Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 121: I Feel Like I Know Nothing...

Deniz’s fingers trace slow, deliberate patterns on my thigh. My body trembles under his touch, a live wire of sensation.

His lips continue their journey along my neck—kissing, tasting, claiming—and I’m drowning in the warmth of it.

Then he pulls back. Just enough to look at me.

I open my eyes slowly, meeting his gaze. My cheeks are burning, a fire I can’t control. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

But something is wrong.

The eyes looking back at me aren’t Deniz’s. Not the Deniz I know. These eyes are dark—darker than I’ve ever seen them—and they hold something I don’t recognize.

Possession. Hunger. A quiet, terrifying claim that rakes over my body, tracing every curve, every shiver.

He takes my hand.

Gentle.

Reverent.

He lifts it to his lips and presses a kiss to my skin—slow, deliberate, a brand more than a caress.

Then his gaze returns to mine. Held captive.

His hand slides to the back of my neck, warm and firm. His other hand finds mine, still clenched on the couch cushion like it’s the last solid thing in a dissolving world. He pries my fingers open, gently, inexorably. Then he guides my palm to his chest.

I obey. I can’t not obey. My hands press against the solid warmth of him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath.

It’s calm.

Unrushed.

Certain.

His arm wraps around my waist and pulls me closer, eliminating the last space between us. His lips find mine.

The kiss steals everything. Breath. Thought. Resistance. My mind goes blank, white static, as his tongue slides into my mouth and claims territory I didn’t know I had.

Why am I so weak against him?

I’m an Alpha. He’s a Beta.

I should be stronger. I should be in control.

But his strength overwhelms me. His presence smothers me. And somewhere, in the dark corners of my dissolving mind, a whisper: This feels like Moon. This possessiveness.

My eyes sting. Heat pricks at the corners. A tear escapes, sliding down my burning cheek. Then another.

I’m not crying from pain. I’m not sad. It’s just—too much. Too good.

Too confusing. Too right in a way that terrifies me.

Deniz feels the wetness. He pulls back sharply, his eyes widening. The dark possession drains from his gaze, replaced by something raw and familiar.

Worry. Fear.

My Deniz.

His hands cup my face, gentle now, thumbs brushing the tears away. "I’m sorry," he breathes, his voice cracking.

"Please—did I hurt you?"

His eyes dart over my body, searching for injury, for the source of my tears.

I don’t answer. I can’t. I don’t have words for what just happened.

His worry deepens. "Zyren. Please. Talk to me."

His thumbs keep wiping, gentle and desperate. Finally, I find my voice. It’s small. Hollow.

"You don’t need to be sorry."

I stand slowly. He lets me go, his hands falling away. I don’t look at him.

"I should take a shower."

I walk toward the inner suite, my steps steady, my mind a storm. I don’t look back. I need space.

I need silence. I need to understand what just happened—to him, to me, to us.

The shower runs long, hot water pounding against my skin until it’s pink and tingling. I stand there, watching the steam curl and rise, my mind a relentless carousel of faces.

Deniz’s dark, shifting eyes. Moon’s impossible blue gaze. Angel’s red-rimmed golden ones.

They blur together, spin, reform.

I step out finally, wrapping myself in a thick robe. The bathroom is a cloud of vapor, but the moment I open the door, the cool air of the suite hits me. It doesn’t clear my head.

Nothing clears my head.

My mind is still spinning.

I press my fingers to my temples, where a dull, persistent ache has taken root. I was so confident before. The thought is bitter, self-mocking.

I knew this story. I knew these characters. I had read their lines, catalogued their personalities, predicted their every move.

I was smart.

But now—

I feel like I know nothing.

Everything is shifting. Rewriting itself. Deniz doesn’t feel like the Deniz. Moon isn’t acting like the Male lead I expected. Even Angel’s silence feels heavier than it should.

I look around the private executive suite—Zyren Kael’s inner sanctuary. I’ve never been here before.

In the novel, it was just a setting, a few lines of description. He works hard. Harder than anyone. Probably spends more time here than in the mansion.

Now I see it. The sleek, masculine furniture. The floor-to-ceiling windows showing the glittering city far below. The soft, luxurious bed that dominates the space, covered in blankets that look impossibly comfortable.

I walk to it. My legs feel heavy, each step an effort. I sink onto the mattress, and it welcomes me, cradling my tired body. The blanket is soft, warmer than I expected. I pull it up to my chin.

I close my eyes.

Push it all away. The questions.

The confusion.

The faces.

I’m so tired. Not just physically.

Mentally. Emotionally.

Tired of thinking. Tired of analyzing. Tired of trying to stay one step ahead of a story that refuses to follow its script.

I just want to sleep. Long and deep and dreamless.

My breathing slows. The world fades.

Just sleep.

*******

My eyes open slowly, the ceiling of the inner suite coming into focus above me. I blink, once, twice, trying to coax my brain into function.

How long did I sleep?

I stretch, a long, lazy pull of limbs beneath the soft blanket. My body feels heavy, drugged with rest. I run a hand through my hair, pushing it back from my face, and sit up.

Then I look at the glass wall.

Darkness. The city lights glitter beyond the window, a sprawling map of stars below. Night has fallen while I slept.

My eyes widen.

Oh, god.

The whole day. I slept the whole day.

Meetings. Work.

Deniz.....

I lurch out of bed, my heart suddenly racing.

I grab clothes from the closet, pulling them on with quick, jerky movements. Shirt. Pants. I stand before the long mirror, fingers working my tie into place with practiced efficiency.

My reflection stares back at me. Hair slightly disheveled. Eyes still soft with sleep. Cheeks flushed from the rush.

And then I see it.

My fingers, still holding the tie, pause. They lift, almost of their own accord, and trace a path along my neck.

A mark. Red. Small. A bruise forming where lips pressed too long, too hard.

Where Deniz kissed me.