Understand me

Understand me
The morning light bled in through the small window, weak and pale, though it still stung my eyes after a night without sleep. I had spent the hours curled restlessly on the bed, turning over every word, every look, every silence, until I felt hollowed out.
By dawn, I couldn’t bear the room anymore. The walls pressed too tightly around me, suffocating with memories of the silver-haired man’s warning and the echo of my own breaking down. So I forced myself up, splashed water over my face, and slipped into the corridor.
The lodge was already alive with movement. Footsteps padded across wooden floors, the low murmur of voices carried from deeper within, and the faint, rich smells of roasted meat and bread clung to the air. For a heartbeat, I thought maybe—just maybe—I could find a place among them this morning.
But as soon as I entered the main hall, I felt it.
Eyes. Dozens of them. Watching. Measuring.
Conversations stilled as I passed, words dying mid-sentence. The wolves didn’t growl, didn’t bare their teeth, but their silence was louder than any threat. Some turned their faces deliberately away from me, others held their gazes too long, as if daring me to justify my presence. Children were pulled closer to their mothers, and men stepped aside as if the very air around me might contaminate them.
I tried to straighten my shoulders, to meet their stares without faltering, but inside my chest, the ache from the night before grew sharper. I had thought loneliness was worst when locked in my room—but no. This was worse. To walk among them and still be untouchable. A shadow. A plague.
Their rejection burned hot against my skin, and before long, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I turned on my heel, ready to retreat back to the safety of my room, no matter how suffocating the walls felt. At least there, I wouldn’t have to meet their eyes.
But as I crossed toward the hall that led back to my quarters, the scent of food pulled my attention sideways. The kitchen doors stood open, the sound of voices, louder here, spilling out with laughter and clattering dishes.
Curiosity, and perhaps a shred of stubbornness, tugged me closer.
I stopped just inside the doorway—and froze.
The kitchen wasn’t a kitchen the way I had known kitchens to be. It wasn’t servants bustling about to serve their masters or cooks hidden behind swinging doors. Here, long wooden tables stretched out, laden with platters of steaming food: roasted meats, fresh bread, bowls of fruit. The wolves—men, women, children—moved among them with ease, passing food, filling each other’s plates, tearing bread to share with whomever was nearest. There were no ranks, no servants. Everyone ate together.
It was strange, almost jarring, to see them like that. A pack in every sense, bonded not just by blood or by oath, but by the very act of living as one. Eating as one.
And then I saw him.
Aiden.
He was seated near the far end of one of the long tables, his back straight but his face softer than I had seen in days. A boy beside him had shoved a bowl of berries into his hands, and though Aiden didn’t smile, there was a light in his eyes as he thanked him—a light that twisted something deep inside me.
The shock of seeing him there hit me harder than the cold stares of the pack had. I had expected him to be gone, or at least to stay away from me after the words I had thrown at him the night before. But there he was, part of them, already weaving himself into the rhythm of the pack while I remained on the outside.
My breath caught. For a moment, I didn’t know whether to walk forward or to run.
I didn’t even realize I had started moving until I was halfway across the room. My heart drummed against my ribs, not with fear this time but with a kind of fragile hope. He hadn’t left. Aiden hadn’t left me.
For the first time since I stepped into this pack’s territory, I felt a flicker of relief warm my chest. I quickened my pace, weaving between benches and shoulders, ignoring the lingering glances that trailed me. My focus was locked on him.
“Aiden,” I said as I reached his side, my voice low but urgent. He turned, surprise flickering in his dark eyes. I couldn’t help the smile tugging faintly at my lips, the breath that left me shakier than I wanted. “You didn’t leave.”
His brow furrowed, the light in his gaze dimming as though I had struck him. He set the bowl in his hand back onto the table with care, then straightened to face me fully.
“What do you mean by that?” His tone was sharper than I expected, quiet but edged with steel.
I blinked at him, caught off guard. “I mean—what are you still doing here?” The words tumbled out quickly, too quickly. In my head, they had sounded grateful, full of the relief I felt. But as soon as they left my lips, I realized how they must have sounded to him—accusing, like a demand for him to explain why he dared remain.
His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. Around us, a few wolves slowed their movements, pretending not to eavesdrop.
“So that’s it then?” he said, his voice low but cutting. “You wanted me gone so badly last night that now you can’t even stomach seeing me here? You think I’m overstaying where I don’t belong?”
“No,” I rushed, heat flooding my cheeks. The smile I had worn wilted instantly. “That’s not what I meant.”
But he was already shaking his head, frustration flashing across his features. “You’ve made yourself clear enough, Advika. I won’t burden you any longer than I have to. Once I’ve seen Eric given his burial rites, I’ll go.”
My throat tightened painfully. That wasn’t what I wanted at all, and yet, the words tangled in me, stuck like thorns. I reached out before I could stop myself, my fingers brushing his arm. The warmth of him under my touch nearly undid me.
“Aiden, listen—” I started, but my voice cracked, and with the weight of eyes all around us, the words withered on my tongue.
He looked down at my hand for a moment, something soft and conflicted flickering in his expression, but then he pulled back. Not roughly, not coldly—just with that quiet restraint that made it hurt worse.
“You don’t have to explain,” he said, softer now, almost weary. “I get it.”
But he didn’t. He didn’t get it at all.
And I didn’t know how to make him see.