X Marks The Stalker: A Dark Romantic Comedy (The Hemlock Society Book 1)

by K.N. Wilder

If there’s a worse way to start your day than scraping intestines off your shoes, I’d love to hear it.

Well, fuck me sideways with a murder weapon. This is an unexpected plot twist.

Most people would call it stalking. I call it...selective admiration. Tomato, tomahto.

Different crimes require different candies. Bank fraud? Chocolate-covered espresso beans. Political corruption? Sour Patch Kids. But serial killers who arrange their victims like Renaissance paintings? That demands the nuclear option. Triple-sour gummy worms.

Oakley stands in her living room, holding the tiny camera between her thumb and forefinger. Her eyes are wide, lips parted in surprise. She turns it over, examining it from all angles, the soft glow of her desk lamp highlighting the tensing of her jaw. She knows exactly what she’s looking at. She stares directly into the lens, and it feels like she’s looking straight at me. “Found you,” she mouths.

“Hi there.” She waves, a small, knowing gesture that sends my heart rate into territory usually reserved for cardiac stress tests. “I figured we should introduce ourselves, since you’ve been watching me shower for the past week.” “That’s—that’s not true!” I blurt to my empty apartment like she might hear me through the video feed. My face burns hot enough to qualify as a renewable energy source. “I never put cameras in your bathroom. That would be— I’m not— I have an ethical framework for my unethical behavior, thank you very much!”

I have standards, damn it. I’m not some basement-dwelling creep with a collection of toenail clippings. I’m a sophisticated basement-dwelling creep with military-grade surveillance equipment.

She’s turned my own game against me, and God help me, I’m intellectually aroused in ways that would make Freud throw his hands up and say, “Even I can’t help this guy.”

“So this is what a psychotic break feels like,” I mutter to my laptop. “Fascinating.”

“Who are you?” I whisper. He leans in closer, his lips grazing my ear. “I’m your secret admirer.” He pulls back, wincing. “That sounded much less juvenile in my head. I had several options prepared and somehow selected the worst one. I’d like to request a do-over, but I suspect the moment has passed.”

“Sorry. I retreat into data when I’m nervous.” “I make you nervous?” I ask, flattered. “Yes,” he admits, his honesty disarming. “I’ve never done this before.” “What, voyeuristic candy play?” “No—well, yes, that too—but I meant...this. Whatever this is. Involving myself. Breaking protocol.”

How many killers could one exclusive club possibly harbor?

I’ve been watching her for weeks now, and still, the sight of her steals my breath.

What I don’t tell her is how grateful I am for the concealment. How the mask hides the way my cheeks flush. Let her think there’s something dangerous lurking beneath, not an awkward stalker who’s memorized her daily schedule down to her preferred bathroom breaks.

“I’m going to die,” I whimper, feeling another pinch. “This is how it ends for me. Death by ass attack.”

“I ruined it for you,” I whisper, the words scraping my raw throat. “All your preparation, your planning. I messed it all up.” Xander’s eyes meet mine, and I expect to see frustration, maybe even anger. Instead, there’s something else—a softness out of place in a room splattered with blood. “No,” he says, setting the bloodied scalpel down. His voice drops to a whisper. “You made it better. Perfect, actually.” His eyes dilate, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of color remains. The intensity in his gaze makes my skin prickle—it’s hunger and wonder and something close to worship. I blink. “Better? I threw up and couldn’t even finish what I started.” “You here, with me,” he whispers, eyes burning with reverence, “is everything. I’d burn worlds to keep this moment. To keep you.”

Her smile widens as she watches my expression darken. “You’re cute when you’re angry.” “I’m not cute,” I growl, crossing the distance between us in two strides. “Serial killers aren’t cute. Puppies are cute. Babies are cute.”

“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.”

“I love you.” The words tumble out, raw and unfiltered. “Not because we just committed homicide together, though that’s certainly a unique bonding activity.” I stroke her cheek with my thumb. “I’ve loved you since you looked directly into my camera and called me out.” Her breath catches. I press my forehead against hers. “I’ve spent my life observing people from a distance. Studying them. But you’re the first person who ever really saw me in return.”