While No One Is Looking

Prologue — “After”

My cheek is pressed against something cold and rough. Splinters. The taste of salt and blood in my mouth.

I try to spit, but my lips won't obey. The roar of the ocean outside, and in my ears — a thin, high whine, swelling, drowning out everything else. I want to raise my hand, but it won't move.

Heavy as lead. All I can do is look — through the gaps in the floorboards, at the blades of moonlight on the water. On the floor — Kai.

Not moving. In a pool of his own blood, dark and thick under the moon. I wasn't crying.

I couldn't. Next to me — a syringe. Empty.

Its needle gleamed like a scorpion's stinger. Evidence. A sentence.

A shadow leaned over me. Jules. He was hurt.

Under his ribs, right where I'd hit him, blood was seeping slowly, staining his immaculate suit. But he didn't seem to feel it. He wasn't looking at Kai.

He was looking at me. And he was smiling. He leaned in, and I caught his scent — Egoïste, mixed with the smell of my own blood.

His lips brushed my earlobe — not a kiss. A mark. “Good night, little one.”

I felt a thin prick in my neck, then warmth spreading through my veins. The world didn't go dark. It just went soft.

The last thing I heard, before everything disappeared, was the sound of his footsteps fading away on the dock boards. I tried to clench my fist. To remember who I was.

I am a hunter. The thought dissolved like smoke. ...While no one is looking.

Prologue 2

United States. A suburb of Seattle. A country house with immaculate white shutters.

A garden where lavender and roses grow in perfect rows, like soldiers standing at attention. A kitchen bathed in soft light, smelling of cinnamon and something sterile. A cup of coffee crowned with a perfect foam — like in those ads where people smile too wide.

Léa sat at a pale oak table, watching Jules's fingers move silently across his laptop keyboard. Perfect. A loaded word.

Her blonde hair always styled with mathematical precision — the way her mother liked it in family photos. His shirts smelled of more than expensive detergent; they smelled of predictability. He knew everything: when to water the cactus she hated, when to change the car's oil, when to go to bed to guarantee a productive day.

He also knew exactly when to ask her to move in together. One year, three months, and sixteen days after their first date. Right on schedule.

And she'd said yes. Not out of love, hot and wild, rushing through her veins like warm waves. But because it was the thing to do.

Predictable. The next box to check in a script called “A Successful Life.” That sense of rightness had cracked only once — last Tuesday.

Jules had approved her trip to the farmers market — “supporting local producers,” “organic food” — it all fit neatly into his vision of an ideal life. And there, among the smell of warm bread and lavender soap, she'd run into a ghost from her past. “Léa?”

“Oh my God, Léa Morgan!” Chloé. Her old roommate.

Loud, bright, blazing, with a mess of red hair and a laugh that seemed capable of cracking windows. She'd pulled her into a hug — a scent of coffee and reckless freedom. “You—” Chloé had stopped, taking her in: the flawless cashmere coat, the pearl necklace, the perfect blowout.

“You look like you stepped out of a magazine. God, I'm so happy to see you!”