Novels by Circeleari

My lungs are on fire. The gravel that cut into my feet outside the house has turned into sharp sticks and pine needles now, the forest is swallowing me whole. Every breath is a wheeze, ragged, my chest aching from the sprint. The moonlight barely cuts through the canopy, everything around me a blur of trunks and shadows.I don’t stop. If I stop, he’ll catch me. If he catches me—fuck, no.Something snaps beneath me. A thick branch rolls under my bare foot and the pain rips through me before I even hit the ground. I bite back a scream, but a broken sound still escapes as my knees slam into the dirt. My palms sting. Warmth spills down my ankle.Shit. Shit. I tore something open.I claw my way to the base of a tree, pressing my hand against the gash on my leg, but the blood keeps sliding through my fingers, sticky and hot. The coppery smell is so sharp it makes my stomach turn. My eyes blur, not sure if from tears or the sting of dirt grinding into the cut.The forest is quiet except for

I buck under him, wrists burning in the rope, but he doesn’t move. His weight pins me down in a way that makes breathing feel like trying to suck air through a straw.“Get off me,” I snap, jerking my knees up to shove him away. It’s pathetic—he barely rocks back before settling over me again, deliberate, like he’s savoring every twitch I make.“How long?” My voice shakes, but it’s sharp enough to make him pause. “How long have you known?”His mouth curls slow, it used to be so hot and although it still is, part of it is fucking infuriating. “Long enough.” he murmurs.My stomach drops and I stare straight into those crimson eyes, “What the hell does that mean?”“It means,” he says, eyes locked on mine as he pushes a hair strand off my face, “you’re not nearly as clever as you think you are, darling , , ,”I blink, pulse hammering in my ears as I remember all the heads hanging off of the palace walls. “If you’ve known for that long, why didn’t you kill me?” My voice comes out too fast, t

My neck burns.It’s the first thing I feel before the rest of the pain crawls up from my spine like fire ants gnawing through my nerves. My throat is dry, my mouth tastes like metal, and my limbs—fuck. My limbs won’t move.I blink hard against the dark. There’s no light but only the moonshine pouring in from the cracked glass window, and I swear I can hear my own pulse echoing in the silence. I think I’m still at the house.I try to sit up.My left hand immediately jerks.But it doesn’t go anywhere.Panic swells in my chest, immediate and animal.What the hell?My gaze drops to my wrist. It’s . . . tied?Rough, thick rope—probably torn from the storage closet in the hallway—twists around my hand, knotted tightly against the bedpost. I try the other hand. Same. One foot. Same.Oh my god.No. No no no no no—It hits me all at once, crashing into my chest like a truck.The chase.The bite.The voice.He remembers.My pulse stutters. Cold sweat coats my back, and I pull against the restra

The house is colder than I remember.Not temperature-wise. Not really. But that stillness, that off quiet that wraps around me when I open the door sinks its claws right into my chest. It’s as though something’s already here. Watching.I’m having delusions.I kick it shut behind me and press my back to the door. My fingers are still clenched around the car keys Rafe gave me. I don't realize it until I feel the edge of the key biting into the meat of my palm. I let go. They fall to the floor with a dull clatter.I stare at them for a second.Then I move.I move straight up the stairs, two at a time. The wood creaks beneath my boots. There’s no time to hesitate now. This isn’t about second-guessing. It’s about getting out before the sick, twisted pull I feel every time I think about him drags me back in.I march into the bedroom and drop to my knees, yanking out the two luggages from under the bed. One big. One small. One for clothes. One for the things I said I’d never pack.The zipper

The door slams behind me.Cold air smacks my face and everything I’ve been holding in rips out of me. It’s as if my lungs finally decide they can breathe, but all it does is let the sobs through. My legs give out for a second. I grab the stone column by the door so I don’t collapse right here in front of everyone.I can still hear him. Even out here. That voice calling my name, over and over, like it’s carved into me now. My chest burns like I swallowed fire. He knew. I swear he fucking knew even as it was happening. That I let it happen. That it was me.And he still said my name.My hands cover my mouth, but it doesn’t do anything to muffle the ugly, loud, gasping sound that comes out. Tears blur the world. My nose is running. I wipe it with my sleeve, because what else is left to ruin tonight?Goddess, I did this.I stand there in that mess for—I don’t know—maybe ten seconds, maybe a whole year, before headlights cut across the front of the restaurant. A black car pulls up too fast,

I can feel my pulse in my fingertips as I stare at the soup. It’s steaming, fragrant, harmless-looking, like any normal goddamn soup. Nobody here would know it could put down a wolf twice Dante’s size.His hand tightens over mine. “What’s wrong?” he asks, tilting his head, crimson eyes cutting straight through me. There’s no suspicion in them, just worry. Which makes it worse. Makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.I force a shaky smile. “Nothing.”He lifts a brow, glances at the spoon, then at me. “Then why are you staring at the food like it murdered someone?”Because it’s about to. Not kill. But close enough.He lets go of my hand and picks up the spoon. I watch him bring it up to his mouth.Panic bolts through me. I grab his wrist.“Wait.”His eyebrows pull together. “Eris—”“Don’t. Not yet.” My voice cracks. Fuck. Pull it together.I can feel eyes on me from across the room. I don’t need to look. It’s the waiter from earlier. The one who helped set this all up. He’s probably

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