The Human Among Wolves Chapter 46

Aurora

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing it away. It was just a dream, nothing more. A trick of my subconscious, nothing worth remembering. I didn’t even know him, not really. I had only met him last night.

But then why was he in my head? Why was he in my dreams?

I dragged in a shaky breath, pushing my palms over my face as if I could rub the memory out of me. My chest ached with confusion, with guilt, with something else I refused to name.

With a long, frustrated sigh, I let my hands fall into my lap and stared at the ceiling. “Get a grip, Aurora,” I whispered to myself.

My gaze drifted across the room and landed on my desk. And there it was—the book.

My stomach tightened. Fuck. The book.

The reminder hit me like a stone. Zayn and I were supposed to start on it today, to finally begin the translation. I had been waiting for this moment, obsessing over it, really. That book wasn’t just words on old pages; it was a key. To what, I still didn’t know—but I felt it deep in my bones. It mattered. It had to.

I pushed myself off the bed with a groan, dragging my fingers through my hair before crossing the room. The closer I got, the heavier the air seemed to feel. My fingertips brushed over the worn cover as I picked it up, its weight both grounding and suffocating at once.

Zayn. He was the only one who could help me. The only one who knew Latin well enough to make sense of it. I prayed he was in his dorm, that he hadn’t slipped off somewhere, because I didn’t have the patience to wait. Not today. Not with my parents coming to pick me up later, with lunch at two and promising questions I wasn’t sure I wanted answers to.

I hugged the book to my chest for a moment, exhaling slowly. Then I straightened, squared my shoulders, and stepped out of the room.

The hallways were quieter now, most students already gone into town or tucked into their routines. My footsteps echoed softly as I made my way down the wing, every step toward Zayn’s dorm laced with a mix of nerves and urgency. I wanted to get started before the clock ran out, before my parents arrived to pull me into their world of truths and lies.

With a final sigh, I tightened my grip on the book and turned toward Zayn’s wing, the thought of him and the translation pulling me forward.

I arrived at his door, clutching the book a little too tightly against my chest. My knuckles tapped softly—once, twice—hesitant, as if I could already sense this wasn’t going to be an ordinary moment.

For a few heartbeats, there was nothing. Silence pressed in, and I wondered if he wasn’t there after all. Then, faintly, I heard footsteps approaching. Slow, unhurried. My pulse picked up with each step until the latch finally clicked, and the door swung open.

And I froze.

Zayn stood there, the doorway framing him, and for a second I forgot how to breathe. He wasn’t wearing anything—nothing except a towel slung dangerously low around his hips. .

My eyes betrayed me, flickering down before I could stop them. Broad shoulders, lean muscle, and the sharp lines of his chest and stomach. Every detail was carved like it had been meant to taunt. My grip on the book tightened until my knuckles whitened, because suddenly my fingers itched with the temptation to reach out, to trace what my eyes shouldn’t have been lingering on.

Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I blinked hard, snapping my gaze back up to his face. But that only made it worse—because he was looking right at me.

My throat went dry. Words hovered on the tip of my tongue, but nothing came out.

“What… what are you doing here?” Zayn’s voice cut through the heavy silence, low and rough, as if he couldn’t quite believe I was standing there. His brows pinched together, shock flickering across his face.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My eyes wandered, betraying me, slipping past him into the dim space of his dorm. The bed was unmade, sheets rumpled and tangled. A faint curl of steam drifted from the half-open bathroom door, the air still carrying the sharp, clean scent of soap.

“What… what are you doing here?” he asked again, sharper this time, when he realized I still hadn’t answered. His gaze locked on mine, expectant, demanding something. Anything.

I swallowed hard, lips parting at last to speak—when he shifted. Just a single step back. But it was enough.

The towel that had been clinging, barely knotted around his waist, slipped loose. Time seemed to slow as it unraveled, sliding down his hips before dropping to the floor.

My heart lurched.

I froze, every muscle in my body locked, caught between horror and something dangerously close to laughter. I hadn’t planned this. I hadn’t wanted this. It wasn’t exactly on my Saturday morning to-do list—see Zayn's dick—but here it was, served to me on a silver platter.

Against my better judgment, my gaze flicked downward for a heartbeat, heat rushing to my face before I snapped my eyes back up to his. He was utterly still, his jaw tight, as though waiting for my reaction. I bit down hard on my lower lip, trying to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, because there was nothing funny about this—nothing. And yet my body betrayed me.

He picked up the towel, fumbling to wrap it back around his waist. His movements were quick, almost frantic, the kind of clumsy you only saw when someone who was usually composed had completely lost their footing. His damp hair fell into his eyes as he tugged the fabric tight, tying it with more force than necessary, his jaw locked like he was holding back every curse he wanted to throw at the universe.

“I—I didn’t… I wasn’t expecting—” His words faltered, breaking apart as he struggled to gather them. He glanced down at himself, then back at me, and for the first time, I saw something raw flicker across his face. Embarrassment. Maybe even panic.

“I… I just took a shower,” he muttered finally, his voice quieter, strained. “And then… you showed up…”

The weight of his stare pressed on me, and suddenly I realized I was still standing there, clutching a book to my chest like a shield, gawking at him like an idiot. Heat surged into my cheeks again, and I tore my gaze away.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted at last, my voice trembling but honest. “I know I should’ve called first…”

Zayn finally straightened, his chest heaving with frustration, and dragged a hand over his face. He wouldn’t look at me, not at first. His ears were red, his mouth pressed in a thin line, as if the act of existing in front of me like that was the single most humiliating thing that had ever happened to him.

When he finally did meet my eyes, his glare was sharp enough to pin me in place. “You should have called. I already told you I don't like surprise visits.” His voice was rough, not quite angry but edged with something he didn’t want me to see—embarrassment, maybe. Vulnerability.

My throat tightened, and despite the chaos in my head, I nearly laughed. The great Zayn—who carried himself like the world couldn’t touch him—was actually flustered. And somehow, that made it worse.

“I said I was sorry,” I mumbled, trying to keep my voice steady, though the words came out smaller than I intended.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, the muscles in his shoulders tense. “Yeah, well… sorry doesn’t erase that.”