The Human Among Wolves Chapter 35

Zayn

When we climbed the stairs, the air felt heavier, staler, like the lavender perfume that clung downstairs couldn’t reach this high. A long hallway stretched before us, lined with doors on either side. Each one was closed and identical, their polished wood betraying nothing of what lay beyond. The silence pressed in, broken only by the faint creak of the steps beneath our feet and the soft hum of voices far, far away—though maybe I only imagined them.

My father’s stride didn’t falter. He stopped at the first door on the left, his hand closing around the brass handle with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. Without ceremony, he pushed it open.

The smell hit me first—not rot exactly, but something sharp and thin, like air that had gone untouched too long. The room itself was small. Cramped. Four walls, plain and suffocating, with only a narrow bed pushed against the side wall and a simple table with one chair tucked neatly beneath it. No windows. No warmth.

And then I saw her.

She couldn’t have been older than twenty. Thin. Fragile in a way that made my stomach twist. She sat curled on the bed, her knees pulled tightly to her chest, arms wrapped around herself as though she was trying to disappear into her own body. Her hair was dark and tangled, her skin pale. But it was her eyes that caught me—bright, unnatural red. Vampire.

When the door opened, her head snapped up. Her gaze darted to me, then to my father, wide and startled. Fear lived in her expression, raw and unhidden, and I felt it in my bones.

I froze in the doorway, my chest tightening. I didn’t understand. I couldn’t understand.

What the fuck is this?

I turned sharply to my father, searching his face for some kind of answer, some shred of explanation. But he looked calm. Steady. As if nothing about this scene surprised him. As if he’d seen it all before.

My throat felt dry, my voice breaking when I finally managed to speak. “What… who is she?” The words came out barely above a whisper, a tremor of disbelief shaking through them.

But deep down, even before he answered, I already knew I wasn’t going to like the truth.

My father didn’t answer right away. He just stood in the doorway, his shadow stretching into the tiny room, eyes fixed on the girl as though she were nothing more than a piece of furniture. She didn’t move—she just stared back at us, her arms tightening around her legs, chin sinking deeper into her knees.

Finally, he spoke

“She,” he said, his tone calm, almost clinical, “is merchandise.”

That word again, and I didn't like it one bit. "Merchandise?"

“Yes.” He didn’t look at me—his gaze stayed on her, steady, detached. “Every girl in this house has been brought here for a purpose. They are cleaned. Dressed. Fed enough to keep them alive, but never enough to let them forget who controls their bodies. They are trained to sit quietly, to look beautiful, to be desirable. They are prepared until the day their names are called.”

The girl flinched, ever so slightly, at the sound of his voice. My stomach twisted violently.

I shook my head. “Prepared for what?”

My father’s eyes cut to me at last. There was no softness there. No hesitation. “For sale.”

My breath caught. I stared at him, then back at the girl—thin, trembling, staring at the floor as if she could make herself vanish. “Sale? You mean—”

“An auction,” he said flatly, as though it were the simplest truth in the world. “Men, wolves, lycans, vampires—they all come to places like this to buy what they want. Power attracts power, Zayn, and sometimes power is purchased in flesh.”

I couldn’t breathe. The room seemed to shrink around me, walls closing in. My voice cracked. “This is… slavery.”

“Call it what you like,” he replied coolly. “It has always been part of the kingdom, long before you were born. It is part of what keeps order among the races. To some, this house is a necessary evil. To others, it is opportunity. But it exists because the world demands it.”

I shook my head again, harder this time, as though I could shake the words from my ears. My fists curled at my sides. “And you brought me here—to see this? Why?”

His gaze locked onto mine, sharp and unyielding. “Because one day, you will be responsible for it.”

The words hollowed me out. I took a step back, my shoulder brushing the doorframe. “What?”

“You are the youngest,” he said, his voice calm but edged with steel. “Zade will inherit the throne. Zion and Zakai hold their places within the council and the court. This task falls to you. The bloodline must control it, Zayn. And when I am gone, it will be yours to oversee.”

I stared at him, disbelief crashing over me like a wave I couldn’t swim against. I looked at the girl again, her red eyes darting up to meet mine for the briefest second before she lowered her head again, shrinking into herself.

My father didn’t flinch. He didn’t soften. His voice carried finality like the toll of a bell.

“This is your duty. Accept it.”

I stood frozen, my father’s words still ringing in my ears. Duty. Accept it. As if this was just another lesson, another chore expected of me. My gaze flicked once more to the girl in the room—those bright, terrified eyes—and a sick feeling twisted low in my stomach.

But my father didn’t wait for my response. He turned, stepping back into the hallway with the same composure he always carried, and motioned for me to follow. His hand was already reaching for the next door.

I hesitated, glancing back at the girl one last time. She hadn’t moved. She just sat there, small and silent, as though her fear had caged her more tightly than the room itself.

And then the door clicked shut.

The hallway seemed even darker now, the polished wood of the doors suddenly sinister, like a row of secrets lined up and waiting to be revealed. My father opened the next one, and once again, I followed.

Inside, the room was nearly identical—bare, suffocating, a prison disguised as simplicity. But the girl here was different. Blonde hair, brushed carefully over her shoulders. She sat on the single chair by the table, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her skin was pale, her eyes a strange silver hue that marked her as something… not human. Fae, maybe. She didn’t look at us at first. It was as if she had been instructed not to. Only when my father cleared his throat did her chin lift ever so slightly, her gaze darting to him, then away.

“Every one of them,” he said, his voice calm, almost conversational, “is chosen carefully. Bloodlines. Beauty. Youth. Traits that will fetch the highest price.”

The girl’s hands trembled faintly in her lap. She didn’t speak.

I swallowed hard, my throat burning. My voice cracked when I whispered, “You… you keep them here like this? Locked up?”

“They are protected,” my father said smoothly. “Fed. Groomed. Taught to be obedient. It is more than they would have had out there.” His tone left no room for debate, as though this explanation was perfectly reasonable, perfectly moral.

We moved on. Toward another door. To another room.