Novels by Circeleari

Konstantin doesn’t move immediately.He just stands there in the dissipating fog of the bathroom doorway, the snow-white towel slung incredibly low on his hips.The scent of clean soap and expensive cedar rolls out with the heat, wrapping around my freezing frame.I’m still wearing my heavy wool coat, clutching it like a shield, but against a man who looks like he could snap me in half without breaking a sweat, it feels entirely useless.His amber eyes track down my body, stopping instantly at my feet.I try to shift, to hide the slight limp I’ve been nursing since the crossing, but he notices.He always notices.“Sit,” he commands, his voice flat and unyielding.Twelve years of Bennington conditioning kick in before I can even process the order.My shoulders drop into a perfect, fluid line.A polite, completely empty smile glues itself to my lips.“I’m perfectly fine, Konstantin. Just a bit tired from the journey.”“I didn’t ask how you felt. I told you to sit.”He turns back into th

A collective time skip of twenty minutes finds me standing in my own bedroom, silently cursing my existence into the depths of hell.I am packing a small duffel bag with a few changes of clothes, while my back remains firmly turned toward the rest of the room.Sofia is lounging across my velvet armchair, her muddy boots propped up on the edge of the mattress as she casually chews on a bowl of grapes, her eyes glued to the small television set blaring a Russian talk show in the corner.She looks completely unbothered, which sends a spike of suspicion straight into my gut.Why isn’t she panicking?If I move into Konstantin’s quarters, the risk of him discovering the raw, bloody tracks she carved into my back skyrockets to a lethal certainty.She should be doing everything in her power to keep me away from him.As if reading the dark thoughts spinning in my head, Sofia takes a slow sip of her drink and speaks up, her eyes never leaving the television screen. “The Morozov lord seems to b

The white examination paper crinkles loudly beneath me as the doctor finishes smoothing the final layer of gauze across my back.The fabric is clean and stiff, pressing against the weeping gashes Sofia left behind, but the sting of the antiseptic is already giving way to a dull, throbbing ache.My skin is on fire, my nerve endings screaming, but I keep my shoulders perfectly straight.I don’t let a single tear fall.I can’t afford to.The doctor steps away as he picks up a dark amber glass jar from his silver tray.He turns back to me, his aged face etched with a profound, quiet sorrow that makes something ache deep in my chest.“Apply this cream every night, Mistress,” he murmurs as he places the jar into my trembling hands. “It will keep the skin pliable and prevent the deeper lacerations from pulling when you move. It will help the healing process, though the marks . . . the marks will take a long time to fade.”The glass is cold against my palm.I look at the jar, then up at his

The two massive guards instantly step into the clinic, their thick, heavy hands clamping down like vices onto the old doctor’s frail shoulders.The old man looks completely terrified, his bottom lip trembling as they begin to forcefully drag his stumbling frame toward the open door.Panic spikes in my chest, hot, wild, and utterly overwhelming.Fired.He’s losing his entire life’s work, his profession, his status—all because I am a coward who can’t face a medical checkup.The crushing weight of guilt is too much to bear.My father raised me to be a tool to destroy men, but I have never wanted to be a monster who ruins innocent people just to protect my own skin.I can’t let another person suffer because of the filthy secrets carried on my back.“No! Stop! Wait!” I shriek, lunging forward out of the corner, my hands reaching out toward Konstantin before my brain can stop me.I grip his thick forearm, the muscle beneath his tailored sleeve as hard and unyielding as solid granite.“Don’t

The silver medical shears in the doctor’s hand gleam under the harsh fluorescent lights of the east wing clinic.The air here is thick with the chemical burn of rubbing alcohol and the damp, heavy scent of wet wool from Konstantin’s coat, which is still slouched over my trembling shoulders.Every single time I take a breath, the thick white paper covering the examination table crinkles loudly beneath me reminding me of just how trapped I am.The old Morozov family doctor steps closer.He stops right in front of me, adjusting the silver frames of his glasses as his trained eyes scan my face.He has that look—the analytical, overly observant gaze of a physician who spends his life looking at human wreckage and spotting the lies people tell to cover it up.My stomach twists into a hard knot, pulse hammering so violently against my ribs that I’m certain he can see the fabric of my shirt vibrating.He raises a gloved hand, his fingers extending toward the collar of the heavy wool coat, int

Before I can even process the small, humorous victory, Konstantin lifts me effortlessly off the ground.I let out a sharp gasp as he hauls my body up onto Z’ver’s saddle, settling me firmly in front of him.He mounts the stallion behind me in one smooth, powerful motion, his chest pressing flush against my back.His massive arms come around either side of my waist to take the reins, effectively trapping me within the heavy, radiating heat of his body.Shit.As the horse shifts, the proximity makes my heart hammer violently against my ribs.I’m completely surrounded by his scent—rain, cedar, and the sharp copper tang of blood.I try to shift forward, trying to create even an inch of space between my back and his chest.“Stop moving so much,” Konstantin commands rough and low, his breath hot against my ear.“You’re going to fall off the fucking horse.”I freeze, my hands gripping the pommel of the saddle so tightly my knuckles turn white.“I’m fine,” I mutter, staring straight ahead at

FIVE YEARS LATERGerald is on the counter again.I know this before I even come downstairs because I can hear Dante saying “get down” in the voice he uses when he has already said it four times and is now simply saying it for the record, knowing full well it will accomplish nothing.Gerald has never once in five years gotten down from anywhere voluntarily.I come into the kitchen.Gerald is on the counter.Dante is at the stove. He’s in a grey shirt—always a grey shirt, I have stopped questioning this, I believe he has forty of them—and he is making breakfast with one hand and gesturing at the cat with the other, and Gerald is sitting directly next to the chopping board with the supreme unbothered energy of a cat who knows he is untouchable.He is untouchable because Daxton will riot if anyone moves him.“Morning,” I say.Dante looks at me over his shoulder. The look he gives me every morning, the one that still does something to my central nervous system even after all this time, war

“Say that again,” I say.Dante doesn’t answer. He’s looking at the phone like it’s something that bit him, and for a man who walked out of a warehouse full of people who wanted him dead approximately four minutes ago looking completely unbothered, the fact that a phone call is doing this to his face tells me everything.“Dante.” I put my hand on his arm. “Say that again.”“Judge Callum Sorin,” he says. “My father.”I stare at him.“Your father,” I repeat. “Is a corrupt judge. Who was working with the people who tried to have you killed. Who is now calling you directly after we just sent evidence of his crimes to a journalist.”“Yes.”“And he’s Daxton’s grandfather.”“Biologically.”“Dante.”“I know.”The phone is still ringing.“Are you going to answer it?” I ask.He looks at me. Then he picks up.He doesn’t say anything. He just waits.A voice comes through the speaker, older, clipped, the voice of a man who has spent decades being the most important person in every room he enters. “

“How is that possible?” I say. “Your people aren’t in position yet. You said seven.”“I know what I said.” Dante is already texting. Both thumbs, fast, the phone Rafe handed over replaced with his own. “They moved because Rafe’s call spooked them. They think we’re onto the location.”“We are onto the location.”“They don’t know that yet. They just know something shifted.” He looks up. “My people can be there in forty. The Kavris will be set up in twenty.”I do that math. “That’s a twenty minute gap.”“Yes.”“Dante—”“I know.”“That’s twenty minutes of you walking into a room full of people who want you dead with no backup and a hard drive they’re going to take the second they see it.”“They won’t see it,” he says. “Because you’re not bringing it in.”I stare at him. “What?”“The drive stays with you. Outside.” He holds my eyes. “You are my backup. If I’m not out in twenty minutes, you send it. I set up a journalist contact years ago, a dead drop, it auto-submits if I trigger it from m

I stare at him for another full minute.He doesn’t move. His sides rise and fall, the bandaging still clean and pale against all that black fur. The early light through the cabin’s one window cuts across the floor and lands just short of him, like even the sun is a little bit wary.You need to leave, I tell myself. Right now. Before he wakes up.But I grab the old wool blanket from the cot in the corner anyway and I spread it over him. As carefully as I can. He shifts once and I freeze, but he doesn’t wake.I back out of the cabin.Then I run.I run as far as I can* * *My father is already yelling before I get the door open.I slip into the kitchen, tie my hair back up from where it’d fallen loose, and get the pan on before he gets to the part of the yelling where he starts throwing things. Eggs. He likes his eggs over easy. If I break the yolk he makes me do it again. I’ve learned not to break the yolk.“Where were you?”“Out early.” I keep my back to him. “Sit down Sir, it’s

“Rafe,” I say.Dante doesn’t answer.Which is its own answer.I look in the side mirror. The second car is still there, two lengths behind us, keeping pace. Rafe behind the wheel, both hands visible, completely normal, completely calm.The way he’s been the entire time.“Tell me I’m wrong,” I say.Dante is quiet for a long moment. “You’re not wrong.”“Dante—”“The way Vera knew we were at the mall,” he says. Low. Controlled. Like he’s working through it in real time and not loving where it lands. “She had a photo within the hour. We didn’t tell anyone where we were going. Only Rafe knew.”“He could have had someone watching the house.”“The voicemail,” Dante says. “That night. It came three hours after we arrived at the mansion. Vera needed an inside location to send that fast. Someone told her the address the moment we pulled through the gate.”I think about Rafe at the mansion. First on the perimeter. First through the back door. First to say he’s back in the foyer while Vera was st

“Strangers,” Dante says.“A couple. Young. I think they have a cat.” I watch his face. “I’m sorry, did you want me to have kept the house I shared with the man I thought I’d accidentally killed?”He looks at me for a second. “Fair.”“Thank you.”“We’re still going.”“I know we are.”Daxton looks up from the couch. “Are we going on a road trip?”“Yes,” Dante says.“Can we stop for snacks?”“Daxton—” I start.“Yes,” Dante says.Daxton pumps his fist.I grab the wolf plushie off the cushion beside him and hand it over. “Shoes. Right feet this time.”He looks down. Looks back up. “I was testing you.”“Sure you were.”Rafe meets us at the car.He’s already heard — Dante called him on the way down Marcus’s stairs, two minutes, short sentences, the kind of conversation where both people already know the shape of the problem and just need to confirm the details. Now Rafe is leaning against the passenger door with his arms crossed and the expression he wears when he’s about to say something Da

MINTHETake My Place* * *Three years of playing the meek, submissive martyr for a generic werewolf Alpha didn’t just break my spirit; it completely rotted my goddamn brain.But waking up this morning with the metallic taste of absolute clarity in my mouth, I realize the pathetic, love-struck placeholder version of Minthe Vale is officially dead.“Let go of the fucking door, Cass.”“No. Absolutely not. Put a bullet in my skull instead.”Cassian is currently anchoring himself to the heavy oak doorframe of my quarters, his fingers clawing at the wood with white-knuckled desperation.He is an elite fifteen-year-old assassin bound to me by a blood contract, a kid who can slice a man’s carotid artery without blinking, but right now he is behaving like a bratty toddler being dragged to a dentist appointment.“We are going out,” I say, grabbing the back of his oversized denim jacket and pulling with everything I’ve got. “Move your ass.”“The last time you dragged me out for ‘fresh air

MINTHEHis Arrival* * *The old priest freezes.The silence that follows is so absolute that the only sound in the room is the crackle of a lone candle burning on the desk.“What?” Father Thomas whispers, his voice cracking with utter shock.He blinks rapidly, his hands slipping off mine as if he’s just touched hot iron. “What did you just say, child? Step down? You . . . you cannot be serious.”“I am entirely serious,” I reply, completely devoid of the hesitation he’s looking for.“But why?!” The old man’s face turns pale, his chest heaving.He’s completely unaware of the drama that has been unfolding in the main packhouse. He hasn’t seen the grand return of the original heroine.“Minthe, you have given three years of your life to this territory! You are the backbone of Ashbourne! The people love you. Pierre . . . Pierre is nothing without your guidance! Why would you throw all of that away now, right before the ceremony?”A small, tired, deeply cynical smile twists the corner of my

MINTHEStepping Down* * *There is a specific frequency to a man’s stupidity, and right now, Pierre Ashbourne is vibrating at a pitch that makes my teeth ache.The veins in his neck look like thick ropes ready to snap under the pressure.He is looking at me like I am a monster.My wrist is still throbbing where his fingers had brutally dug into my flesh only moments ago, the skin already darkening into an ugly, mottled purple beneath my sleeve.I open my mouth, the venom in my chest rising to the back of my tongue, ready to spill out and rip his generic, spineless protagonist persona to fucking shreds.I am done being the quiet, sacrificial lamb of the Ashbourne pack. I am so goddamn done.But before the first profane syllable can leave my lips, a soft, delicate hand brushes against Pierre.Lyria steps out from the shadows of the open corridor, her movements so fluid and graceful she might as well be floating.“Please, don’t be angry, Pierre,” Lyria murmurs, her voice a sweet,

MINTHEJealous of Lyria* * *Pierre’s massive, scarred hand is wrapped firmly around her waist, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of her dress as if he’s terrified she might vanish into thin air if he loosens his grip.The moment Pierre’s dark eyes land on me, his entire body stiffens.His chest heaves beneath his heavy leather jacket, his stride faltering for a fraction of a second.His gaze shifts instantly to the left side of my face, his pupils dilating as he stares at the angry, swollen red imprint of his own hand marking my skin.“What exactly are you doing here, Minthe?” Pierre asks, his voice rough and deep, carrying a strange, unstable hesitation that he quickly tries to mask with his usual booming Alpha authority.I drop my arms to my sides, standing perfectly straight, my posture entirely unbothered.I don’t look at him with hatred. I don’t look at him with longing.I look at him the way a merchant looks at a broken piece of inventory.“I just have something private

MINTHEThe Contract* * *The iron tang of my own blood tastes remarkably like defeat, coating the back of my throat that refuses to wash away.I stand rooted in the black mud of the ruined garden, my left cheek throbbing with a white-hot heat that radiates all the way down to my collarbone.The skin is already swelling where Pierre’s heavy palm had connected with brutal force.My right hand isn’t doing any better, dark, thick drops of blood drip steadily from my palm, staining the wet earth beneath my feet where the sharp wood splinters from my ruined carvings had sliced deep into my flesh.I don’t cry.I don’t even blink.Instead, I reach down with my uninjured hand, gripping the heavy fabric of my mud-caked woolen skirt.With a tug, I use my teeth to catch the hem, yanking hard until the fabric gives way with a loud, satisfying rip.The sound tears through the dead silence of the empty courtyard.Cassian stands a few feet away, his small shoulders trembling under his thin shirt, hi

MINTHEBe Like Lyria* * * “What the fuck did you just do?!” The older Omega finally finds her voice, screaming in absolute horror as she lunges forward to shield Lyria.“Who the hell do you think you are to touch her?! Guards! Traitor! Someone kill this Omega!”The wood choppers lift their iron axes, their faces flushed with aggressive pack loyalty as they take a step toward Cassian.My survival instincts kick in before my brain can even process the danger.If Cassian gets hurt, if he fights back and kills these people, or if he decides to back out of our arrangement and leave this pack, my system contract is completely void.If the distance between me and the Royal Messenger exceeds thirty meters while my system is corrupted, my internal organs will liquefy.I cannot let them touch him.I step forward, aggressively raising my right hand, thrusting my fragile body directly in front of Cassian’s massive frame to shield him from the advancing warriors.“Stand the fuck down!” I snap, my