The Human Among Wolves Chapter 31

Zayn

The walk out of the academy felt like it stretched forever. My father’s presence beside me silenced every thought, every question that tried to claw its way out of me. Students in the courtyard froze when they saw him, some bowing their heads, others pretending not to stare, but everyone noticed. They always did. The King never passed unnoticed.

I kept my steps measured and steady, though my palms were slick. My chest felt hollow, like I’d left some vital part of myself behind when I shut the dorm door. With each echo of our footsteps, the knot in my stomach pulled tighter.

Outside, the convoy waited. Glossy black limousines lined the front drive, with guards standing like pillars of iron on either side. My father didn’t break stride. Of course he didn’t—this was his world, built around him, waiting for him to step inside and command it.

When the driver opened the door, I hesitated for a heartbeat before sliding into the back seat after him. The leather was cold against my skin. The door shut with a weighty thud, sealing us in, and suddenly the noise of the academy faded away, replaced by the low hum of the engine.

We didn’t move at first. He sat across from me, silent and composed, the way he always was. His eyes flicked once to me, sharp and assessing, and then to the tinted window. He didn’t need to speak to make me feel smaller, like I was still the child trying too hard to impress him.

When the car finally pulled away, the motion was smooth, too smooth, like the world outside was slipping past unnoticed. The city blurred into trees, then into open stretches of road. We drove for what felt like hours, though I knew it couldn’t have been that long yet. The silence stretched, growing heavier with every passing mile.

I shifted in my seat, my hands curling and uncurling against my knees. I wanted to ask where we were going and what this was about—but the words stuck. He had a way of making silence louder than any command.

I watched him instead. The way he sat perfectly upright, his hands folded neatly, his face unreadable. Every part of him was deliberate. Calculated. A reminder of what power looked like when it no longer needed to prove itself.

The landscape outside grew sparser, emptier, until there was nothing but a ribbon of road cutting through endless fields. Still, we didn’t stop. Still, he said nothing.

And with every mile that rolled beneath the tires, my unease grew sharper. Because if he was taking me this far away from the academy, from everyone else… then whatever was coming wasn’t something he wanted witnessed.

I swallowed hard, staring at the endless stretch of road ahead, my pulse quickening with every turn of the wheels.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, his voice broke through.

“Zayn,” my father said, his tone even, as if he had been waiting for exactly this moment to speak. “There are things you have not yet seen. Things you must understand.”

I shifted, my stomach tightening. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked out the window, the faintest reflection of his face mirrored in the tinted glass. “Not all duties of the crown are… clean. Some are necessary, though. Necessary for balance. For power.”

I frowned, confused. “I don’t—”

“You will,” he cut in smoothly, the weight of his authority making the words final. He didn’t raise his voice, but I felt the warning in it: do not interrupt.

The car suddenly stopped in front of a large house, elegant and carefully kept, with tall windows and flowerbeds trimmed neatly along the path. White shutters framed the windows, and ivy curled up one side as if this place had been loved for years. It looked almost inviting. Almost safe.

But my gut twisted. Something was wrong.

My father stepped outside the limo first, and I followed. The front doors swung wide as though we were expected. We slowly stepped inside.

Inside, the air was thick with perfume—sweet, cloying, and almost enough to mask the other smells beneath it. Faint iron. Dampness. A trace of something rotten.

The first impression was elegance. Chandeliers glowed overhead, scattering warm light across polished floors. The foyer was wide and inviting, a sweep of carpet leading deeper into the house. The scent of lavender clung to the air, strong enough to mask whatever might lie beneath it.

Hallways branched out in either direction, lined with closed doors and decorated with tasteful paintings—landscapes, portraits, nothing out of place. Every detail whispered wealth, charm, respectability.

But beneath the surface, I felt it: the weight pressing down, the silence too heavy. It wasn’t the silence of peace—it was the silence of something being hidden.

I hadn’t seen anyone yet. Not a servant, not a resident. Just the faint echo of footsteps somewhere above us, muffled and distant. The upper floor stretched wide, a balcony overlooking the foyer, lined with more doors. I caught myself staring at them, unease prickling across my skin. What was behind them?

My father noticed, of course. He always did. But he said nothing.

“Your Majesty.” A woman’s voice glided down the stairs like silk, smooth and warm but sharp at the edges.

I turned to see her descending gracefully—a tall woman in crimson, her black hair twisted into a perfect knot at the nape of her neck. The sway of her dress and the poise in her movements spoke of someone used to being obeyed. She smiled, and though it was polite, something in it made my throat tighten.

Behind her came a man—broad, solid, his presence more force than charm. He didn’t bother with theatrics, just a curt nod in greeting, his sharp eyes already assessing me.

“Antoinette. Chris.” My father inclined his head. “The house looks well.”

“Always,” Antoinette purred. Her gaze lingered on me, deliberate, as though she were measuring, weighing, deciding. “And this must be Prince Zayn.”

Her words sent a chill down my spine. I shifted under her gaze, glancing again toward the closed doors upstairs. I didn’t know what was behind them, but something told me I wasn’t ready to find out.

I followed my father into the foyer, the click of his shoes against polished wood sounding far too loud in the silence. Antoinette and Chris flanked us like hosts at some genteel gathering, but there was nothing welcoming in the way they watched me.

“Come,” my father said, his tone clipped. “You should see.”

We moved down one of the hallways. The air felt warmer here, heavy with that same lavender scent, almost suffocating in its sweetness. The walls were lined with tasteful art—portraits of serene women and landscapes that looked almost too idyllic. Everything was curated and controlled.

Antoinette drifted closer, her perfume mingling with the lavender, making my head swim. “The house runs smoothly, Your Majesty,” she said, though her gaze stayed on me. “Our residents are… well looked after.”

“Residents?” I asked, frowning. The word snagged at me.

She smiled faintly, her lips painted the same deep red as her dress. “Yes. Each one is tended to with great care. Fed. Dressed. Prepared.” She let the word linger like a secret, her eyes bright in a way that made my chest tighten. “They must be ready when the time comes.”

Ready for what? The question burned on my tongue, but I hesitated, glancing at my father. His face betrayed nothing.

Chris spoke next, his voice low and flat. “Upstairs is where they stay. Each with her own room. Kept separate. It makes them easier to… manage.”

The way he said it sent a shiver through me. *Manage.*

We reached the base of the staircase, the carpet runner climbing into shadow. My father stopped there, turning to me at last. His gaze held mine, sharp and unyielding.

“There are things you don’t know about,” my father said at last, his voice filling the hall the way it always did—calm, steady, impossible to ignore. “And I think it’s time you stopped living in the dark. You are part of this family, Zayn, whether you like it or not. That means you bear its burdens as much as its name.”

His eyes fixed on me, hard and unyielding. “But before we go further, I need you to understand something very clearly. The nonsense you stirred up with Charlotte ends now. She is your mate. That is final. And you will act accordingly.”

The words stung like a slap. Heat burned in my chest, anger rolling in before I could hold it down. How was it that he always had so much say over my life—my future, my choices? And now this, tossed out like some rule I never agreed to.

I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms. “She’s not—” I bit back the rest, swallowing hard. My voice wouldn’t matter here. Not against him. Not now.

He turned, his cloak sweeping faintly as he started up the stairs without hesitation, as if the matter were already settled. His hand lifted in a simple gesture, summoning me forward.

“Now,” he said, his tone dropping lower, colder. “We will go upstairs, and you will meet our merchandise.”

The word jarred me, sharp and ugly, rattling through my skull. I froze on the step. “Merchandise?” I repeated, my voice tight with confusion—and fury.

He didn't say anything else and just kept walking upstairs. And like always, I followed him.