Page 159 of X Marks the Stalker
“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 havepredicted. 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.”
