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.

She moves with the kind of focus that makes you forget there’s blood crusting the floor. No flinching. No hesitation. 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.

Oakley Novak doesn’t know it yet, but our paths are now inextricably linked. And for the first time in my existence, I’m not following the protocol. I’m following her. And if Thorne finds out, I’ll be the next body on the marble floor.

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.

This isn’t just observation anymore. Oakley Novak needs a guardian angel, even if she’d consider me the devil.

Focus, Rhodes. You have an actual target. A legitimate operation. A purpose that doesn’t involve becoming obsessed with a woman who just caught you spying on her and, instead of calling the police like a normal person, has turned it into some sort of deranged courtship ritual. God help me, I think I’m in love.

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

I can’t stop watching you. Because I’m starting to wonder if you’re the only person on this godforsaken planet who might understand me. Because I’m dangerously close to breaking every rule I’ve ever followed just to keep you in my orbit.

How could she possibly know? I’ve been meticulous. Perfect. No connections, no patterns, no evidence. We’re ghosts—invisible, untraceable. We’re the Fight Club of murder. The first rule is you don’t talk about it. Ever.

The night air turns to concrete in my lungs. I can’t breathe. She’s not asking questions—she’s making statements with absolute certainty. I’ve never felt more exposed, and I’m wearing a fucking mask.

I should recognize this for the trap it could be. Instead, something unfamiliar uncurls in my chest. Something that makes me want to slay dragons for her, which is ridiculous because I’m not a knight. I’m the dragon.

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

she’s mine to protect. The possessive pronoun feels alien, yet right. When did that happen? When did she shift from surveillance subject to...something else? But I like it. My woman. Mine.

“You here, with me,” he whispers, eyes burning with reverence, “is everything. I’d burn worlds to keep this moment. To keep you.”

“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.”

“What in the Bob Ross happy little accident is this standoff?” he whispers.

“Were you willing to die for me back there?” He pauses, not meeting my eyes. “Yes.” “Why?” “Because you’re mine.” His voice catches on the word, as if surprised by his own admission. “Mine to watch, mine to protect...” He swallows hard. “Mine to fuck, mine to love.”

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.”

Sometimes, when he doesn’t think I’m looking, he watches me with that same expression, like I’m the answer to a question he’s been asking his whole life. Like my dad looked at my mom.

“Put down the murder weapon, please,” he says, his voice tight, “before you kill me, too. Death by trout was not how I planned to go.”

“Okay. We need a plan.” “Here’s the plan. You grab his arms, I’ll take his legs, and we’ll drag him out the back door to the car.” Xander looks appalled. “That’s not a plan! That’s a sentence with action verbs!” Despite everything, a laugh bubbles up. “Welcome to improv murder, babe. Sometimes you gotta wing it.”

Death has a boardroom, and it smells like old money.

Blood beads along both our marks, tiny crimson dots forming a macabre connect-the-dots puzzle on his chest. “XO,” Xander says, his voice warming with approval. “Fitting signature for our first collaboration.”

“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.”

“Most of my life, I’ve felt hunted. Now I’m with the hunter.” He reaches up to brush a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. “You’re not prey, Oakley. You never were.”

“The sour-to-chocolate pipeline is severely underutilized in your current setup.” I stare at him for a long moment. “I’m in love with a serial killer who color-codes my candy stash.”

“Ah, so you’re only with me for my height and my ability to hack financial records?” “And your hands,” I add solemnly. “Definitely your hands.”

in a small compartment I never noticed before, a single package of my favorite hard-to-find British chocolate with a handwritten note: For when you miss me. Which I hope is always.