Page 112 of X Marks the Stalker
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.”
