Trapped by Seven Mafia Wolves novel Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Shards**

**Aurora’s POV**

As the first light of dawn creeps into the room, I awaken to a parched mouth that feels like sandpaper scraping against my tongue. The sensation is uncomfortable, a harsh reminder of the night before. My lips are cracked and tender, and my stomach churns with an emptiness that echoes the hollow ache within. Water. I crave it desperately, as if it could wash away the remnants of my restless night.

With a reluctant sigh, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the unfamiliar fabric of the pajamas—an oversized cotton shirt and loose pants—hanging awkwardly on my frame. Someone must have packed these for me, but they feel like a costume, a reminder of how out of place I truly am. The floor beneath my feet is cold, sending a shiver up my spine, and each step feels like I’m traversing the floors of a stranger’s home. Oh wait. I am.

As I make my way downstairs, the creaking floorboards announce my presence like a warning bell, each groan of the wood echoing my unease. When I finally reach the kitchen, I can see three familiar figures already gathered there.

Leon.

Luka.

Nico.

Life is a bitch.

I hesitate at the entrance, the atmosphere thick with unspoken tension. Their voices are low, a murmur of conversation that abruptly halts the moment they notice me. Three pairs of eyes lock onto mine, each gaze icy and filled with annoyance. I swallow hard, forcing my voice out from the depths of my anxiety.

“Um… where’s the water?”

Luka barely glances up from his phone, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Try the faucet, genius.”

Leon snickers under his breath, a sound that feels like a slap. Nico, however, simply stares at me, his expression like a dark cloud that threatens to rain down on my already fragile state.

I take a hesitant step towards the sink, my hands trembling slightly as I reach for a mug resting on the counter. It’s a simple white cup, clean and heavy, grounding me in this moment. I fill it halfway with water, the cool liquid glistening as I bring it to my lips, relief almost within reach.

But then, in an instant, Nico moves.

He doesn’t just brush past me; he shoves me.

“Jesus, don’t whine like that; it’s pathetic,” Leon growls, his disdain cutting deeper than any shard of glass.

Tears begin to blur my vision, but I keep my head bowed, knowing that looking up would only invite more scorn. Experience has taught me that much.

“I didn’t mean to,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “I’m sorry—I’ll clean it—please, I’m sorry—”

Each apology spills from my lips, a desperate mantra, a prayer that falls on deaf ears.

Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

My blood stains the tile beneath me, a stark contrast to the white, a reminder of my presence here.

Their voices stain my soul, etching themselves into my very being.

And still, I don’t stop.