Page 145 of X Marks the Stalker
Xander lies motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. His skin still holds that terrifying bluish tint, his lips nearly purple. I’ve never seen him look so vulnerable—this man who moves through darkness with such confidence, who taught me to hold a knife, who killed for me.
I reach out, my fingers hovering just above his cheek, afraid to touch him.
Minutes pass in tense silence. I count Xander’s breaths, each one a small victory. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen...
Then his eyelids flutter.
“Xander?” I lean closer. “Can you hear me?”
His eyes open, unfocused at first, then gradually clearing as they find my face. He blinks several times, confusion evident in his expression.
“Oakley?” His voice comes out muffled beneath the oxygen mask, raspy and weak.
Something inside me breaks open. Tears flood my eyes, spilling over before I can stop them. Relief crashes through me with such force I feel light-headed.
“You idiot,” I sob, reaching for him. “You absolute fucking idiot.”
I pepper his face with frantic kisses—his forehead, his cheeks, his temples—anywhere I can reach around the oxygen mask. My tears fall onto his skin as I press my lips to his eyebrows, his closed eyelids, the bridge of his nose.
“I thought I lost you,” I mumble against his skin between kisses. “Don’t ever do that again. Don’t you dare. I can’t— I can’t?—”
My words dissolve into incoherent sounds as I continue kissing his face, his jaw, his neck. I can’t stop touching him, reassuring myself he’s here, alive.
“The vault?—”
“You almost died in there.” His cheekbone. “You could have—” His jaw. “I can’t believe you—” The hollow beneath his ear.
His hand comes up to remove the mask, but Thorne intercepts it.
“Leave it,” Thorne says. “Two more minutes minimum.”
Xander’s eyes find mine again, and despite everything, I see the ghost of a smile in them. His hand reaches for mine, fingers intertwining.
“You came back for me,” he says, voice muffled but clear enough.
Fresh tears spill down my cheeks. “Of course I came back for you, you stupid stalker nerd. I love you.”
Chapter 35
Oakley
Isit at the black obsidian table, my fingers laced through Xander’s. His hand radiates warmth again—so different from the cold, limp weight I’d dragged from Blackwell’s vault.
The air in the chamber seems to pulse with unspoken power. Six killers gathered around a table of black stone. Men who’ve claimed dozens of lives between them—and me.
A family reunion of predators.
The hemlock flower motifs etched into the crystal tumblers catch the crimson light, transforming harmless designs into silent declarations. Each leather chair bears the subtle imprint of its owner, worn into their postures, like nests built by meticulous birds of prey. Nothing in this hidden chamber beneath the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association exists by accident.
This is a temple built for judgment.For execution. For justice delivered by those who’ve appointed themselves its architects.
And they’re all watching me.
“I believe congratulations are in order,” Darius says, raising his glass. His amber eyes gleam behind designer glasses. “Blackwell is dead, and the empire he built continues to crumble as we speak. Perfect execution of justice.”
“To justice served cold,” Calloway adds, studying me with an artist’s appreciation. “And to our newest collaborator.”
The weight of their gazes presses on me. I take a sip of the expensive whiskey Thorne poured for me, letting it burn down my throat.
