Can’t Stop Watching (Dark Hunters #1)

Chapter 1

DANE

I adjust the zoom on my camera, framing the subject through the tinted windows of my Charger. Brian Langford struts out of his office building after greeting the doorman, all polished shoes and pressed slacks. Guy looks like he stepped out of a catalog for "Rich Assholes Monthly."

Click. Click. Click.

The camera captures every detail—the way he checks his reflection in a store window, how he touches his wedding band before answering his phone.

It's all so... perfect. Too perfect. Like someone programmed a robot to act human but forgot to include the flaws.

Langford's got that Ken-doll shine, all chiseled jaw and coiffed hair, but there's something off about the eyes.

Cold. Calculated. The kind of gaze that makes you wonder if there's anything behind it at all.

I think back to his wife, Claire Langford, sitting across from me in my office, her hazel eyes clouded with doubt.

"I can't figure out what's wrong, but something is different," she said. "I just need to know if he's… cheating. We only got married a year ago, but he's acting strangely. It's little things. Maybe it's nothing." She twisted a gold necklace between her fingers. "Am I going crazy?"

No, sweetheart. You're crazy for marrying this Ken doll in the first place.

Claire wore a cream-colored wrap dress when she came to my office. Simple, elegant. But no amount of propriety could hide her nerves or the way her wedding ring seemed to weigh down her entire hand. "I need to know," she'd said. "Even if... even if it hurts."

I'm afraid it will.

His suit is expensive, tailored within an inch of its life. Every movement is choreographed, like he's constantly performing for an invisible audience. The way he walks, talks, even breathes, it seems to scream "successful young professional." But to me? The jury is still out.

I zoom in on his face as he talks on the phone.

That million-dollar smile never reaches his eyes.

It's all teeth and no warmth, like a shark circling its prey.

What does Claire see when she looks at him?

Does she notice how his fingers twitch slightly when he's not in motion, like he's fighting the urge to.

.. what? I've seen that tick before, in men who are barely keeping it together.

Men with something to hide. Maybe she's onto something.

As I watch, I can't help but think: we're all wearing masks, aren't we? Some are just better at it than others. Langford's mask is pristine, polished to a high sheen. But the cracks are there if you know where to look.

I'm paid to look.

Langford slides into his sports car—because of course he drives a fucking sports car—and peels away from the curb. I follow at a discreet distance, the Charger's engine purring. This dance is familiar: predator and prey, though Langford doesn't know he's being hunted yet.

Is Claire right about him cheating? Maybe.

I tail him to a high-end restaurant. He meets another man—older, expensive suit, and with the kind of tan you only get from golfing in places that don't show up on maps. They shake hands, all teeth and false camaraderie.

Click. Click. Click.

Is this the smoking gun Claire's looking for? Probably not. But anything could be a thread, and when I find it, I'll pull until the whole thing unravels.

I tail Langford for the rest of the day, but the bastard's as clean as his pressed shirts. Boring, even. He wraps up his business lunch, makes a few more stops—dry cleaner, florist (points for remembering the wife, I guess), then straight home to his fancy brownstone.

But something's off. I feel it in my gut, that same twisting sensation I got on the battlefield every time all hell was about to break loose. It's not what Langford's doing. It's what he's not doing. No pauses, no hesitation, no furtive glances. He's too perfect, like a mannequin playing house.

I've seen his type before. The golden boys who think the world owes them everything. The ones who smile and shake your hand while planning where to bury your body.

As night falls, I park across from their place, settling in for a long watch. The lights flick on inside, silhouettes moving behind gauzy curtains. Picture-perfect couple in their picture-perfect home. But perfection's a lie, and lies are my bread and butter.

My mind drifts to Claire again, her quiet strength, the way her eyes gave her hurt away even when she tried to hide it. She doesn't belong with a guy like Langford. No one does.

I shake my head, banishing the thought. Getting attached to clients in any way is a rookie move, and I'm anything but a rookie.

The front door opens, and Langford steps out onto the stoop. Even in the dim streetlight, his smile is too wide, too bright. He's on the phone again, voice low and intense. I strain to hear, but the words are lost in the night air.

One thing slowly becomes clear to my PI instincts Brian Langford is hiding something. And whether it's infidelity or something darker, I'm going to find out what it is. Because that's what I do. I hunt down the truth, drag it into the light kicking and screaming if I have to.

And God help anyone who gets in my way.

DANE

The hours crawl by, and the Langford residence settles into the quiet hush of night. No more movement behind those perfectly arranged curtains, no more hushed phone calls on the stoop. Just another happy couple tucked away in their million-dollar dream.

Yeah, right.

I stretch, feeling the ache in my muscles from sitting too long. The job's a bitch sometimes—all this waiting, watching, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything. It's like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.

Sometimes I think about getting help, maybe training some bright-eyed kid to do the grunt work. But then I remember how much I hate people, and the idea goes right out the window. Besides, I always get my man. Or woman. Equal opportunity disappointment, that's what I provide.

I start up the Charger, its rumble a comfort in the silent night. As I pull away from the curb, I can't help but glance back at the Langford place. What secrets are you hiding behind those walls, Brian? What skeletons are rattling in your designer closet?

The neon signs of my personal purgatory flicker like a twisted lighthouse, drawing in lost souls.

The Old Haunt. Ain't that the goddamn truth.

I shoulder my way through the door, letting the stench of desperation and booze slap me in the face.

Another night in this NYU-adjacent den of iniquity. Home sweet fucking home.

"The usual, Dane?" Joey, the bartender, doesn't even look up from wiping down the bar.

"Make it a double, Joey. The kind of night that makes you question why you ever left your warm, cozy foxhole." I toss back half the whiskey in one go, savoring the burn. "On second thought, keep 'em coming."

I grab my glass and slink over to my usual corner, a pocket of darkness where the bar's weak lights don't quite reach. It's perfect. I can watch the whole room without anyone giving me a second glance. Just the way I like it.

From here, I see every desperate soul stumbling in, looking for liquid courage or temporary oblivion.

They're all running from something, just like me.

The only difference is, I know exactly what's chasing me.

It's the ghosts of the past, the whispers of "what if," and the constant, gnawing hunger for justice in a world that seems hellbent on denying it.

I take another sip, letting the whiskey coat my tongue. It's a poor excuse for armor, but it'll do for now. It burns away the chill of the night. I swirl the amber liquid, watching it catch the dim bar light. Funny how something so smooth can be so damn destructive.

Just like Langford might if he turns out his wife is right. If my gut instinct is right.

I've seen his type before. Hell, I grew up surrounded by them… those polished sharks in custom suits, reeking of entitlement. Dad's clients. The "pillars of the community" who'd smile for the cameras while stepping on the necks of anyone who got in their way.

I close my eyes, memories bubbling up like sewage from a broken main. Dad's office, filled with cigar smoke and the stench of corruption. His friends and clients, laughing as they toasted their latest 'acquisition'—some poor schmuck's life savings, a family's home, a young girl's innocence.

My fingers tighten around the glass. I was just a kid then, powerless to do anything but watch. Even for poor Gianna Moretti.

Clenching my teeth, I chase that particular memory away like I always do.

I tilt my glass, watching the last amber drop cling stubbornly to the bottom. Time for a refill. I raise my hand, ready to catch Joey's eye, but something's off. The familiar, weathered face behind the bar is gone, replaced by... her.

She's new. Definitely new. The kind of new that makes every sorry bastard in this dive sit up a little straighter, suddenly remembering they're supposed to be human beings and not just sentient bottles of booze.

I watch her carefully, wondering if she's an NYU student and noting the way she moves.

Efficient, but with a hint of hesitation.

Like she's trying to blend into the woodwork but can't quite manage it.

There's a softness to her that doesn't belong in a place like this.

It's like watching a deer wander into a wolf's den.

Her eyes, though. Those aren't the eyes of some wide-eyed innocent.

There's a shadow there, a wariness that speaks of hard lessons learned.

I've seen that look before… in the mirror, in the eyes of fellow Marines who've seen too much.

It's the look of someone who's carrying more weight than they should.

She glances my way, and for a moment, our eyes lock. There's a flicker of... something. Recognition? Fear? It's gone before I can place it, and she's back to polishing glasses like her life depends on it.

I chuckle to myself. Christ, Wolfe, you're getting soft. Or maybe just drunk. Since when do you give a damn about some random bartender's tragic backstory?

But I can't shake the feeling that there's more to her than meets the eye. In my line of work, you learn to trust your gut. And right now, my gut's telling me this woman's got secrets. The kind of secrets that could get a man killed if he's not careful.

Or maybe that's just the whiskey talking. Wouldn't be the first time Old Crow's led me down a rabbit hole.

I heave myself off the barstool, my body bitching at me like it's got a hangover already. Time to play detective with the enigma behind the bar. And if that means another glass of liquid oblivion, well, that's just thorough investigation, isn't it?

My inner voice—the one that sounds suspiciously like my old drill sergeant—barks at me to keep my distance.

But there's something about her that's got me moving before I can talk myself out of it.

It's been a long damn time since a woman made me want to close the gap, to peel back the layers and see what's underneath, especially after just one look.

As I make my way over, I can't help but wonder if I'm walking into something I can't handle. Wouldn't be the first time curiosity got the better of me. But in this cesspool of a city, a little danger might be just what I need to feel alive again.

As I approach the bar, I catch her scent, something light, floral.

Out of place in this den of stale beer and regret.

She turns, green eyes widening slightly as she takes me in.

Yeah, sweetheart, I'm not exactly Prince Charming.

But I've got a feeling you're not expecting a fairy tale ending anyway.

"What'll it be?" Her voice is soft, with a hint of rasp. Like silk over sandpaper.

I lean against the bar, offering my most disarming smile. "Another whiskey. And maybe your story, if you're selling."