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

by K.N. Wilder

To the FBI watch list: sorry. It was for research. Really. I swear.

This is fiction! In real life, please don't follow strangers home, install cameras in people's apartments, or use kitchen utensils as weapons. Also, if someone breaks into your home and leaves you dinner, call the police, not a wedding planner.

My stomach lurches. I can handle dismemberment, viscera, brains... Everything goes. But eyes? Something about eyeballs makes my skin crawl. The thought of one rolling around... Gross.

“That was closer than the time I accidentally dated a homicide detective,” I murmur, retrieving the remaining two cameras while trying to avoid leaving bloody footprints across the marble.

Most people would call it stalking. I call it...selective admiration. Tomato, tomahto. All I know is that watching her work at that crime scene was the most interesting thing I’ve experienced in years, and I’m not ready to end the show.

Her desk is a controlled disaster zone. Notebooks filled with precise handwriting. Police scanner. Three empty coffee cups. A drawer filled with—I open it—nothing but candy bars, organized by... Emotional emergency type?

“Hello?” I call out, then want to punch myself. Right, because murderers always announce themselves. Just your friendly neighborhood gallery killer. Don’t mind me, I’m just rearranging your sock drawer.

I stare at the screen, frozen. This defies every behavioral algorithm I’ve ever compiled. No one—not a single subject in my extensive surveillance career—has ever discovered a camera and simply...put it back.

“You— This is insane! You’re insane!” “I’d appreciate a more specific diagnosis, Doctor. ‘Insane’ is hardly DSM-compliant terminology,” I reply, adjusting my gloves. “Though given your history of falsifying medical records, perhaps accuracy isn’t your strong suit.”

The fentanyl-ketamine cocktail works. He’s conscious, aware, but insulated from the full intensity of pain that would send him into shock. Medical marvel, really. The things humans develop to hurt each other more efficiently. We’re a fascinating species. Terrible, but fascinating.

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

“That went better than expected,” he murmurs. “They were going to kill me,” I state, the reality of the situation hitting me. “They were considering it,” he corrects, moving to reset the security system. “There’s a difference.”

“We’re both insane,” I whisper against his lips. “Clinically speaking, probably,” he agrees, the hint of a smile in his voice. “Though I prefer to think of it as uniquely compatible forms of damage.”

“Every man should have to navigate a gas station bathroom wearing white pants during a surprise visit from Aunt Flo. It would revolutionize public bathroom design overnight.”

“You know what’s truly insane? I’ve known you for what? A month? And in that time, I’ve discovered you spying on me, helped you torture a man to death, almost gotten killed by Blackwell’s men, and now I’ve accidentally murdered someone with a fish. Yet somehow, this—” I gesture between us. “This is the most functional relationship I’ve ever had.” Xander coughs. “That’s...a concerning reflection on your dating history.”

“I never thought I’d measure intimacy by how comfortable someone is teaching me to kill,” I say, watching Xander arrange the weapons on the polished oak table. “But here we are.” He looks up, those intense eyes catching mine. “Most couples have cooking classes. We have this.”

He stares at me for a beat, then shakes his head. “You’re the strangest person I’ve ever met.” “Coming from a man who stalks people professionally, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Did you know there are fourteen different ways to trigger one that appears natural? Fifteen if the person is allergic to shellfish.”

I’m following a man I’ve known for a few weeks into a secret passage in a building full of powerful men. Every true crime podcast begins this way. But I’ve already killed a man. This is hardly the time for second thoughts.

My heart rate spikes as I scan the room. No windows. One exit, now sealed. I’m so stupid. A few mind-blowing orgasms, and I let Xander walk me into a room full of predators without even thinking twice.

“Sorry.” I tap my fingers against my thigh. “There’s just so much to see. It’s like a museum of murder with comfortable seating.”

The monitor displaying the penthouse’s grand entrance hall transforms into chaos. Thick green smoke billows through the space, and bizarre mechanical contraptions—what appear to be wind-up teeth with legs—skitter across the marble floor. “What the hell did you unleash, Lazlo?” Xander whispers into the comm. “Medical grade smoke bombs,” Lazlo responds cheerfully. “Non-toxic, but extremely disorienting. And the little guys? Just some prototypes I’ve been working on. They’re programmed to seek body heat and make terrifying clicking sounds. No real danger, but absolutely nightmare-inducing. I call them ‘anxiety incarnate.’ Fun.”

“Congrats on the most twisted first date milestone in history—murdering the guy who killed your parents! Welcome to the Hemlock family.

“Xander—” “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.”

“God, I hate eyes. Like, fucking hate them.” I position the blade near Blackwell’s right eye socket. My stomach performs gymnastics routines. “This is ridiculous,” I mutter to myself. “I’ve removed a man’s heart while it was still beating. But eyes? Nope. Hard limit.”

“What kind of professional killer has an eye phobia? That’s like a chef who can’t stand the sight of onions. Or a librarian terrified of paper cuts.”

“You know what’s strange?” I whisper, not sure if he’s still awake enough to hear me. His fingers flex against my shoulder. “Hmm?” “I’ve never felt safer than I do right now. In bed with a serial killer.” Xander’s chest rises with a soft laugh. “You make it sound so romantic.”

“Besides, you’re my stalker. That makes it romantic.” His laugh—sharp and genuine—cuts through the tension. “Your definition of romance needs serious recalibration.”

I stare at him for a long moment. “I’m in love with a serial killer who color-codes my candy stash.” “If it helps, I’m a very selective serial killer.”

I wrap my arms around his neck. “You see all my broken, obsessive pieces, and instead of trying to fix them, you just hand me better tools.”

I open the kitchen drawer where I keep my emergency snacks, expecting to find chaos after Xander’s “optimization.” Instead, I find each category neatly labeled with tiny printed tags. Sugar Rush (Crisis Level: Deadline – When You’re One Paragraph Away From Missing Your Editor’s Third Extension) Sour Mood Lifters (Crisis Level: Frustration – Because Your Boyfriend Hacked Your Computer “For Security Reasons”) Caffeinated Courage (Crisis Level: 3 AM Deep Dive Into Financial Records That May Get Someone Killed) Salt & Crunch (Crisis Level: Stress-Eating While Your Boyfriend Is On a “Work Trip” With a Duffel Bag Full Of Zip Ties) The Big Guns (Crisis Level: Catastrophic – Only to Be Consumed When Someone Has Tried to Murder You This Week) And at the back, sits an assortment of ridiculously anatomically correct chocolate...cocks...alongside a handwritten note: Something to suck when you miss specific parts of me. The chocolate version won’t talk back or reorganize your snacks.