The Human Among Wolves Chapter 38

Aurora

“What… what the hell are you doing here?” His voice cut through the air, sharp and cold, every syllable like ice against my skin. His eyes were fixed on me, stormy and unreadable, a mixture of anger, confusion, and something else I couldn’t quite place. My chest tightened, and I felt like I’d been caught somewhere I didn’t belong.

“I… I was waiting for you,” I stammered, words tumbling out before I could think. My palms were clammy, and I fumbled with the edge of my sleeve. “About… the thing you said you’d help me with.”

For a heartbeat, his expression softened—or maybe it was just recognition flickering across his features. “Oh… yeah. Right. I’m sorry,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair in that way that made him look both frustrated and distracted. “Something came up. We can do it another time.”

My stomach sank, disappointment knotting in my chest. I had been counting on him, had imagined this moment all morning, and now it felt like it had been swept away.

He shifted his gaze behind me, to Zade. Zade’s posture was perfect, controlled, like a predator ready to move.

“The King is waiting for you in the car,” Zayn said, voice clipped. “You should go. I’ll call you later. We… we need to talk.”

Zade started toward the door, long strides closing the distance with his usual, intimidating grace. I watched him go, but then, just as he reached the doorstep, he paused. Slowly, deliberately, he turned back to me, eyes glinting with that teasing, confident smirk that made my stomach twist.

“Nice to meet you, beautiful.”

I almost rolled my eyes at the nickname, but my tongue froze. My throat felt tight, my hands clammy. I wanted to snap at him, to tell him he had no right to talk to me like that, but the words refused to come.

Before I could say anything, Zade opened the door fully and stepped out, leaving silence in his wake. The only sound was the faint hum of the Academy corridors beyond.

I turned back to Zayn, who had been watching the exchange quietly. He raised an eyebrow, expression sharp, that familiar unreadable look settling on his face.

Zayn’s gaze lingered on me, sharp and piercing, and I felt like he was dissecting every thought I had. His brow furrowed slightly, the muscle twitching in that way he always did when something didn’t make sense to him.

“That nickname,” he finally said, voice low but edged with curiosity, “what the fuck did he call you?”

I hesitated, my fingers curling nervously around the strap of my bag. “B-beautiful,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Beautiful?” His tone shifted, half disbelief, half something I couldn’t place—anger, maybe, or irritation. He stepped closer, crossing his arms, his eyes narrowing. “He called you… that?”

“I… yeah,” I muttered, cheeks warming. “He said it like… like a joke or something, I don’t know. Don’t read into it.”

Zayn’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he tilted his head, studying me like he was trying to figure out whether I was lying or just naive. “Hm. ‘Beautiful,’ huh?” He shook his head slowly, exhaling through his nose. “I should probably tell him to watch his mouth..."

I blinked at him, heart thudding in my chest. “W-what do you mean?”

He let out a humorless laugh, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You think I’m joking, but trust me… He knows how to push people’s buttons. And I don’t like people pushing yours. Not like that.”

For a heartbeat, his gaze softened, just slightly, letting a flicker of something human peek through the storm. Then it hardened again. “Next time… call me before knocking on his door. Saves a lot of awkward moments.”

I gave a small nod, trying to sound casual. “For someone who’s not my ‘friend,’ you sure are protective,” I muttered, letting a small smirk tug at my lips. Half-joking, half-serious. It was true—Zayn and I weren’t friends. He was only helping me with this one thing, and yet, here he was, his sharp eyes scanning the room, ready to intervene if needed.

He let out a low chuckle, running a hand through his hair. “I know my brother, and he’s… not someone to get involved with,” he said, his tone measured but laced with warning. “You think I’m bad? You haven’t met *them*.”

I raised an eyebrow, curious despite myself. “What do you mean?”

Zayn leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest, the room suddenly feeling smaller with his presence. “Like I said, I’m the youngest. My brothers… they were more involved in things. More loyal to my father than I ever was. You can’t trust them, not with anything that matters.”

His words hit harder than I expected. His father… the King. *Right. I almost forgot. I had to ask him.*

I swallowed, forcing the words out, my voice shaking despite my attempt to sound steady. “Where did he take you? Did he… hurt you?”

Zayn’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t flinch. “Who? My father? No. Not physically.” His jaw flexed as he added, almost bitterly, “But he made it clear what the consequences would be if I didn’t get back with Charlotte. So… there’s that.”

I blinked, trying to process what he’d just said. Not hurt physically, yet the threat alone carried weight enough to leave bruises on his mind. I felt a pang of sympathy, mixed with unease. This wasn’t just family drama—this was the kind of manipulation that left scars invisible to the eye.

“And…” I hesitated, because asking the next question felt like stepping into a minefield. “Did you… did you go back to her?”

“No. Not yet,” he said finally, voice low, almost hesitant, like he was weighing every word before it left his lips. “But I will… eventually. I don’t even know what I’ll do, honestly.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends as if it could somehow untangle the thoughts in his head.

I frowned, leaning a little closer, sensing the tension coiled inside him. “You… don’t want her?”

He shook his head sharply, jaw tight. “No. I never wanted her. Never. And yet… here we are. Forced into something I don’t want, something I can’t seem to escape, while Zade… he doesn’t even have a mate. And the King? He’s completely fine with it.”

I blinked at him, incredulous. “Why?” I asked softly.

He let out a bitter laugh, short and humorless. “No idea,” he admitted, shoulders slumping slightly. “Maybe it’s because the King wants Zade prepared for the throne. No distractions. No complications. Nothing that could slow him down or make him vulnerable.”

I swallowed, trying to absorb the weight of his words. It wasn’t just about Charlotte or Zade, or even Zayn himself—it was about a legacy, a throne, and a family that used people as pieces in their game. The more he spoke, the more I realized how trapped he must feel, how carefully he had to navigate every word, every choice, every glance.

“And you?” I asked, almost too quietly. “Where do you fit in all of this?”

He stared at me for a long moment, dark eyes unreadable, then finally said, “Somewhere in the middle, I guess. Too young to rule, too old to be ignored. Stuck between my father’s expectations and…” He looked at me like he wanted to say something more. "It's late. You should go," he said instead.