Novel-novel oleh Circeleari

“What is a Bennington’s daughter doing in this room, Mr. Morozov?”The question lands like a physical blow, drawing twenty pairs of cold, hardened eyes straight toward me.The older board member with the jagged white scar splitting his left eyebrow leans forward, his palm pressed hard against the mahogany table, knuckles stark white.My lungs contract, a familiar spark of panic flaring in my chest, but twelve years of having my spine corrected by my father’s cane ensure my shoulders don’t drop a single millimeter.I remain perfectly upright, chin tilted at the precise angle of a woman who belongs exactly where she stands.Konstantin’s frame shifts beside me.I feel the dangerous drop in temperature the second his jaw tightens, his golden eyes narrowing as he prepares to tear the older man to pieces.But I don’t let him.If I let my husband fight this battle, I remain the fragile spy princess they all think I am.“I am here,” I say, my voice cutting through the silence with crisp clari

The rhythmic throbbing in my left cheek keeps time with my steps as I smooth down my dress.I stop in front of a mirror in the corridor, tilting my face toward the weak winter light.The skin is already blooming violet—a canvas of Sofia’s resentment.My fingers don’t tremble as I pull a compact from my pocket.Twelve years under Theodore Bennington’s roof teach you one skill above all: how to paint over the cracks.I dab concealer over the swelling, blending until my skin looks porcelain.I force my lips to curve upward.The reflection smiles back—hollow, flawless, dead behind the eyes.Good.I pocket the compact, roll my shoulders back, and push open the doors of the dining room.The scent of rye bread, smoked salmon, and black tea hits me first.A fireplace crackles at one end of the room.At the long table, Konstantin sits at the head, in a charcoal-grey suit, cutting into his food with quiet precision.To his right sits Irina in ivory cashmere.Six-year-old Leonid is perched on a

“Who’s there?” Irina’s voice slices through the quiet of the morning corridor, sharp and completely stripped of her usual honeyed sweetness.I don’t wait to see if she catches me.I pivot on my bare heels and slip into the nearest empty guest suite.I shut the door with agonizing slowness, letting the latch click into place without a sound.My lungs burn.Irina.The sweet, tragedy-stricken cousin who brings me lemon jam and smiles softly when Konstantin ignores me.She isn’t just an obstacle in this house; she is a snake wearing silk, sleeping in the same bed as the Benningtons.I stumble toward the en-suite bathroom, my knees slamming against the tiled floor.I barely manage to grip the porcelain rim before my stomach violently rebels.I flush the toilet, my body shaking so hard my teeth chatter.I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and lean my forehead against the cold porcelain.I drag myself up, rinse my mouth, and force my reflection to smooth out.Ghost-pale. Dark hair tangl

“Do you want to have them?”My hand freezes on Leonid’s chest.The air in my lungs turns to ash.I look back up, meeting Konstantin’s gaze, finding nothing but absolute, penetrating seriousness in those crimson depths.He isn’t playing anymore.Kids.The word feels foreign, completely terrifying.My mind immediately flashes to the cold, blood-soaked basement in the Bennington manor.I see Theodore’s indifferent, pale eyes as he hands me a list of targets.I see Caesar’s cruel, possessive smile as he raises the leather crop.I think of my mother, locked away in some dark room, surviving on scraps, her mind slowly fracturing into pieces because of the bloodline we carry.How could someone like me—a weapon, a piece of meat traded for a peace treaty—ever bring a child into a world this black?What kind of mother would I be when I don’t even know how to look at my own body without feeling disgust?I force the panic down, burying it deep into the pit of my stomach where I keep all my other

“To tell you the truth . . .” I whisper, my voice cracking.“I . . . I . . .”The confession scrapes against the back of my throat.I can feel the hard rim of the marble counter biting into the small of my back, pinning me beneath the immense weight of Konstantin’s shadow.His grip on my wrist doesn’t loosen; it remains a heavy, burning iron cuff, forcing my blood-smeared palm into the harsh moonlight spilling through the window.His jaw is set so hard that a sharp cord of muscle twitches beneath his tanned skin.Those amber eyes don’t just look at me—they dismantle me, gear by gear, looking for the rot my father planted inside my ribs.I am so tired.Every single bone in my body feels ground to dust after years of standing straight, of smiling through the dark while Caesar took his pleasure in making me bleed.The urge to just drop the mask, to let the ugly, jagged reality spill onto the clean tiles between us, is a physical ache in my chest.“Say it, Evangeline,” he says.His free h

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

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

MINTHEWinter to Spring* * *The cold from the ice rink creeps up my calves, settling in my ribs.I sit frozen on the bench, gripping my skate laces.The floodlights blur above me, reflecting off the ice where, seconds ago, I let myself feel a flicker of hope.What a fucking joke.Cassian shuffles over in his omega disguise, stopping at the railing.He blinks down at me, noting the hollow look on my face.“You know, the poets back in the imperial capital say that a heart broken in the winter just freezes over until spring,” Cassian says, voice low so passing families won’t hear his true tone. “It doesn’t actually bleed.”I don’t answer him.Instead, I lift both hands and slap my own cheeks.Hard.The crack echoes off the plexiglass.Cassian jumps back, wobbling on his blades. “What the actual fuck, Minthe? Have you finally lost your goddamn mind?”“I’m waking up,” I mutter, rubbing my burning face. “I need to get a fucking hold of myself.”I yank the laces free and rip the skat

MINTHEGoing Back* * * When we arrive at the luxury shopping district, the bright lights of the boutiques make my eyes ache.I march straight into the first designer store, my heels clicking on the marble floor.“I want that one,” I say, pointing at a ridiculous, overly embellished velvet coat on display. “And those boots. The ones with the gold hardware. Bring them to me in my size.”The sales associate scurries off. I turn to Pierre, crossing my arms.I expect him to scowl, to tell me I’m being wasteful. He always used to lecture me about how the Ashbourne pack needs to be frugal.Instead, Pierre just leans against the counter, his eyes tracking my movements. “Get whatever else you want,” he says calmly.I blink, caught off guard. “What?”“You heard me. If you want the coat, get it.”When the bill comes out to a staggering amount, he doesn’t even blink. He just reaches into his pocket, pulls out his black card, and slides it across the counter.My fingers tighten around the

MINTHEThe Price of Illusion* * *The silk robe feels like ice against my bare skin as I pull the belt tight around my waist.The silence in my bedroom is heavy.I look at the small travel bag on the mattress. It is completely empty.Everything in that closet was bought with Ashbourne money.After I cut ties with the Vale family to run away with a broke second male lead, I didn’t leave myself a safety net.If I leave, I leave with nothing but the clothes on my back and the system ticking behind my eyes.“Minthe, you ready or what?”Cassian’s voice cracks through the silence as he pushes the door open.He’s leaning against the frame, his silver dagger spinning between his fingers. He looks bored, but his tight jaw says he’s just as ready to get out of here as I am.“Yeah,” I say, picking up my coat from the chair. “Let’s go.”We hit the ground floor, my boots clicking against the stone corridors.I keep my head down. Ever since Lyria came back, the feistiness has been draining o

MINTHENot For Much Longer* * *Ten minutes later, I am shoving a plastic basket of tokens into his hands inside the loudest, brightest, most chaotic arcade in the central district.At first, it is like pulling teeth.He stands by the air hockey table with his arms locked, staring at the neon lights like they might explode and kill him.But the second I challenge him and intentionally score a point by slamming the puck past his defense, his inner competitive assassin awakens.“You fucking cheated,” he growls, his dark eyes locking onto the plastic puck as it slides across the small holes of air. “Your wrist moved before the countdown finished.”“A win is a win, little man,” I taunt, sliding the mallet against the plastic. “Get good.”“I am literally trained to kill people in their sleep,” he snarls, slamming the puck back so fast it hits the edge of the table with a deafening clack and flies straight into my goal. “Don’t test me.”By the time we leave, our hands are sticky from

MINTHEA Deal Struck* * *The word seduce tastes like copper and reckless desperation on my tongue, but I say it anyway.Lyria’s jaw drops so fast I think it might unhinge.The expensive leather designer purse she was clutching like a lifeline slips right through her fingers, hitting the polished marble floor with a heavy, hollow thud.“You’re . . . what?” she stammers, cracking right through her perfect, fragile white-lotus act.I don’t shift an inch.I stay leaning back against the plush velvet cushions of the boutique couch, my ankles crossed casually on the marble coffee table.I look at her through completely bare eyes, having tossed my sunglasses aside.“You heard me,” I say, keeping my tone smooth, level, and entirely stripped of the pathetic, submissive softness I used to use whenever Pierre was around. “You take my place at the Mating Ceremony. You marry Pierre.”Lyria stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.She takes a shaky step back, her chest heaving underneat

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