Page 85 of X Marks the Stalker
I lean against the counter, his oversized clothes hanging off my frame. “And?”
“And then I watched you.” He turns to face me, something raw and unfamiliar in his expression. “You’re different.”
“Different how?”
“You’ve got steel in your spine. You don’t bend. You fight.” His eyes soften. “They took your parents, framed your father, and you didn’t break. They killed your source, and you didn’t break. They beat you, stole your mother’s locket, and still—you didn’t break.”
The intensity in his voice sends electricity across my skin.
“Everyone breaks, Xander,” I whisper.
“Not you.” He closes the distance between us, one hand coming up to brush my cheek. “And it changed something inme. Watching you. God, that sounds creepy when I say it out loud. I’m not helping my case here.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “Changed what?”
His thumb traces my jaw, barely there, yet burning like a brand. “Everything.”
The word hangs between us, loaded with meaning I’m afraid to interpret.
“When I saw those men in your apartment,” he continues, “I realized I would burn this entire city to ash before letting them touch you again.”
I reach for him, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him toward me.
“That’s the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me. I so want to fuck you right now,” I breathe against his mouth.
His entire body tenses, a visible shudder running through him as his hands seize my waist. “I’d love that—God, you have no idea how much—but we need to prepare. The Hemlock Society will arrive soon.” He pulls back slightly, eyes conflicted. “Terrible timing. Story of my life.”
I nearly choke. “What do you mean ‘they’ll be here soon’? Your serial killer club is coming here? Now?”
Xander moves away from me, already shifting back into that methodical efficiency I’ve witnessed before. “I had to notify them. Protocol when we’re compromised.”
“Compromised? You mean me?” I take a place on the couch. “I’m the compromise.”
“The situation is the compromise. Blackwell’s men finding your research on me, potentially discovering connections to others.” He checks his watch. “We have maybe twenty minutes.”
My mind races, cataloging what little I know about thismysterious organization. “How many people are in this...club?”
“Six, including me.” Xander moves to the windows, adjusting the blinds to obscure the view into the apartment. “Not everyone will come. Perhaps just Thorne.”
“Thorne? As in Thorne Ravencroft?” The name connects in my mental database of Boston’s elite. “The philanthropist?”
Xander pauses, giving me an appraising look. “Yes. He leads our organization.”
I struggle to reconcile what I know about Thorne Ravencroft—the titan of philanthropy whose foundation supports half the museums in Boston—with this new reality of organized killers.
“So what happens when they get here? Will they...” I trail off, unsure how to phrase the question. They’ll try to kill me? Punish you?”
“I don’t know. This is unprecedented.”
“Unprecedented, how?”
“No civilian has ever entered a Hemlock facility.” His expression darkens. “No outsider has ever met one of us knowingly.”
The gravity of what he’s done for me sinks in deeper. “And yet you brought me here.”
“Yes.”
“You seem nervous.”
