Page 61 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

T hree months later

The tap-tap-tap of keys pulls me from sleep.

Rapid-fire clicks, rhythmic and precise.

Without opening my eyes, I know what he’s doing—reviewing overnight surveillance footage, checking security protocols, probably hacking something ridiculously illegal before most people have even reached for their alarm clocks.

Just another Tuesday morning with my serial killer boyfriend.

“I can feel you analyzing me,” he says without turning around.

I crack one eye open. Xander sits at his desk by the window, shirtless, his broad back bathed in the soft glow of three monitors.

The intricate tattoo covering his left shoulder blade shifts hypnotically as he types.

Lean muscles ripple along his spine with each movement, controlled power temporarily leashed.

My mouth goes dry at the sight. Three months of waking up to this view, and it still makes my heart stutter.

“Not analyzing. Admiring.” I stretch across his absurdly expensive sheets. “Some of us appreciate a good view in the morning.”

He glances over his shoulder, his eyes warming as they take in my disheveled state. A slow smile spreads across his face, dangerous and playful all at once.

“The view from here isn’t bad either.”

“Flirt.” I roll onto my side, propping myself up on one elbow. “Find anything interesting in your creepy morning ritual?”

“Someone tried to access the building’s security system.” His fingers fly across the keyboard, forearm muscles flexing beneath skin decorated with a binary code tattooed in a band around his wrist—ones and zeros that spell out something he refuses to translate for me.

“Tried?”

“Let’s just say they experienced catastrophic hardware failure.” His lips curve into that smile that still makes my stomach flip. The one that belongs to the version of him I found watching me through cameras hidden in my apartment all those months ago.

He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. “You’re watching my hands again.”

Heat rises to my cheeks. “I’m watching your technique. Professional interest.”

“Technique.” He snorts. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

“Shut up. ”

“Three nights ago at dinner, you nearly knocked over your wine, watching me cut my steak.”

“The restaurant was dark. I was hungry.”

“For steak? Or for me?”

I throw a pillow at his head. He catches it without looking, reflexes quick as always.

“Show-off,” I mutter.

The smirk that appears on his face is worth losing the pillow.

I slide out of bed, stealing his discarded t-shirt from the floor. As I pad across the room, I glimpse myself in the mirror—wearing his clothes, hair a wild mess, lips still swollen from kisses. My reflection blinks back. A woman I’m still getting used to.

The same woman who once spent sleepless nights chasing down corrupt officials now wakes up beside a man whose hands can hack security systems, slice bacon paper-thin, and deliver mind-shattering orgasms with the same precision.

The woman in the mirror no longer flinches at the word killer, not when it’s attached to the man who makes her come undone night after night.

“You know, when I was little, I always thought I’d end up with a doctor or something.” I wrap my arms around his shoulders from behind, resting my chin on the top of his head. “Someone safe. Stable. Boring.”

“Disappointed?” His eyes meet mine in the monitor's reflection, one hand coming up to cover mine.

“Relieved.” I press a kiss to his temple. “Imagine me with some cardigan-wearing pediatrician who wants to talk about golf. I’d have murdered him within a week.”

Xander snorts. “That’s not funny. ”

“It’s a little funny.” I release him to head for the kitchen. “Especially coming from you.”

Our routine has settled into something weirdly domestic for two people who are decidedly not normal.

I make coffee while Xander finishes his security checks.

I set out my rainbow variety of emergency snacks—organized by sugar content and crisis level—while he clears his browser history.

I check my journalism assignments while he verifies that none of the Hemlock Society’s latest “projects” have made headlines.

Just another day in paradise.

“Thorne called yesterday,” I say, sliding a mug of coffee across the counter to him. “Wanted to know if I’d reconsidered his offer.”

“And?”

“Told him the same thing I always do. I’m more valuable on the periphery. Access to sources, legitimate reason to investigate. Better alibis.”

The tension in Xander’s shoulders eases. “He should stop asking. I’ll talk to him.”

“No. He respects persistence. And he likes my research skills.” I shrug, adding three sugars to my coffee. “Besides, I think he enjoys having someone to debate ethics with. Most of you just nod and agree with whatever he says.”

“Thorne doesn’t invite debate.”

“He does with me.” I grin over the rim of my mug. “I think he secretly likes that I challenge him.”

Xander mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “masochist” before taking a sip of his coffee.

The truth is, my relationship with the Hemlock Society has evolved into something neither of us could have predicted.

I research their targets, verify their intel, sometimes poke holes in their plans.

I remain outside their inner circle, a satellite orbiting their dark little world—close enough to help, distant enough to maintain my moral code.

“I’m heading to the archives today,” I tell him, pulling breakfast ingredients from the fridge. “That financial story I’ve been working on—I finally got a lead on some old records.”

“I know.” Xander’s expression is infuriatingly smug. “I may have accessed some relevant servers last night.”

I brandish a spatula at him. “We’ve talked about this. No hacking databases for my stories unless I specifically ask.”

He moves behind me, warm chest pressing against my back as he reaches around to steal a piece of bacon from the pan. His tattooed arm encircles my waist.

“It wasn’t for your story. It was to verify the background of a potential target. The fact that you might find certain financial discrepancies in the 2016 to 2018 records is purely coincidental.”

I try to maintain my stern expression, but a laugh bubbles up instead as I lean back against him. “You’re impossible.”

“I prefer ‘resourceful.’” His lips brush my ear. “And you’re welcome.”

His phone buzzes with that distinct tone that signals Hemlock Society business. The peaceful bubble of our morning trembles slightly.

Xander picks up his phone, expression shifting as he reads the message. Then it rings, Calloway's name flashing on the screen.

“What?” Xander answers .

Even from across the room, I can hear Calloway's voice, but it's strangely flat, devoid of his usual dramatic flair.

“There's a dead body in my gallery,” Calloway says simply.

Xander groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not now, Calloway. I’m in the middle of something. Clean up your own mess.”

“You don't understand.” Calloway's voice carries genuine confusion. “I didn't kill him.”

That gets Xander's attention. His posture straightens, eyes sharpening with interest. “Huh?”

“It's a guest. At the exhibit.”

“And you didn’t kill him? Are you sure he's dead, then?” Xander asks, his tone shifting.

There's a pause. “Well,” Calloway says, his usual sardonic wit creeping back, “his head is on the other side of the room from his body. Think I should check for a pulse?”

Despite the grisly circumstances, I catch Xander's lips twitching slightly.

“Someone is trying to kill me,” Calloway continues, the levity fading from his voice. “And I don’t think it was the first time.”

The implications hang in the air between us. Someone’s targeting Calloway—possibly all of them. The careful masks they wear in public could be slipping.

“I need help to handle this.”

“On my way.”

I pull out some clothes. “I’m coming with you. ”

“Oak—”

“Don’t even start that protective bullshit. I’m the investigative journalist. Pattern recognition is literally my job.”

He pauses, watching me dress with that intensity that still makes my skin prickle—half predator, half lover, completely focused.

“Your self-preservation instincts have been questionable since day one.” He grabs his phone, keys, and a sleek black case I know contains tools no civilian should possess. “You invited a stalker into your bed.”

“After he made an extremely compelling case for himself.” I snatch my emergency bag from beside the nightstand—now stocked with both snacks and lock picks. “Besides, you’re my stalker. That makes it romantic.”

His laugh—sharp and genuine—cuts through the tension. “Your definition of romance needs serious recalibration.”

This is what my life has become. Casual conversations about hacking and killing over breakfast, with interludes of desire that still take my breath away. The strangest part is how right it feels.

“You can’t come,” he says. “You need to go to work. Act normal. You can't raise suspicion by changing your routine.”

I want to argue, but he's right. My value to them—to him—lies partly in maintaining my cover as a legitimate journalist with no obvious connection to their activities.

“Fine. But I want a full debrief tonight.”

“Deal.” Xander prepares for the Society meeting, loading various devices into an innocuous leather messenger bag.

I watch, admiring the fluid economy of his movements. “I still can’t believe someone would target Calloway.”

“He’s panicking,” Xander says, checking something on his phone. “Not that he’ll admit it, but his messages are missing his usual artistic flourishes. Just straight facts.”

“Calloway without drama is like me without snacks—deeply unsettling.”

“Speaking of snacks.” Xander gestures toward the kitchen without looking up. “Your organizational system was flawed.”

I narrow my eyes. “If you’ve been rearranging my snack drawer again?—”