Novel-novel oleh Claire Lemaire

The air in the sanctum wasn't just filled with magic; it was magic, thick as honey and humming with a pent-up appetite that caused her skin to prickle. She had asked for the full-circle ritual, had begged for it, and now, standing in the middle of it, the mere weight of wanting almost made her knees buckle. This had nothing to do with soft loving; this had to do with power, with becoming the living receptacle for a raw, untrammeled power, and she was well prepared to burn.Zorvath’s voice, a low growl that vibrated deep in her bones, shattered the silence. "The circle needs a catalyst. It needs truth. It needs pleasure so keen it becomes pain, and ecstasy so intense it hovers on terror. You opened yourself up, Jessa. There will be no hiding here."Behind her, a low laugh filled the air, silky and smoky, it was Nyssa. Her cool, measured fingers traced the length of Jessa's spine that made her shiver furiously. "Look at her, Zorvath. She's already shaking. Not with fear. She's sucking

During the Fae masquerade ball, the mask doesn't conceal you, but brings out the deepest, darkest, most forbidden hunger you never had the courage to speak aloud.Thalia was well-acquainted with the rule, having felt its truth humming in the air the moment she'd passed through the glittering portal and into the whirling, scented madness of the Twilight Court's ball. Her own black lace mask, which was thin as eggshell, trembled at the raw lust that ran through the great hall, lust in the sheen of eyes and the firm, wary smiles of creatures for whom lust was both currency and sustenance. She was a tiny human in a den of very ancient appetites, and all her nerves bristled with icy, shuddering awareness.It was why she didn't even flinch when the two of them advanced on her. They navigated the throng not as if they belonged to it, but as if the throng parted miraculously before them, a sea of silk and magic flowing aside to twin pillars of predator beauty. Their masks were pieces of art:

The velvet box felt heavier than a mountain in his hands, a promise of silence for what was to be seen. Aric saw moonlight shining in Sephine's dark, wide eyes, her breath caught as she regarded the box in his hands. That raw, tender bond between them hummed with tension from her and his own hot, possessive passion. He could smell the air of her arousal on the breeze, a sweet musk that awakened the primitive nature of his wolf. "For you, my mate," he said, his words resonating through the space between them. "Forged under the full moon. For you." With a reverence that made her knees buckle under the fervor of it, he opened the box. On a black silk bed, there was a collar. But one unlike any she had ever seen. It was constructed of a weird, silver metal that drew the moonlight in and glowed of its own light, runes and oaths carved along its length. It was not a bond of ownership, but a declaration of joining, a symbol of the close bonding they were developing now. "Aric," she pant

She had volunteered herself to the show, and now the amber tide of eyes looked at her, suppliant and hungry.Shadows of the fire danced across the pale skin of her back, her back stiff and submissive as the Pack Beta guided her through the crowd with a firm hand on the small of her back. They did not mock nor taunt; their respect was an alive, burning thing, a silent acknowledgment of the ferocity it had taken to defy their way. This was the public tease, the acknowledgement of the private ferocity she'd been craving since she first laid eyes on their leader.He watched from a raised dais, his throne hewn of dark wood behind him. The Alpha. His was Ronan, a deep resonant syllable, and it suited the sheer, still power he had. He did not move, did not speak, but stood and watched her come to him with a gaze that felt like a physical gaze, stripping away the fine silk of her formal tunic and baring her very soul. He was all corded muscles and silent command, his presence a weight that m

The first rule of seeking a werewolf was to never do it at night, it was a rule that Maya was not skilled at obeying.He found her waiting across the downed oak on his property, a bright silhouette in the empty sky. He didn’t move out of the shadows because he was the shadows. He was simply there, all rough shoulders and mulish will, his eyes the color of old amber, smoldered up with the sunset.“You’re the one who’s been asking questions,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated deep in her chest. It wasn’t a question.Maya’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage, but it was thrill, not fear, that made it beat. “I’m Maya.”He leaned in, like a predator to a curious prey. "I know. And I know what and who you are. So you're going to explain to me why you're here, little human, where you have no business being."She breathed slowly, her gaze locked on his. "I want to do it. With you. I want you to teach me."A wicked smile curled over his lips. "Teach you what,

The wild's first law is that a storm does not seek permission; it takes, and tonight it had taken the three of them and locked them within a stone scented darkness.The old hunting lodge, a reminder of long-forgotten days, groaned at the lash of the wind, its wooden pillars shuddering with every blast that thudded against the mountainside. Inside, the universe had narrowed to the edge of a smoking ember, its tongues of fire licking the tightly drawn bodies of the three improbable friends fortune had brought together to share each other's company. Aris, the human biologist, her practical clothing still damp, stared into the fire as if it could yield the answers to the violent twist her research trip had taken. Young shifter Joren hummed with a bottled energy that resonated the air itself around him, his usual playfulness put aside for a focused intensity that was both unnerving and captivating.And Varya, the seasoned huntress, moved with an economy of motion hinted at a long-establis

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