Page 52 of X Marks the Stalker
She follows.
Chapter 13
Xander
That’s interesting. Most people don’t follow a potential murderer to the edge of a building. Then again, most people don’t ask potential murderers for favors. Oakley Novak is not most people.
I stop when we reach the low safety wall that rings the rooftop. Three feet of concrete between life and death. I rest my hands on it, the rough texture scraping against my palms. The city sprawls beneath us, a tapestry of light and shadow.
“Careful,” I say, not looking at her. “It’s a long way down.”
She steps right up to the edge, standing close enough that her arm brushes mine. “Heights don’t bother me.”
I step up onto the safety wall in one smooth motion, balancing on the narrow concrete barrier. The wind tugs at my clothes, Boston becoming a glittering abyss beneath my feet. I’ve always been good at balancing—physically, at least. Emotionally, I’m about as balanced as a Jenga tower in an earthquake.
Oakley’s eyes widen, her composed expression shattering. “What are you doing?” Her voice carries a note of genuine alarm I haven’t heard before. Is she worried about me?
“Pushing boundaries,” I reply, extending my hand toward her. The city spins beneath me, cars reduced to fireflies, people invisible from this height. Something about standing on this edge—this perfect boundary between life and death—clicks into place.
She hesitates, then places her hand in mine. I pull her up beside me with a single tug, my grip firm as she finds her footing on the narrow concrete. Her body goes rigid against mine, her heart hammering. I turn her until her back meets my chest, her body hanging half over the abyss.
“Trust me,” I whisper against her ear, my arms encircling her waist, holding her securely while giving the illusion she might fall.
She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t struggle. Instead, she relaxes into my grip, surrendering her weight to me completely. The trust in this gesture hits me harder than any bullet could.
“You’re not afraid?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Not of falling,” she answers.
I tighten my hold, leaning her further over the edge until her hair dangles freely in the open air. The city becomes a kaleidoscope of lights beneath us, vertigo intensifying the sensation of being suspended between worlds. This is the closest I’ve ever held another human being without planning to kill them. It’s terrifying in an entirely new way.
I’d never let her fall.
“What about now?” I press her further out, testing her limits, testing mine.
“I think you’re more afraid than I am,” she says, and the accuracy of her observation sends an uncomfortable shock through me. She’s right. I’m terrified—not of the height, but of how badly I want to keep holding her like this, on the edge of everything.
I guide her down toward the rooftop, carefully positioning her so she’s seated on the edge, back to the city, facing me. Her hands grasp the concrete on either side, knuckles white with tension as she processes the contradictory signals—the danger of the position, the intimacy of the moment. I stand between her knees on the rooftop side, keeping her secure with my body.
“Don’t move,” I order. “If you move without permission, this ends.”
Her pupils dilate, a flush spreading across her cheeks. “Is this how you operate? Complete control?”
“You’re asking me to kill someone for you,” I remind her, placing one hand on her throat, feeling her pulse jump under my fingers. “You don’t get to negotiate the terms.”
When she tries to reach for me, I catch her wrist, pinning it to the concrete beside her. “I said, don’t move.”
“What are you going to do?” she asks, eyes wide, breath quickening.
“Whatever I want,” I say. “That’s how this works. You surrendered control the moment you stepped onto this ledge with me.” The words come out smooth, confident—as if I’m not making this up as I go, as if my heart isn’t threatening to jackhammer its way out of my chest.
I push her dress up slowly, exposing her thighs to thenight air. The contrast of her pale skin against the dark concrete makes my pulse quicken. My cock strains painfully against my pants, but I ignore it. This isn’t about me.
Positioning myself more firmly between her legs, I trail my free hand up her inner thigh, watching gooseflesh rise in its wake.
“Do you want it, Oakley?” I ask, my breath hot against her skin, my hands holding her securely even as she teeters on the edge of the world.
“Yes,” she breathes, the word carried away by the wind.
