Trapped by Seven Mafia Wolves novel Chapter 24

**The Unplaceable End by Austen**
**Chapter 24**

**What’s Left**

**Leon’s POV**

As I push the door open, it emits a haunting creak, echoing in the silence of the dimly lit room. There she is.

So fragile. So pale.

Curled up on her side, she resembles a forgotten relic—a broken thing left behind, abandoned in the center of the bed.

Her eyes, wide open yet vacant, stare into the distance, unfocused and lost. The skin on her lips is cracked, almost as if it could shatter at the slightest touch, and her complexion is nearly translucent under the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

The bandages peeking out from the sleeves of the oversized sweatshirt she’s wearing—a garment that was likely tossed over her shoulders in a desperate attempt to shield her from the cold—tell a story of their own.

I step inside the room, moving slowly, deliberately. She doesn’t flinch at my presence. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

“Aurora,” I call softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

There’s no response. I inch closer, my heart pounding in my chest, but still, she remains unresponsive.

Her expression is unchanged, that same vacant, hollow gaze fixed on some unseen point in the room.

I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, careful to maintain a respectful distance, not daring to touch her yet.

“You shouldn’t have been outside,” I say, the words tumbling out, painfully inadequate.

It’s the only thing that comes to mind, a futile attempt to bridge the chasm between us. But she offers no reply, no sign of understanding.

The sound of her breath rattles softly in her throat, a faint reminder that she is alive. That’s something, I suppose.

“I didn’t know,” I continue, my voice dropping to a near whisper, as if the quiet could somehow change the past. “If I had…”

I cut myself off, realizing the futility of my words. It doesn’t matter what I might have done.

I exhale slowly through my nose, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on me.

“I don’t know if you’ll ever believe me,” I say, my voice low and earnest, “but I don’t hate you.”

The silence stretches out like an unending chasm between us, filled with unspoken words and unresolved feelings.

And then, finally, she speaks.

“I don’t believe you.”

Her voice is hoarse, dry, barely there—a fragile whisper that cuts through the air like glass shattering.

I don’t move. I don’t flinch.

I simply sit there, absorbing her words, allowing the pain to wash over me, because deep down, I know I deserve it.