Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 117: Dream, Illusion, Or Reality

I sink into the bathtub, the water a perfect, scalding embrace. Steam rises in lazy spirals, curling against the marble walls and gilded fixtures, blurring the edges of the room until it feels like another world entirely.

A world without Moon. Without his relentless blue gaze, his impossible words, his confusing, consuming presence.

Neon. Just forget about him.

Just breathe.

I close my eyes. The water laps gently against my collarbone. The heat seeps into my muscles, loosening the knots of tension I’ve been carrying for days.

I let my head rest against the sloped back of the deep soaking tub.

Calm down.

Just calm down.

Then, touch.

Fingers. Brushing the bare skin of my chest.

Light.

Deliberate.

A slow, exploratory trail from my sternum upward, pausing over my racing heart.

My eyes fly open.

Moon is in the water with me. Seated in front of me, close enough that our knees brush beneath the surface.

His blue hair is damp, deepened to the color of stormy ocean water, strands clinging to his forehead.

Droplets trace slow paths down his temples, his jaw.

My heart seizes, then surges into a frantic, impossible rhythm.

"What—what are you doing here?!"

He smiles. A soft, playful curve of his lips. His blue gaze holds mine, steady and warm, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

His hand remains on my chest, palm flat against my sternum, feeling every wild, treacherous beat.

"Why?" he murmurs, his voice a low, honeyed whisper that seems to come from everywhere at once.

"Didn’t you miss me?"

My cheeks ignite. My pulse is a trapped bird, battering itself against my ribs.

"Moon, have you lost your mind?"

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans in. His nose traces a slow, torturous path from my collarbone, up the column of my throat. He inhales, deep and savoring.

"Sweet cherry blossoms," he breathes against my skin.

"Zyren. You smell so good."

I try to summon resistance, to push him back. My voice comes out thin, breathless.

"Moon.... do you even hear what you’re saying?"

"Stay away from me."

He tilts his head, his lips hovering a whisper from my neck. His smirk is audible.

"Really? But your body... it’s saying something else."

His lips press against the sensitive curve where my neck meets my shoulder.

A kiss.

Light.

Burning.

My eyes fly wide. My heart—god, my heart—is a war drum, a cannonade, a supernova.

The heat in my veins is no longer from the water. It’s him. His touch. His scent. His impossible, intoxicating nearness.

My palms find his chest—bare skin, warm and solid beneath my trembling fingers. I should push him away. I don’t.

"Moon..." His name is barely a breath, trembling on my lips.

He doesn’t stop. His tongue traces a slow, wet path along my pulse point, and a sound escapes me—soft, broken, completely involuntary. My resistance evaporates like steam.

Why does my body feel like this?

Why can’t I move?

Why don’t I want to?

He pulls back slowly, just enough to look at my face. His gaze is heavy-lidded, dark with something I don’t dare name. His lips part.

"You’re mine."

And then he kisses me.

His mouth covers mine, warm and sure and devastating. My eyes are still open, wide with shock, as the world tilts and blurs and narrows to this single point of contact.

His lips move against mine, slow, claiming, and I—

*GASP. *

AHHH—!

My eyes rip open. I lurch upright, water exploding around me in a tidal wave, sloshing over the rim of the tub.

The sound reverberates through the opulent bathroom.

Silence.

Only silence. The drip of water from the faucet. The whisper of steam. My own ragged, heaving breaths.

I am alone.

My hand flies to my chest, pressing hard against the frantic, thrumming beat beneath my palm.

My skin is flushed, burning. My lips tingle with the ghost of a kiss that never happened.

God.

I touch my fingers to my mouth, my breath still catching. My cheeks are wet—not with bathwater, but with tears I don’t remember shedding.

A dream. Just a dream.

But my body hasn’t gotten the memo. It’s still trembling.

Still aching. Still wanting.

What is wrong with me?

I step out of the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a soft, loose bathrobe.

The fabric whispers against my still-damp skin. Steam curls behind me, dissipating into the cooler air of my bedroom.

But the dream doesn’t dissipate. It clings to the inside of my eyelids, replaying on a relentless loop.

His fingers on my chest. His breath against my neck. His voice, low and certain:

You’re mine.

I press my fingers to my temple, rubbing slow, frustrated circles.

God.

A hot bath was supposed to calm me. Unwind the knots. Wash away the confusing, consuming presence of Moon Arden.

Instead, it just made everything worse. Now my skin remembers his touch—touch that never happened.

I look up.

And freeze.

Moon is sitting on my bed.

On my bed. His legs are crossed, his posture relaxed, as if he owns the space. As if he’s been waiting.

Wait. Am I still dreaming?

Is this another illusion?

A cold, bitter smile touches my lips.

This pathetic Alpha. Now I’m seeing him everywhere.

I step closer, raising my hand. I wave it in front of his face, testing.

Poof. Disappear.

Please disappear.

He doesn’t vanish. Instead, his expression shifts—from lazy contentment to sharp, immediate concern. He moves faster than I can react. His hand snaps up and closes around my wrist.

My eyes widen. The warmth of his grip is undeniable.

Real.

He’s real. He’s actually here.

In my room. On my bed.

He lifts his other hand, his fingers brushing my burning cheek. His brow furrows.

"Are you okay? You look—"

I don’t let him finish. I yank my wrist free, the motion sharp and desperate.

My mind is a static scream of dream dream dream—he was just in my dream, and now he’s here, and I can’t—

"Zyren—"

My hand finds his. I grab it with a sudden, fierce grip and pull. Hard. He stumbles, surprised, as I drag him across the room.

"What are you—wait—"

I don’t wait. I don’t listen. I just move, driven by pure, panicked instinct. I haul him to the door, shove it open with my free hand, and push him out into the hallway.

His eyes are wide, confused, lips parted on an unasked question.

I don’t answer it.

I slam the door.

The sound echoes in the sudden silence. I lean back against the solid wood, pressing my palms flat against it, as if I can physically barricade him out of my thoughts.

My breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps. My heart is a wild, trapped thing.

God. This is trouble.