Trapped by Seven Mafia Wolves novel Chapter 35

**TITLE: Stars Refuse To Blink by Asa River Knox**
**35 CONTENT: Be Quiet, Not A Burden**

**Aurora’s POV**

Raphael and Andrei are no longer here.

The echo of Raphael’s gentle hand brushing through my hair plays on a loop in my mind, a bittersweet reminder of his promise—two weeks until they return.

Two weeks. Fourteen days stretching into what feels like an eternity. Three hundred and thirty-six hours ticking away, each second amplifying my sense of abandonment.

As I navigate the hallway, I tread softly, each step carefully calculated to avoid disturbing the fragile silence that wraps around me like a heavy blanket. The last thing I desire is to shatter this quietude, this delicate peace that offers me a fleeting sense of comfort.

If I can remain unnoticed, perhaps I can blend into the background, an invisible presence in a world that feels increasingly hostile.

My hands bury themselves deep within the folds of my sleeves, fingers curling tightly around the fabric as if it can shield me from the weight of my solitude. I lower my gaze, even though the corridor is empty; it’s a habit I’ve developed, a precaution against the judgment I fear might lurk around any corner.

A flicker of doubt creeps into my mind—should I venture into the den? The thought sends a shiver down my spine. That room is usually filled with the boisterous energy of Leon, or Jace, and sometimes Nico, who sprawls across the couch as if he owns the entire space.

Instead, I find myself inexplicably drawn toward the kitchen. Perhaps it’s the idea of brewing a cup of tea, a small act of normalcy amidst the chaos. Or maybe it’s just a way to keep my hands occupied, a distraction from the oppressive weight of loneliness pressing down on my chest.

Stepping into the kitchen, the atmosphere shifts instantly. The weight of their stares collides with me like a physical force.

Matteo leans against the counter, arms crossed, exuding an air of casual arrogance that makes my stomach churn. Luka is slumped at the table, his eyes glued to his phone, radiating indifference. And there’s Nico, standing by the fridge, a bottle of water clutched in his hand, his gaze fixed on me with a disdain that feels like a sharp knife.

I turn to the cupboard, desperately searching for tea—a source of warmth to soothe my frayed nerves—and that’s when Nico’s derisive snort pierces the air.

“Oh, look. The little mouse is feeling brave today,” he mocks, his voice dripping with sarcasm that stings like a slap.

Luka doesn’t even bother to lift his gaze from his screen.

“Shouldn’t you be hiding in a closet or something? Crying about the weather?”

His words cut deep, and Matteo adds something in Italian, his tone low yet sharp, a whisper designed to wound:

“Così patetica… non vale nemmeno la pena di essere notata.”

(So pathetic… not even worth noticing.)

I don’t understand the words, but their meaning is clear. Clenching my hands around a mug, my heart races with anxiety.

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