Page 91 of X Marks the Stalker
I nod, unable to deny it. “The real me.”
My life has become unrecognizable in the span of a night.
Yet, I don’t feel the panic I should. Ever since last night with Wendell, something has shifted inside me. A line crossed that can’t be uncrossed.
As if sensing my thoughts, Xander studies me with that penetrating gaze that seems to see everything.
“You’re thinking about Wendell,” he says.
I nod. “I keep wondering if that was the moment that led to this. If I’d run away last night instead of staying...”
“But you didn’t run,” he reminds me. “You stayed. You participated. You crossed that line willingly.”
“I know,” I whisper. “That’s what scares me. Part of me should be horrified by all of this—by you, by them, by myself. But instead...”
“Instead?”
“Instead, I feel alive for the first time.”
He takes a step closer, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face. “There’s no going back, Oakley. Not for either of us.”
“I know,” I say again, and I do. Whatever happens next, I’m in this now. Not just with Xander, but with all of it. The darkness. The justice. The terrible, necessary balance we’re fighting to restore.
I must doze off mid-sentence,because I wake to the scent of cedar and mint flooding my senses as arms slide beneath me.
Xander lifts me effortlessly, his heartbeat steady against my ear where my cheek presses to his chest.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip to cradle me closer as he carries me toward the bedroom. “Your neck was at a forty-five-degree angle. You’d have woken up cursing my name.”
“I’m awake now,”I mumble into his shirt, though my limbs feel like melted wax.
“Barely.”His voice holds a smile.“Your eyelids haven’t fluttered once. You sigh in your sleep, you know. Like a frustrated kitten.”
He lays me on the bed,his hands meticulous even now, smoothing the twisted hem of my shirt, peeling off my socks because“restricted toes disrupt REM cycles,”and tucking the duvet around my shoulders with military precision.
When I shiver, he retrieves the cashmere throw from the footboard and layers it over me, his knuckles brushing my collarbone in a way that’s decidedlynotclinical.
“Stay,”I slur, pawing at his sleeve as he turns to leave.
The mattress dips under his weight as he settles beside me, his body a furnace even through layers of fabric.
“Wasn’t planning on leaving.”His thumb sweeps a strand of hair from my forehead, lingering to trace the shell of my ear.“You’re a menace when you’re sleep-deprived. Someone needs to ensure you don’t face plant into your coffee tomorrow.”
His phone buzzes on the nightstand. His body tenses, but he doesn’t move.
“Aren’t you going to check that?”I whisper.
“Later.”His arm snakes around my waist, pulling meflush against him.His nose brushes my temple, inhaling deeply like he’s committing my scent to memory.
Xander’s phone buzzes with another alert. He sighs and reaches for it.
“Another security alert,” he says, his voice tight.
My stomach drops. “Blackwell’s men again?”
“No.” He pulls up the feed on his tablet and hands it to me. “It’s a woman. Do you know her?”
The image on the screen makes my breath catch in my throat. Zara stands in the middle of what used to be my living room, her hands covering her mouth in horror. My apartment looks like a war zone—furniture overturned, books scattered across the floor, my investigation board torn to shreds. Blackwell’s men weren’t just looking for evidence; they were sending a message.
