Page 96 of X Marks the Stalker
That feeling blooms in my chest again. The one I’ve been trying to ignore. The one that makes me wonder if I’ve lost my mind—putting everything at risk for this woman whostumbled into my life with her determined eyes and a bag full of snacks.
I study her face, committing every detail to memory. The way her blue eyes darken when she’s angry, the freckles scattered across her nose, the stubborn set of her jaw.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, fingers trailing down my chest.
“How spectacularly fucked we are,” I answer honestly.
She laughs, the sound vibrating against my skin. “Yeah, but what a way to go.”
I take her hand, bringing it to my lips. Kiss each of her knuckles slowly.
“It’s not just about revenge anymore, Oakley.” I cup her face, my thumb brushing her cheekbone. “You’re in the middle of something even I don’t fully understand. The Society has rules, traditions going back decades. And I’ve broken all of them for you.”
“Do you regret it?” she asks, vulnerability flashing across her features.
I pull her closer, pressing my forehead against hers. “No.”
The word hangs between us, simple and absolute. I don’t regret it. Any of it.
“You’re mine, Oakley,” I whisper against her lips. “To love and to cherish. And I’m yours. You can have everything. My life, my heart. Everything.”
Chapter 23
Oakley
“Please tell me we’re not driving to a cabin full of corpses,” I say, watching moonlight flash across pine trees as Xander navigates another hairpin turn. The Berkshires loom darker with each mile, swallowing us into their wilderness.
He gives me a side-eye look, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “Would it change your mind about coming if we were?”
“Probably not.” I dig into my new coat pocket, extracting a pack of Red Vines with a crinkle that sounds obscenely loud in the car’s silence. “But I’d appreciate the warning. Corpse smell clings to hair like cigarette smoke.”
The winding mountain road narrows as we climb higher into the wooded hills. Three hours from Boston, and the farther we get, the more my city-girl anxiety kicks in. No streetlights, no cell towers, no witnesses. Yet somehow, I’m sharing a car with a man I watchedkill someone, and I’m more concerned about woodland creatures jumping in front of the car.
“So, what’s with the name?” I ask as we take another curve, the car’s headlights cutting through dense forest darkness. “The Hemlock Society? Sounds like a book club for people who hate Socrates.”
Xander’s mouth twitches. “Thorne’s idea. He has...preferences.”
“Like what? Poison?”
“Exactly like poison.” Xander slows as we approach a sharp turn. “Hemlock is his signature. Elegant, leaves minimal evidence. He appreciates the historical legacy.”
“How very civilized of him.” I squint at Xander in the dim dashboard light. “So your little murder club is named after your boss’s favorite method of killing people? That’s some corporate loyalty.”
“It’s not a ‘murder club.’” His tone carries genuine offense. “We’re highly selective. Think of it as the Ivy League of vigilante justice—our acceptance rate is lower than Harvard’s. We even rejected a CIA operative last year.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Dead serious. Pun intended. Details matter when you’re...you know, dealing in dead people.”
“What else does membership require?”
“Specialized skills. Adherence to a strict code.” He gives me a pointed stare. “Never compromising the group for personal vendettas. Well, until recently.”
I ignore the implication. “So each of you brings something different to your murder potlucks?”
“Each with different methodologies, backgrounds, motivations.” His voice takes on the clinical tone he uses whendiscussing his work. “Thorne founded it with Calloway. They approached each of us individually.”
I consider this as we pass a reflective sign warning of deer crossings. “And your family? Do they know about your...hobby?”
