Before I can beg, the blade smacks my other thigh. The sting cuts sharper this time, wetness pooling beneath me.

“The need to stay still is driving you crazy, isn’t it?” Xander asks, sliding the handle back inside me with agonizing slowness.

I nod, speech beyond me. Every muscle strains with the effort of control. The contradictions—feel everything, move nothing—send my arousal skyward. The knife handle fills me again, unyielding as he pushes deeper.

“You’re tightening,” he says, watching where the handle disappears inside me. “Fighting your own body’s instincts.”

The flat of the blade cracks against my clit. White-hot sensation explodes through me, pleasure and pain fusing into something I can’t recognize.

“Fuck!” I jerk, my body betraying me.

The movement shifts the knife. I feel a sharp sting.

Xander’s eyes flash with something primal. “I told you not to move.”

“I couldn’t help it,” I gasp, my voice barely recognizable. “I’m sorry. ”

“Are you?” His fingers trace where the knife nearly cut me. “You need to understand consequences.”

I nod, skin burning everywhere he touches. The near-miss has my nerves raw, hypersensitive, my arousal somehow heightened by the brush with actual pain.

“That knife could have sliced you open,” he says, voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my insides clench. “You need to learn control.”