Novels by Circeleari

KONSTANTIN3 Days Ago* * * The heavy silver breakfast tray feels ridiculous in my hands, but I take it from the young maid anyway.“Mr. Morozov, I can carry that up for Mistress Evangeline—““I’ve got it,” I cut her off, my voice flat. “Get back to the kitchen.”She nods quickly and backs away, smoothing her apron before disappearing down the stone corridor.I shift my grip on the polished handles, turning toward the east wing.The morning air inside the manor is damp and freezing, smelling faintly of pine soot and wet concrete from the courtyard outside.When I reach Evangeline’s bedroom, I don’t see her.I see six-year-old Leonid standing on his tiptoes in front of her door, his small fingers straining to reach the heavy brass latch.He’s wearing his oversized flannel pajamas, his dark hair sticking up on one side, clearly trying to sneak in to bug her for breakfast.“Leonid.”The kid jumps half an inch off the floor, gasping as he spins around.In his sudden panic, his small hand

I lose count of the hours.I lose count of the days.Time down here isn’t measured in minutes.It’s measured in the heavy swing of braided leather and the wet, metallic slap of iron hooks against my skin.Every inhale stings my throat, short and shallow, while blood trickles down my waist, pooling cold against the cement floor.“Can you endure any more, princess?” a gruff voice grunts above me.I force my cracked lips open, swallowing the copper taste in my mouth. “No... please... no more...”The guard lets out a dry snort and lands one final, brutal crack across my shoulder blade.Pain flares up my spine, blinding and hot.“That’s enough,” a voice orders near the doorway. “Patch her up. We still need her breathing.”The whipping stops.Heavy iron chains are padlocked to rings on opposite sides of the room, keeping my arms stretched wide and yanked tight.My bare knees dig into the icy concrete, holding my body suspended in a forced kneel—the exact same posture my father and Caesar fo

I shove the black leather diary beneath the stack of loose stationery on my nightstand, my fingers trembling so hard the fountain pen rolls off the wood and clatters onto the floor.Seven days.That is all the time my father gave me before he cuts my mother’s throat.I collapse onto the edge of the mattress, pulling the duvet over my shoulders.My body aches from the inside out, every old scar on my back throbbing with a dull, familiar heat.I shut my eyes, praying for a few hours of dark, merciful oblivion.A sharp, dragging rasp wakes me.My eyes snap open into the pitch-black bedroom.My heart hammers against my ribs.I sit up slowly, holding my breath until my lungs burn.The noise comes again—a faint, metallic scrape from inside the adjoining bathroom.I slide my legs out of bed.The ice-cold marble floor bites into my bare feet.I tiptoe toward the half-open bathroom door, every muscle coiled tight.The air smells of damp tile and night frost.Up near the ceiling, the small rect

I stack the final folder on Carlos’s mahogany desk, my thumb pressing against the sharp paper edge until it stings.Carlos sits across from me, his wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose as his dark eyes scan the ledger.The air smells of stale coffee, expensive leather, and old ink.“That’s the last of the St. Petersburg logistics,” I say, keeping my voice light and smooth. “I cleared the duplicate shipping entries and re-indexed the offshore routing numbers for you.”Carlos looks up, his expression unreadable.He sets his silver pen down with a dull click. “You just spent two days in the clinic, Mrs. Morozov. You don’t need to be doing this.”“I like keeping my hands busy,” I reply, flashing him a polished, harmless smile. “Besides, I’m fine.”“The boss said you should rest,” Carlos insists, his jaw tight with quiet concern.He looks like he wants to argue more, but he closes his mouth and lets out a heavy breath.“I’m going to my room,” I say softly, stepping toward the heav

My eyes snap open to the bitter taste of medical sedatives on the back of my tongue.The heavy velvet curtains are drawn tight, but the raised voices bleeding through the mahogany door vibrate right through the floorboards.I swing my legs over the side of the bed.Cold air hits my bare ankles, sending a shiver up my spine.My ribs ache from yesterday’s assault, but I push through it, planting my feet on the rug and creeping toward the doorway.“You’re out of your fucking mind, Konstantin!” Irina’s voice screeches through the hallway, stripped of her usual delicate polish. “You threw Sofia out like garbage! She’s a Bennington servant! Do you have any idea what Theodore will do when he finds out you expelled his daughter’s personal maid? You’re begging for an international bloody war!”“The Benningtons made an enemy of the Morozov syndicate the moment Theodore put his fucking boots on Russian soil,” Konstantin’s voice responds,. “We don’t answer to London, Irina. Sofia is off my esta

KONSTANTINThe sedative hits her fast.Evangeline’s eyelids drag down until the frantic blue of her eyes disappears behind pale skin.Her fingers slip from my jacket, limp and cold.I catch her head before it knocks against the metal rail, my palm cupping her jaw while the monitor hums a steady beep.“We should give her another dose to keep her completely still for the physical scan,” the male doctor says, stepping forward with a syringe. “She’s agitated, Mr. Morozov. It’s better if she’s fully under.”I pull the white duvet up over her shoulders, covering her up to her collarbone.My thumb strokes the edge of her jaw, feeling the flutter of her pulse.“No more drugs,” I say flatly.The doctor hesitates. “Sir, with all due respect, we need to inspect the abdominal area and the back for internal injuries. It’s hospital procedure—“I slowly turn my head toward him.My hands stay on Evangeline, but my shoulders lock. “Do I have to repeat myself?”The air turns arctic.The doctor swallows

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

MINTHEGood Actor* * * My lips collide with his, and the entire world vanishes under a wave of chaotic heat.I intended for it to be a quick, petty smash of mouth against mouth—a bitter “fuck you” directed straight at Pierre’s arrogant face.But the second my lips touch Hades’, I lose complete control of the script.Hades doesn’t just sit there like a passive target.His hand shoots up, gloved fingers tangling into the hair at the back of my head. He grips my scalp with rough, commanding force, tilting my chin back until my throat is exposed.Before I can even register the gasp escaping my lungs, Hades slams his tongue past my parted lips.It isn’t a gentle kiss. It’s aggressive, filthy, and thorough.His other arm wraps around my waist like a steel band, lifting me off his lap just enough to crush my chest against his. He tastes like bitter liquor, tobacco, and danger. He takes my mouth with a possessive hunger that makes my head spin and my knees go soft.My heart hammers ag

MINTHELet The Show Begin* * * His breath hits the side of my neck, warm against my freezing skin.The scent of tobacco and sandalwood wipes out the stench of crushed roses and spilled blood on the altar floor.I don’t pull away. I can’t. My legs feel like wet concrete, my pulse hammering in my throat.“Your Highness,” I whisper, my voice barely carrying over the murmurs spreading through the hall. “I didn’t think you’d bother coming down from your precious throne just to play along with my mess.”Hades doesn’t loosen his grip on my waist. His gloved hand presses firm against my side, pinning me against his chest.“I don’t particularly enjoy watching my future Queen stand in the dirt while another man lays his hands on her,” he rumbles, his voice vibrating through my ribs.I tilt my chin up, staring into his unreadable eyes. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. You know the deal, Your Highness. This is a strictly business transaction. A few months of pretending to be your candidate t

MINTHELuna Minthe is Dead* * * Lyria sits in a ruined heap of white silk on the altar carpet, her heel twisted under her dress.Tears spill over her eyelashes, pooling on her cheeks.She looks up at Pierre, reaching out a hand, expecting him to drop to his knees and scoop her up.“Pierre . . .” Lyria whimpers. “Pierre, help me . . . please . . .”Pierre doesn’t reach for her.He doesn’t even step down to check if her ankle is broken.He stands frozen on the altar steps, his skin drained of color. His chest heaves under his coat, his hands trembling so hard he has to clench them into fists. His eyes dart from Lyria’s face to the High Priest, then to the pillars wrapped in dried vines.“Lyria?!” Pierre stammers. “What . . . what the fuck?!”He turns toward the High Priest, teeth bared. “Father, what the hell is this?! Why were you marrying me to her?!”The hall explodes into frantic whispers.The elders lean into each other, murmuring in shock.Pack warriors along the perimeter shift

MINTHEThe Bride* * *The massive oak doors grind open on rusted iron hinges.The crowd of border lords and pack warriors lets out a collective gasp.The ceremonial drums drop into a low, thunderous rhythm—the heavy beat of the Ashbourne mating ritual echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling.Lyria steps through the threshold into the light.She moves slowly, head held high beneath the black lace veil, hands folded over the white silk dress I hand-stitched for her.Beneath the hem, her platform heels click against the crimson carpet with careful, rehearsed balance.At the far end of the hall, standing on the altar steps beside the High Priest, Pierre stands straight.His leather coat is immaculate. His golden hair is brushed back.He watches the bride approach with an arrogant, satisfied smirk.He thinks the woman in white is me.He thinks I finally gave in. He thinks I swallowed my pride, put on the bridal dress, and marched down the aisle to play the dutiful Beta mate he spent three y

MINTHEEnd of the Gamble* * * If you give a man three years of your life and he trades you in for his ex, the least you can do is make his wedding a total fucking crime scene.The vanity mirror in the west wing dressing room is speckled with frost, reflecting two women sitting side by side under the dim tallow light.On the left sits Lyria, staring at her reflection like a woman who just won the lottery.On the right sits me—calm, quiet, and playing the role of the ruined, pathetic Beta woman so well that even the pack’s head makeup artist looks at me with pity.“You really have such delicate features, Lady Minthe,” Sarah, the Omega makeup artist, murmurs softly as she strokes a soft dusting of powder across my cheekbones.Her hands tremble slightly. “You’re going to make a breathtaking bride today. Alpha Pierre is a lucky man.”I don’t correct her.I don’t break character for a single second.I just let a tiny, sad smile touch my lips, keeping my voice low and gentle.“Thank

MINTHETomorrow* * *Three days in a doomed webnovel is a long fucking time to watch your ex-fiancé fall in love with someone else.I swirl the wine in my glass, watching it coat the crystal before bringing it to my lips.Across the hall, Lyria is vibrating with frantic energy, barking orders at three terrified Omegas carrying candelabras. Her golden curls are pinned back, cheeks flushed pink.She looks like the perfect, hardworking bride.Which is ironic, considering everyone in this packhouse thinks she’s just an innocent guest being worked to the bone by a bitter villainess.“Your knight is wide open, Minthe,” Cassian mutters from across the marble table, not looking up from the board between us. He’s dressed in his servant tunic, eyes fixed on his rooks like an assassin calculating a hit.“Let him take it,” I say softly, taking another sip. “I’m playing the long game.”A few yards away, two maidservants pretend to dust the pillars. Their whispers carry across the hall.“Loo