The Human Among Wolves (Aurora) novel Chapter 61

Chapter 61

Aurora

Before the silence could stretch any further–before I could combust from the heat crawling up my neck–1 blurted it out.

“The book!”

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Zayn blinked at me, his brows pulling together. “…What?”

I hugged the thing tighter against my chest like it was some kind of shield. “The book. The one in Latin. We–we were supposed to

start on it today, remember? I just-” My words tumbled over each other, spilling too fast and too desperate to cover up what had

just happened. “I just thought we could get started before I have to go meet my parents later. That’s all. Nothing else. Just the

book.”

His lips parted slightly, as if he wasn’t sure whether to believe me or laugh at me. For a moment he just stood there, towel finally

secured, hair dripping onto his shoulders.

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I shifted on my feet, wishing the floor would swallow me whole. My cheeks burned, and my pulse wouldn’t slow down no matter

how hard I tried to force it. “I didn’t mean to… you know… interrupt anything,” I added lamely. “I should’ve called first, like I said.”

He exhaled sharply, dragging his hand down his face again. “You really have the worst timing, Aurora.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, biting the inside of my cheek. “I’m starting to notice that.”

He stepped back, his expression unreadable. “Fine. Come in. We’ll deal with the book.”

I stepped inside his dorm awkwardly, the air still thick with everything that had just happened at the door. My eyes darted around the room, searching for something, anything, to focus on that wasn’t him standing half–dressed a few feet away.

Zayn shut the door behind me with a quiet thud, and when I turned, his gaze was already on me. “You said you were meeting up with your parents later?” he asked, voice low, almost casual, though his eyes held more weight. “How did that happen?”

I sighed, hugging the book tighter to my chest for a second before setting it down on his desk. “Mom texted me this morning. Said we need to talk.” My throat tightened as the words left me, the knot in my stomach returning full force. I hesitated, then added

softly, “We haven’t talked since…”

I trailed off. I didn’t need to finish the sentence. He knew. He knew everything.

Zayn studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then asked quietly, “Are you nervous?”

The question pressed too close to the raw edges inside me, and I snapped my gaze away, unwilling to let him see. “Let’s focus on the book, yes? I don’t have time for small talk.” My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t take it back

He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath, but he didn’t push. That was one thing I appreciated about him–when he wanted, he could let a silence settle instead of prying.

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I sat down on his unmade bed, the sheets still twisted from his sleep and placed the book in my lap. Its leather cover felt heavy. more alive than paper had any right to feel.

The book felt heavy in my lap, heavier than it looked, like the weigh of it carried more than just paper and ink. The leather binding was cracked and faded, worn smooth in places from too many hands urning it over through the years. A faint, earthy smell clung to

it–the scent of old parchment, dust, and something darker, like dried herbs or blood that had seeped into the pages centuries ago.

When I pulled it open, the spine groaned in protest, and I was careful not to tear it. The parchment pages were thick, yellowed with

gee, and with edges fraying like they’d been gnawed at by time itself Some corners were bent and marked, as though readers before

us had tried to keep track of something–though whether it was a story, a spell, or a curse, I couldn’t tell.

There were over a thousand pages. I could feel it just from the sheer bulk of the tome pressing down on me, the way the uneven

stack of parchment shifted beneath my fingers. A book this size wast written for pleasure. It wasn’t a novel or a collection of

stories–it was a record. A ledger. A manual of something someone had wanted preserved badly enough to keep it hidden all these

years.

The words themselves were dense, lines of Latin script curling across the parchment in neat but ancient handwriting. The ink had

faded to a deep brown, but Zayn’s eyes immediately darted over the text with familiarity, as if he could already begin to pick apart

the meaning.

“What the hell is this thing?” I whispered, brushing my fingers gently along the margins. Strange symbols dotted the edges of some

pages–sigils or diagrams I didn’t recognize, drawn in a steady, practiced hand.

Zayn sat down next to me, his towel now properly secured, though he still looked far too casual for someone about to dive into a

book that could very well ruin us both. “It’s not a novel, that’s for sure,” he said, his voice low, his gaze flicking from the Latin to

my face. “This… this is a grimoire. Or at least part of one. A thousand pages‘ worth of someone’s secrets.”

The word made a chill slip down my spine. A grimoire.

“Secrets about what?” I asked.

He smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s what we’re about to find out.”

Zayn pushed himself up from the bed with a sigh, running a hand through his damp hair. “But first, I need to go get dressed,” he muttered, glancing down at himself as though suddenly remembering just how little he was wearing. Without waiting for my

response, he strode across the room toward the closet, pulling the doors open with a sharp tug.

I watched silently as he grabbed a neatly folded stack of clothes–a pair of gray sweatpants and a black hoodie. Simple, casual. Still, there was something about the way he moved, the way the fabric stretched across his shoulders when he lifted the clothes, that made my throat feel a little dry. I quickly looked down at the book again, tracing the faded letters on the page as though they could

anchor me.

Of course he had a bathroom in his dorm room. Of course he did. The kind of private luxury that only a king’s son could take for granted. He disappeared inside, shutting the door behind him, and sat there in the silence, the book heavy on my lap, my mind

whirring.

A few minutes later, the sound of the door clicking open pulled my eyes up before I could stop myself. He stepped back into the room, tugging the hoodie down over his frame, the gray sweatpants Hanging just loose enough to look effortless. His dark hair was

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still damp, curling slightly at the edges, a drop of water sliding down the side of his neck before disappearing beneath the fabric.

He looked… normal. Human, even. Not like the boy who had nearly given me a heart attack standing in front of me half–naked

minutes ago, not like the youngest son of the King. Not like the Lycan Prince, but just… Zayn.

And yet, my chest tightened anyway.

Focus, Aurora.

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I forced my eyes back to the book, flipping to the next page before he could catch me staring.