Page 43 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

I reach for him, wrapping my fingers around his wrist. “Take what you need, Xander.”

His pupils expand like black holes, swallowing the gray-green of his eyes. “What I want isn’t gentle.”

“Good thing I’m not fragile.” I pull him closer, the heat of his body radiating against mine. “I’m tired of being careful.”

He replaces the knife with his fingers, pushing them inside me with enough force to make me gasp. His thumb finds my clit, pressing hard enough to blur the line between pleasure and pain.

“Is this what you need?” he asks, voice strained. “To get roughed up?”

I arch into his touch, clenching around his fingers. “Yes— God— Harder.”

Something dark flashes in his eyes. He withdraws his fingers and his hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back as he kicks my legs apart.

“Like this?” His voice drops to something dangerous and raw.

“Yes,” I breathe, my cheek pressed against the cool wood.

He enters me with a single brutal thrust that knocks the air from my lungs.

No gentle build-up, no careful adjustment—just Xander claiming me with enough force to make the table creak beneath us.

His fingers tighten in my hair, pulling my head further back as his other hand grips my hip, holding me in place for each punishing thrust.

“This is what you wanted?” he growls, leaning over me, his chest against my back. “To be treated like you can take it?”

“Don’t. Stop,” I gasp, each word punched out of me by his movements.

His hand finds my throat, applying gentle pressure that restricts my breath just enough to make the edges of my vision sparkle. The danger sharpens everything—his cock stretching me, his fingers pressed against my pulse.

“You like the monster,” he says, words rough and jagged. “The part of me that wants to own every piece of you.”

“Yes,” I admit, the word barely audible as his grip tightens.

I cry out his name as my body clamps down around him. He groans in response, his rhythm faltering as my orgasm drags him toward his own.

“Oakley,” he breathes, and something in how he says my name breaks me open all over again.

He thrusts once more, burying himself to the hilt as he comes inside me. His body shudders against mine, his forehead dropping to rest on my shoulder. For a moment, the only sound is our ragged breathing filling the cabin’s basement.

He lifts me from the table, carrying me upstairs. My body feels liquefied, muscles turned to warm honey. He sets me on the cabin couch before disappearing into the bathroom. Water runs, and he returns with a damp cloth.

“Let me,” he says, cleaning between my legs with unexpected tenderness.

The contrast between his earlier brutality and this tender care makes my chest tight. He treats me like something precious as he tends to each mark he left on my skin, his fingers ghosting over forming bruises.

“I made a mess of you,” he murmurs, eyes following a trail of red marks down my thigh.

“You’re good at that,” I murmur, watching him work. Something uncomfortable twists in my stomach. “Done this for many women?”

His eyes meet mine, understanding flickering across his face. “The messes I usually clean aren’t this kind,” he says. “They’re much less pleasant...and the people aren’t still breathing.”

I shouldn’t find that comforting, but I do.

I wince as I pull on one of Xander’s t-shirts. My body feels gloriously used, like I’ve been taken apart and reassembled differently.

“Regretting our training session already?”

“Please. I’ve had worse injuries from trying to reach the top shelf at the grocery store.” I stretch, savoring the pleasant soreness.

He hands me a mug of coffee, our fingers brushing. “ That’s what I tell myself every time I crack my skull on this cabin’s medieval ceiling.”

“Is that why you’re like this? Too many head injuries?” I take a sip and make an appreciative noise. Perfect amount of cream and sugar.

Xander spreads files across the kitchen table—surveillance photos, financial records, property deeds. “Possibly. Though my therapist would probably cite childhood emotional neglect.”

“You have a therapist?”

“God no. Can you imagine that conversation? ‘So, doctor, I’ve been stalking and murdering people, but I’m trying to limit it to bad guys. That’s okay, right?’”

Coffee shoots up my nose, burning through my sinuses. “Don’t make me laugh when I’m drinking!”

He smiles, a real one that transforms his face from handsome to devastating. It makes me want to say ridiculous things just to see it again.

I pull my chair closer, our shoulders touching as we examine Blackwell’s files. “So what are we looking for?”

“Patterns. Vulnerabilities. Moments when he’s least protected.” Xander’s voice shifts into what I’ve started thinking of as his professional killer tone. “Everyone has weak points in their security. Even men like Blackwell.”

I flip through a stack of surveillance photos, arranging them chronologically. “He’s obsessive about his routines. Breakfast at the same cafe every Thursday. Haircut first Monday of the month.”

“Good. Predictability is exploitable.” Xander makes notes in a small black notebook, his handwriting precise and angular .

I study a particular photo of Blackwell entering a nondescript building. “What’s this place?”

Xander leans closer, his breath warm against my cheek. “Private medical facility. Discreet. Expensive. Where wealthy men go for treatments they don’t want publicly known.”

“Like what? Industrial-strength hemorrhoid cream?”

He chokes back a laugh. “Maybe he’s getting his horns filed down.”

I grin at him. “Or getting the stick surgically removed from his ass.”

“That would be a complicated procedure. Probably requires multiple visits.”

We both laugh, the sound strange and bright in the cabin. It feels oddly normal, like we’re a regular couple working on an ordinary project together, not plotting a man’s death.

I scan through more documents. “He goes to this place every two weeks, like clockwork. Last Tuesday of the month and the second Tuesday.”

Xander’s hand covers mine on the table. “Good catch. According to these records?—”

“How did you even get these?” I interrupt.

“You have your sources. I have mine.” He taps a prescription label. “He’s on blood thinners. Probably has a heart condition.”

“The irony of Blackwell having a heart at all.” I shuffle through more papers. “So that’s what these appointments are for? Heart monitoring?”

“Could be. And blood thinners mean?—”

“He’ll bleed out faster,” I finish, the implication clear.

Xander nods.

I pull out my color-coded sticky notes and begin marking the calendar with Blackwell’s schedule. Pink for public appearances, blue for private meetings, yellow for medical appointments.

“Are those tiny cats on your sticky notes?” Xander asks, sounding both amused and horrified.

“They were on sale. And they’re not just cats—they’re cats with jetpacks.” I stick one on his forehead. “There. Now you’re adorable and organized.”

He peels it off with exaggerated dignity. “I’ve never been called adorable in my life.”

“That’s because people are usually too busy running away screaming.”

“Including you?”

I meet his eyes over the scattered photos of the man who destroyed my family. “I’m terrified of a lot of things, Xander. You’re not one of them.”

He looks away first, something vulnerable flickering across his face before disappearing.

I return to the medical records. “This building is less secure than his offices. We know when he’ll be at the facility, potentially compromised by medication, and likely with fewer security personnel due to privacy concerns.”

Xander nods. “It’s our best opportunity. We’ll need to account for the building’s security system, staff protocols, and escape routes.”

“I can access the building schematics through my contact at the city planning office. Journalist perks.”

“Can you get them without raising flags?”

“Please. I once convinced the mayor’s secretary I was researching an article on historically significant plumbing. I can be very persuasive.”

“Is that how you got those hideous cat sticky notes, too? Persuasion?”

I throw a pen at him, which he catches without looking. “You’re just jealous of my superior organizational system.”

“Yes, I’m deeply envious of your ability to plan murder with cartoon animals.”

I place a jetpack cat directly on the medical facility’s location on our map. “See? Now we’ll never forget the target location.”

He stares at me for a beat, then shakes his head. “You’re the strangest person I’ve ever met.”

“Coming from a man who stalks people professionally, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

We work for another hour, establishing Blackwell’s patterns, identifying security weaknesses, and mapping potential approaches. It feels strangely intimate, our hands occasionally brushing as we pass documents back and forth, our heads bent together over the table.

“We should eat something,” Xander says. “Planning murder burns calories.”

“Is that scientifically proven? Did you participate in a study?”

“Yes. Very prestigious research. ‘The Metabolic Demands of Homicide Planning: A Comparative Analysis.’”

I snort. “Was it peer-reviewed by other serial killers?”

“Naturally. Though Calloway kept drawing little pictures of corpses in the margins of his review.”

I laugh despite myself. “What does a killer eat when planning murder? Something ominous, like raw steak? ”

“I was thinking pasta.” He stands, stretching in a way that makes his shirt ride up, revealing a strip of skin I suddenly want to taste.

“Pasta works too.” I drag my eyes away from his abdomen. “Though it seems so normal.”

“Would you prefer I serve you blood soup in a skull?”

“Only if it comes with garlic bread.”

I’m halfway through my cereal when Xander freezes, phone in hand.

“What?” I ask, milk dribbling down my chin.

“They’re coming. Now.” He shoves his phone in his pocket. “All of them.”

“What? Who? The Hemlock Society? I thought they weren’t coming until?—”

“Plans change. We have twenty minutes.”