Novels by Claire Lemaire

The air in Kalthor’s private examination room was cool and still, carrying the faint, sterile scent of antiseptic and something else, something ancient and metallic, like old coins and dried herbs. Dr. Liam, a werewolf whose heightened senses were usually an asset, found them to be a profound distraction here. The vampire cardiologist, Aquilith, moved around the space with an economy of motion that was both efficient and hypnotic.“The echocardiogram results are conclusive, Doctor,” Aquilith said, her voice a low, cool murmur that seemed to vibrate directly in Liam’s bones. She tapped a long, pale finger on the lightboard where the images of a patient’s supernatural heart were displayed. “See the flutter in the left ventricle? It’s a classic sign of spectral fibrillation. Beta-blockers are useless. What she needs is a tuned frequency.”Liam leaned in, his focus split between the intricate patterns on the screen and the woman beside him. Aquilith was centuries old, her beauty a sharp,

Kaidosh moved through the realm of dreams not as a trespasser, but as a curator. He was a weaver of light in the dark spaces, a mender of fractured fantasies. Most dreams were simple things, torn edges of anxiety, faded colors of forgotten joy. He would apply the subtle thread of his essence and move on, untouched, unmoved. But Nylahna’s dreams were a storm he could not ignore.They were not nightmares of fear, but of longing. Vivid, aching landscapes of deep, pine-scented forests under a full moon. In them, she ran, a powerful, sleek-coated she-wolf, her muscles coiling and releasing with untamed grace. But she always ran alone. The longing was a physical scent in the dream-air, a rich, spicy musk of desire that called to the very core of his incubus nature. It was a hunger not for food, but for touch, for connection, for a presence beside her in the wild dark.Night after night, he had observed, his own cool, detached essence beginning to warm and stir. He was not supposed to interv

The air in Thraxnir’s private kitchen was thick with the scent of searing scallops and something else, something primordial and electric. Lyriamme leaned against the granite counter, her gold-flecked eyes tracking his every move. She was a critic of formidable reputation, a werewolf known for her discerning palate and ruthless reviews. Tonight, however, she wasn’t here to critique the food for the public. She was here for a private tasting of his infamous aphrodisiacs, and the tension between them had been simmering since she first walked in.Thraxnir, a demon of the ember-ember court, moved with an unnatural grace. His skin held the faint, shimmering quality of heated coal, and when his dark eyes met hers, she felt a jolt of pure, undiluted heat. He finished plating the scallops, drizzling a glossy reduction that smelled of passion fruit and a spice she couldn’t name.“The first course,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in her bones. “Desire on the Half-Shell. The scallo

The air in the Serrated Scroll library was thick with the scent of old leather, slowly curing vellum, and the low, ozone-like hum of dormant magic. Towering shelves carved from obsidian and bone stretched into a gloom that even demonic eyes struggled to pierce, each one groaning under the weight of knowledge too dangerous for any other realm.Vlixyra ran a sharp, black-taloned finger along a spine made of what felt like solidified sorrow. It shivered under her touch. “Your organizational system is a catastrophe, Grimvar,” she said, her voice a low, melodic purr that seemed to absorb the silence around it. “Chronological by acquisition? It’s barbaric.”Grimvar, the library’s master and a demon of considerable antiquity, looked up from a ledger bound in what was unmistakably pale, stretched skin. His form was massive, built of shadow and corded muscle, with horns that swept back from his brow like a crown of obsidian. His eyes, the colour of smouldering embers, held no annoyance, only a

The only sound in the cell was the drip of water on stone and the ragged pull of Malyster’s breath. Lyraka watched him from the cot, her wrists raw from the ropes he himself had tied hours before. But her eyes held no fear, only a deep, unsettling knowing.“The guilt is a shroud around you, Witchfinder,” she whispered, her voice a husky thread in the damp dark. “It clings to you thicker than these shadows.”Malyster turned from her, his broad back tense beneath the dark wool of his coat. He could not meet her gaze. For weeks, he had tracked this witch, this Lyraka, fueled by the righteous fire of his office and the desperate, gnawing hope that purging one of her kind might somehow cleanse the taint in his own blood. But here, in this cold cell, her words struck not at the witchfinder, but at the demon hiding behind his eyes.“Be silent,” he commanded, but the order lacked its usual force. It was a plea.She shifted on the thin mattress, the chains at her ankles clinking softly. “You t

The air in the sacred grove was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the raw, untamed power of two rival Alphas. Xyrex, his massive frame taut with restless energy, paced before the ancient stone altar. His black hair was a wild mane, and his eyes, the color of molten amber, burned with a possessiveness that could scorch the earth. Across from him, Zhilax stood with a predator’s stillness, his lean muscles coiled. His silver eyes, cold and sharp as shards of winter moon, tracked Xyrex’s every move. The fate of their packs, the Blood Moon and the Shadow Fang, hung in the balance between them, a fragile peace shattered by a single, undeniable truth.They shared a fated mate.Aethyra stood between them, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She was human, a fact that should have made her fragile, but the power thrumming through her veins was anything but. It was a latent force, a key waiting to turn in a lock. She could feel it responding to them, a sear

The silence after the door clicked shut was the loudest sound I had ever heard. It was a physical presence, thick and heavy, saturated with the echo of Ethan’s defiance and the ghost of Williams Croft’s icy fury. The air in the foyer, once just space, now felt charged with the aftershock of a seismic decision, and we were standing at its epicenter.I could still feel the vibration of the car’s engine fading down the drive, but it was the tremor in my own soul that shook me. Ethan’s body was a rigid line of tension beside me, the adrenaline of the confrontation still humming through him, a live wire looking for ground. My own heart was a frantic, trapped thing beating against my ribs, not with fear of the man who had left, but with a terrifying, awe-inspiring understanding of the man who had stayed.He had just burned a bridge made of millions, of reputation, of a life he’d spent a decade building. And he’d done it without a second thought. For me.The weight of that pressed down on me

The world didn’t just intrude; it announced itself with the cruel, sharp sound of gravel crunching under aggressive tires. The sound was a violation, shredding the delicate, intimate silence that had wrapped around us since we’d found each other on the studio floor.Ethan’s body went rigid against mine. The soft, sated man of a moment before was gone, replaced in a single heartbeat by the CEO, his senses on high alert, his arms tightening around me instinctively, protectively. The shift was so drastic it stole the air from my lungs.We were in the kitchen, wrapped in the same blanket, sharing a single mug of coffee. My head had been on his shoulder, his lips in my hair. We hadn't spoken. We didn't need to. The understanding between us was a living, breathing thing.And then the car came.Through the large kitchen window, we saw it: a low-slung, silver sports car, too sleek, too expensive, and too utterly out of place on our quiet, tree-lined drive. It didn't just park; it prowled to a

The terror is a quiet thing. It doesn’t scream; it seeps. It’s in the way the bristles of my brush feel foreign in my hand, like holding a stranger’s bones. It’s in the way the pristine, mocking white of the new canvas seems to swallow all the light in the room, leaving nothing but the hollow echo of my own doubt.Six weeks. The number beats in my skull like a frantic, trapped bird. Six weeks to build a world from nothing, to prove I’m not the fluke a part of me is convinced I am. The excitement from this morning has curdled into a cold, heavy weight in the pit of my stomach. I am frozen. Paralyzed. A fraud about to be spectacularly found out.I don’t hear him come in. I just feel the air in the room change, the charged particles shifting to make space for him. I’m standing there, arms crossed, staring down the blank slate as if I could intimidate it into submission. I must look like a statue of despair.He doesn’t speak. He just leans against the doorframe, a silent, solid presence.

The first thing I was aware of was the weight of his hand on my hip, a warm, solid anchor in the quiet sea of dawn. It wasn't possessive or demanding, just present. A constant. A promise etched into skin and bone.Sunlight, pale and hesitant, filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets and the hard plane of his chest. I watched him sleep, the fierce lines of his face softened in repose, his dark lashes fanning against his cheeks. This was the face of the man who had shattered me and then, with infinite care, gathered every piece and put me back together. The vulnerability in that thought was a physical ache in my throat.I shifted minutely, and his hand tightened, just a fraction, a subconscious pull back toward him. A sigh escaped his lips, my name a breathless whisper in his sleep. The sound went through me like a live wire. Last night had been a raw, open nerve, but this… this careful, quiet claiming was its own kind of intensity. It threatened to undo m

One careless, dismissive flick of his wrist. That’s all it had been. And it had undone everything.He was still by the door, his hand now limp at his side. I could feel his confusion like a physical pressure against my skin. He saw the devastation on my face, I knew he did, but the why of it was a locked door to him. It was the story of us, the old, painful story I’d been stupid enough to believe was over.“Lila?” His voice was softer now, cautious. It was the tone you’d use on a spooked animal you were afraid would bolt or bite. “What’s wrong?”The words were a echo, a cruel joke. What’s wrong? he’d asked a thousand times in our past life, always with that same edge of impatient frustration, never truly wanting the messy, emotional answer. My throat closed up. If I tried to speak, I’d either scream or whimper, and I refused to do either.I turned my back to him, pretending to fiddle with a tube of cadmium red, my hands trembling so badly I nearly dropped it. I just needed a second. A

The smell of linseed oil and fresh coffee was the scent of a happiness so profound it felt fragile, like a soap bubble shimmering in the palm of my hand. Morning light, clean and sharp, cut across my studio, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the man who was watching me from my couch.Ethan was stretched out, a financial journal open but ignored on his lap, his attention entirely focused on me. He wore a simple grey henley and dark jeans, and he looked more at home in my chaotic space than he ever had in his own sterile penthouse. His gaze was a physical warmth on my skin, a silent, steady applause that fueled every stroke of my brush.I was attempting to capture the exact shade of gold in his eyes when he’s truly, unguardedly happy. It was a color I’d only recently been introduced to.“You’re staring,” I said, not looking away from the canvas, a smile playing on my lips.“I’m appreciating,” he corrected, his voice a low hum that vibrated in the quiet room. “There’s a