Novels by Circeleari

The fireworks are still cracking in the sky behind me, but the world’s gone dim.It’s as someone shoved me out of the spotlight mid-scene. And handed Irene the mic.She stumbles closer, all dainty steps and calculated breathlessness, clutching her phone like it’s her grandma’s ashes.“I was feeling so much better . . . and I didn’t want to be left behind.”She says it softly, a small smile, big eyes. Straight to Konstantin as her life support. Leonid stiffens at my side. I feel his little hand tighten around mine. Not Konstantin’s.Mine.He glares at her like a pissed-off cat. “I thought you were dying earlier.”I nearly choke on a laugh, but bite it back. Irene laughs it off. A breathy, helpless thing. “I just needed rest . . . but I didn’t want to miss out. We’re family, right?”Sure. Family.The kind that poisons your tea and smiles while you drink it.Konstantin doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move either. Which is worse, somehow.Because Irene takes that as a yes and latches on

The car ride feels like getting shoved between a live wire and a ticking time bomb. Leonid’s on my left, fidgeting like he’s got caffeine for blood.Konstantin’s on my right, legs spread, arms crossed, brooding like he’s plotting world domination—or someone’s death. Probably mine.I reach for the window latch just to breathe, because the tension in here is thick enough to bottle and sell as an aphrodisiac to desperate housewives. As I lean slightly, my arm brushes his. Hard. Muscle and heat and everything I shouldn’t be thinking about.His voice comes low. Mocking. Dangerous. “You that desperate to breathe near me, zayka?”I freeze. Of fucking course. Before I can bite out a retort, a lollipop hits his shoulder. Leonid doesn’t even blink. “Stop flirting with her, old man.” I snort so hard I choke on my own spit.Konstantin turns slowly, red eyes narrowing on his brat of a cousin like he’s one sarcastic comment away from putting him up for adoption. “Say that again,” he says.Leonid gr

I should’ve drowned myself in the bathtub the moment the words “trio date” left my mouth.Because now, I’m standing in front of the damn closet, regretting everything about my life, my choices, and most of all, this stupid idea.I mutter curses under my breath as I dig through the mess of silk and lace in my section of the closet, trying to find a dress that doesn’t scream “please choke me with daddy’s money” or “take me hostage.” Something nice. Something normal. Something that’ll make me blend in while being third-wheeled by a bratty child and my emotionally constipated captor-husband.And just when I think I’ll finally get three minutes of peace, I hear his voice.“I need to grab a suit.”Konstantin’s tone is dry. Casual. As if he hasn’t avoided stepping foot in this room for weeks like the fucking plague.I whip around. “You have another goddamn closet. Use that.”He shrugs, already walking in like this is his space. Like he didn’t say on our honeymoon night that he couldn’t stoma

The lounge smells like chlorine and sugar. Leonid’s curled up on the far end of the long cream couch, his stupid tablet on his lap, and for once, he’s not scowling at me like I just kicked his puppy. I sit on the opposite end, legs tucked under me, a little awkward.The sun from the giant glass doors spills across the marble floor and catches in his dark hair. We’ve been here the entire afternoon. God, the things I do for this kid already. He keeps pretending he’s not looking at me. But he is. Every few seconds, his eyes flick up from his screen and shoot me a weird little glare that isn’t really a glare.“What?” I mutter, quirking a brow. His lips purse.“You don’t sit like a normal adult.”Okay. That’s . . . new.“Sorry,” I say with a snort, stretching one leg out and resting my arm over the back of the couch. “Is there a formal seating posture you’re expecting from your soon-to-be pool buddy?”Leonid’s head jerks up. “I didn’t say you could swim with me.”“You didn’t not say it,” I

I’m in Konstantin’s office in a heartbeat. I don’t know why I did that. Maybe I just wanna know why. Fuck, what do I even came here for? I slam his fucking desk. Papers, folders, a pen cup—everything jumps.“Was it because of the allergy?” I snap, eyes drilling into the back of Konstantin’s head as he types something on his laptop though I didn’t just barge in like a lunatic. “The reason you told me to ‘get the fuck away’? Was it because Irene’s skin condition is contagious?”He doesn’t flinch. Not even a twitch. He just closes the damn laptop with a slow, deliberate motion that pisses me off more than if he had just screamed at me. Then, he leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, and looks at me as though I’m a fucking puzzle he already knows how to solve. His lips twitch into a smirk.“Why? Did that get you wet, kotyonok?” His red eyes trail down slowly, unapologetically. “Knowing I was protecting your delicate little skin?”I blink. Blink. What the actual fuck? I mean, I stormed

The hallway’s silent when I pass through it. Not that it’s unusual—this place is built like a fucking mausoleum, all polished floors and pristine chandeliers, so quiet you can hear your own regrets echo off the goddamn marble.I don’t bother going back to the office tonight. Carlos didn’t say anything, but I know he’s starting to notice how often I work overtime. It's not as though I enjoy swimming in spreadsheets for fun, but . . . it’s easier than going back to a cold room where a certain red-eyed psychopath sometimes sleeps.I head straight to our bedroom. I use that word lightly. It's more his territory than mine, like a cage I’m allowed to dress pretty in. He’s not there. Of course he’s not.I stare at the empty side of the bed—the one I don’t touch, don’t breathe near, don’t even let the blankets wrinkle toward. Still perfectly made, as no one even exists on that side. He’s probably still with her. Irene.My throat tightens. It shouldn’t sting. Not after everything. Not after th

The noise around us continues—kids shrieking, parents chatting, the general chaos of two hundred people trying to exist in one space—but our little bubble of awkwardness gets quieter somehow.Dante breaks the silence first. “He’s a good kid.”I glance at him, surprised by the softness in his voice.“Daxton,” he clarifies, like I might not know which kid he’s talking about. “He handled himself well today. With the other children. The activities. All of it.”Something in my chest loosens. “Yeah. He did.”We both watch Daxton across the room, currently explaining something very seriously to two other Spider-Men about proper tower-building techniques. His hands gesture wildly, and even through the mask I can tell he’s grinning.“He’s kind,” Dante continues. “Confident, but not arrogant. Willing to help the other kids when they struggled with the building.”“He gets that from his father,” I say without thinking. “He was—” I stop. Shit. “He would have been proud.”Dante doesn’t ask which fa

I cross the room in what I hope looks like a casual stride but probably reads more like a hostage situation sprint.My hand closes around Dante’s wrist just as his fingers begin to lift the edge of Daxton’s mask.“We need to go,” I say, my voice coming out too bright, too sharp. “Right now.”Dante’s hand freezes. His eyes meet mine, and there’s a question there—several questions, actually—but I’m already pulling him backward, away from Daxton, away from the revelation that was approximately two seconds from detonating my entire life.“Bathroom,” I lie. “Emergency. Female issues. Very urgent.”It’s possibly the worst excuse I’ve ever given, but Dante releases the mask strap immediately and steps back like I’ve just announced I have the plague.“I can manage on my own,” he says carefully.“Great. Stay with Daxton. Don’t touch his face. I’ll be right back.”I flee toward the bathroom like I’m being chased by demons, which, emotionally speaking, I absolutely am.By the time I return—after

The volunteer barely finishes untying us before Daxton’s bouncing between us like a hyperactive pingpong ball.“That was SO COOL!” He’s grabbing both our hands, pulling us toward the next station. “But you guys gotta work together better! Mr. Dante, you gotta tell Mommy when to step! And Mommy, you gotta listen!”I stare down at my seven-year-old son, currently lecturing us like a tiny drill sergeant who’s seen too many sports movies.“Excuse me?” I say.“You were fighting!” He’s so earnest it’s almost offensive. “You gotta be a TEAM!”Dante makes a sound that might be a laugh poorly disguised as a cough. I shoot him a look that could melt titanium.“Your mother and I were coordinating just fine,” he says smoothly.“You came in second-to-last,” Daxton points out with the brutal honesty only children possess.“Thank you for that reminder, baby,” I mutter.The next heat lines up. Different families, same chaos. Daxton positions himself as our self-appointed coach, pointing and gesturing

The hallway hits us like a wall of noise and color.It’s chaos in the best possible way—the kind of organized mess that only happens when you cram two hundred kids and their parents into a space designed for maybe half that. A handmade “PARENTS’ DAY!” banner hangs crookedly above the entrance, held up by what looks like determination and prayer. Balloons cluster around plastic chairs like they’re hosting a very enthusiastic hostage situation. Kids are everywhere, shouting names, running ahead despite multiple teachers clapping their hands and calling for “walking feet, please!”Daxton immediately grabs both our hands—mine and Dante’s—and pulls us forward like he’s towing a yacht. His little Spider-Man grip is surprisingly strong for someone who weighs maybe fifty pounds soaking wet.I mean, his father is the Alpha King—that I’m proud of.“Come ON!” he says, bouncing on his toes. “We’re gonna miss the good spots!”I let him drag me, hyperaware of Dante’s presence on Daxton’s other sid

"No."The word comes out too fast, too sharp, loud enough that Mrs. Chen walking her Pomeranian three houses down actually turns to look. I don't even let Dante finish his sentence, just shut him down like I'm slamming a door in his face."Absolutely not."Dante doesn't flinch. He just stands there behind his fence, one hand resting casually on the wood, watching me with those dark eyes that see too fucking much. The dog at his feet—some sleek gray thing that probably costs more than my car—sits perfectly still, like even the animals in his orbit know better than to cause problems.The silence stretches awkwardly across the sidewalk. A couple walking past with their twins in matching dinosaur costumes gives us a curious look. Parents are gathering everywhere, loading into cars with excited kids, and here I am having a public standoff with my neighbor while my son waits."Mommy?"Shit.I look down at Daxton, and even through the red and blue Spider-Man suit that covers him head to toe,

Fuck.The word echoes in my head like a prayer to a god who stopped listening years ago. We're inches apart—maybe less—and I can feel the heat radiating off him like he's the sun and I'm Icarus with melted wings and a death wish.I jerk backward so fast I nearly fall on my ass, scrambling away from him like he's made of fire. My face is burning, and I can't look at him, can't let him see whatever the hell is written all over my face right now."What else do you remember?" The words come out breathless, unprofessional, completely fucking compromised. But I'm still his therapist. That's what I'm being paid for. Get it together, Eris.Dante's quiet for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is distant, like he's watching a movie of someone else's life. "I see myself jumping off a building."My heart stops."My Beta was there. Trying to stop me. But he was too late."No. No, no, no—"Do you know what that means?" He's looking at me now, and there's something in his eyes— he already knows