Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 174: He Didn’t Do Anything....

The luxurious hotel room is dim and silent, the heavy curtains drawn tight against the evening light. Only a single lamp burns in the corner, casting long shadows across the walls, across the furniture, across my face.

I sit on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, leaning back with deliberate calm. My hands rest on my knees. My spine is straight. My face is cold, composed—the mask of Zyren Kael, the mask I wear in boardrooms and negotiations, the mask that has never failed me.

But beneath it, anger burns like a slow fire, consuming everything else.

I want to know why. I need to know what he did. The thought circles in my mind—relentless, sharpening my edges.

A soft click breaks the silence. The key card. The door opens, and Moon steps inside.

He turns on the lights, and his blue eyes find me immediately. For just a moment—a flicker, nothing more—surprise crosses his face.

His hand pauses on the light switch. His body tenses, just slightly. Then it’s gone, smoothed over by that familiar mask of careless confidence, of a man who is never caught off guard, never vulnerable, never afraid.

He walks forward, tossing his jacket onto the other couch with a casual flick of his wrist, and settles across from me like this is any ordinary evening.

He leans back, one arm draped over the back of the couch, his posture open, unconcerned. As if finding me waiting in his hotel room in the dark is nothing remarkable.

I stare at him without blinking. My eyes are full of anger—the kind anyone can read, the kind I’m not trying to hide. Let him see. Let him know.

Moon leans forward and pours wine into two glasses. The liquid catches the dim light, deep and red, almost black in the shadows.

The crystal clinks softly against the table. He slides one glass toward me, and it stops directly in front of me, the wine trembling slightly from the movement.

I look down at the glass, then back at him. He’s staring at a painting on the wall—something abstract—something he probably doesn’t even see.

He takes a slow sip of his own glass, the crystal resting against his lower lip for a moment before he sets it down.

"I know you’re not here for anything pleasant," he says quietly, his voice carrying the weight of someone who has learned to expect the worst.

"Tell me what happened."

I stay silent for a moment, just watching him. The anger in my chest has crystallized into something cold, something sharp. When I speak, my voice is low, controlled, a blade wrapped in silk.

"Why did you do it?"

He looks at me, sipping again, unhurried. "What do you mean?"

"Don’t pretend to be innocent." My voice hardens.

"I know you’re not."

He sets his glass down with a soft clink. His blue gaze meets mine, steady and clear, holding my eyes without flinching.

"You’re right." A pause. "I’m not." Another pause, longer this time.

"Now tell me—what was important enough for you to sneak into my room like this?"

My voice is flat, accusing, each word a stone dropped into still water.

"You met Angel this afternoon, didn’t you?"

He stays silent for a long moment, watching me. The silence stretches, thin and fragile. Then a laugh slips from his lips—cold, dangerous, nothing like the easy laugh I’ve heard before, the laugh that fills rooms and disarms people. This laugh is empty.

He leans back, tilting his head up to look at the chandelier above us. The light catches his face, hollows out his cheeks, makes him look older.

"Ah."

His voice is soft, almost wistful. "For a moment, I thought you came for me." He sighs, long and slow.

"Disappointing."

"Answer me, Moon."

He looks at me again, and for a moment, something flickers in his eyes—something I almost recognize. Then it’s gone.

"Yes. We met." He spreads his hands, a gesture of innocence that doesn’t reach his eyes. "What’s the big deal? We see each other every day because of the shoots. We’re working together. Is sharing a meal such a crime?"

He leans forward suddenly, his elbows on his knees, his eyes narrowing.

"Don’t tell me you’re jealous."

"Jealous?"

My voice rises despite myself. "He collapsed after meeting you. He was fine before. He was fine. What did you do to him?"

Moon goes still.

His eyes fix on me without blinking, unreadable, blank in a way that makes my skin prickle.

"Did you use your pheromones on him?" The accusation spills out, hot and fast.

"Is that why he—"

He rises from the couch.

I don’t see him move—he’s just there, suddenly, in my space, and before I can react, before I can even breathe, he’s sitting beside me. Too close. His body heat bleeds into my side, his scent—amber wood and something darker—fills my lungs.

I shift away, my protest sharp. "What the hell—"

His fingers press against my lips. Warm. Steady. Silencing me.

"Zyren."

His voice is low, controlled, but beneath it, something trembles. Something held in check by a thread.

"If you say another word," he whispers, "I swear, I’ll lose control."

The room shifts.

His pheromones flood the space—thick, heavy, pressing against my skin, filling my lungs, making my thoughts slow and thick. Amber wood and something else, something darker, something that coils in my chest and refuses to leave.

He leans closer. His eyes lock with mine, blue and burning, a furnace behind glass.

"My pheromones have standards." His voice is barely a breath against my skin. "I don’t waste them on just anyone."

A pause. His gaze holds mine. "I talked to him because of you."

I blink, confusion breaking through the fog of anger.

"Because he’s close to you." His voice softens, loses its edge.

"I wanted to know what you like. What you dislike." Another pause, longer this time.

"What makes you happy."

He pulls back just enough to see my face, and something in his expression shifts.

"But you assumed the worst."

The words land in my chest like stones.

He didn’t do anything.

Oh, Neon. You were so blinded by anger, so ready to blame, so eager to find someone to punish—you didn’t even think. You didn’t even ask. You just came here, ready to tear him apart, and for what?

My fists clench on the couch cushions. His pheromones are rising, thickening, filling the room until I can barely think. My body feels heavy, slow, like moving through water.

I grab his hand and push it away from my mouth. I stand—

His hand closes around my wrist. His grip is firm, unyielding. He pulls, and I fall back onto the couch with a soft thud, the cushions rising to catch me.

"Moon—"

He leans over me, one arm braced beside my head, his body caging me against the couch. His face is inches from mine, his breath warm on my skin, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"Do you really think," he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, "you can accuse me, blame me, come into my room and demand answers like I’m some kind of criminal..."

He pauses, letting the words hang. "And then just walk away?"

I try to move. His weight holds me in place.

His lips brush my ear, his voice a whisper that sends shivers down my spine.

"You came here on your own. Now you don’t leave... without my permission."