Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 179: He’s Something He Shouldn’t Be...

Flashback 🌸 — Moon Taking Care of Zyren

The hotel room is dim, the curtains drawn tight against the night outside. Only one lamp burns in the corner, its amber glow soft and diffuse, casting long shadows that pool in the corners like water gathering in hollows. The air is still, heavy, thick with something that hadn’t existed an hour ago.

Zyren lies on the couch. His body is limp, his head tilted back against the cushion, his throat exposed. His silver hair is dark with sweat, clinging to his temples, his forehead, the pale column of his neck. Strands of it stick to his skin, plastered there by the heat radiating from him.

Droplets trace slow paths down his face, catching the amber light, making him glow like something not quite human—like moonlight given form, given fever, given flesh.

His lips are parted. His breath comes in shallow, uneven pulls, each breath a small effort, carrying more of his scent into the room.

Peach blossoms. Sweet and cloying. Thick as honey. Heavy as smoke.

It’s everywhere now. Seeping into the walls, the fabric, the air itself. It coils in Moon’s lungs with every breath he takes, settles there, spreads through his blood like something alive.

Moon sits beside him, his hands clenched on his knees, knuckles white, tendons taut beneath the skin. His jaw is tight enough to crack.

His blue eyes are fixed on Zyren’s face, on the way his lashes—silver, almost translucent—lie against too-pale cheeks, on the way his chest rises and falls in a rhythm that has nothing to do with sleep.

Why does his scent affect me like this?

The thought circles, relentless.

Like he’s something he shouldn’t be. Like every instinct I have is waking up, stretching, reaching toward him.

Moon’s eyes darken.

Did I do this...?

Unease flickers through him.

Did my pheromones trigger this?

Zyren stirs. His fingers move weakly, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt—clumsy, uncoordinated, like someone who doesn’t know where he is, what he’s doing.

"It’s..." Zyren’s voice is a thread, thin and frayed. "Hot..."

Moon leans forward. His hand finds Zyren’s face, palm pressing against burning skin. The heat seeps into him, travels up his arm, settles deep in his chest. It’s not normal. Not natural.

This heat has nothing to do with the room.

Nothing to do with the night. Nothing to do with anything outside this moment.

"Zyren." Moon’s voice is tight, controlled, a thread pulled thin.

"Can you hear me?"

Zyren doesn’t answer. His fingers keep working at the buttons of his shirt, pulling, twisting, trying to free himself from fabric that suddenly feels too heavy, too close. One button comes loose. Then another. Pale skin emerges in the gaps, the hollow of his throat, the delicate line of his collarbone.

"We need to go to the hospital." Moon’s hand closes over Zyren’s, stilling his movements. His fingers wrap around Zyren’s wrist, finding the pulse—fast and fragile.

"Zyren. Stop."

A knock at the door. Sharp. Insistent.

The door opens, and Kaz steps in, his face creased with urgency, his words already forming.

"Sir, you called—"

He stops. Frozen in the doorway.

His eyes fix on the figure on the couch. On Zyren, silver hair dark with sweat. On his chest, half-unbuttoned, rising and falling in uneven rhythm. On the air between them—thick, almost tangible.

"Sir..." Kaz’s voice is careful now, measured. "What happened to Mr. Kael?"

Moon’s hands move quickly, buttoning Zyren’s shirt, covering the skin he shouldn’t have seen, shouldn’t have touched. His fingers work fast, efficient, covering, hiding, erasing.

"I don’t know."

His voice is flat, efficient. "He just collapsed. I need to take him to the hospital. Now."

Kaz steps forward, his professional mask sliding into place. "Should I call Mr. Kael’s secretary?"

"No." A pause. Moon’s eyes don’t leave Zyren’s face.

"Reserve the entire VIP floor at the hospital. Quietly. No one needs to know."

Kaz nods, stepping closer to assess the situation. He moves to Zyren’s side, leans in just slightly—

And stops.

His hand covers his nose. His brow furrows. He inhales carefully, testing, and something flickers across his face.

"Sir, the air..." He looks at Zyren, at the sweat on his forehead, the flush on his cheeks, the way his breath comes in shallow gasps.

"It’s thick with something sweet." His voice drops. "Mr. Kael’s fever is rising. We need to cool him down first. I can—"

He reaches for Zyren’s hand.

Moon’s hand shoots out. His fingers close around Kaz’s wrist, grip like iron, hold like stone.

"Don’t touch him."

The words are quiet. They land like stones in still water.

Kaz steps back immediately, his face pale, his eyes wide. He bows quickly, deeply. "I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to overstep. I was only—"

"Get out."

Kaz retreats. His footsteps are quick, careful, the footsteps of someone who knows he crossed a line he didn’t see until it was too late. The door closes behind him with a soft click that seems to echo in the sudden silence.

Moon doesn’t move for a long moment. He sits there, his hand still raised, his fingers still curled around air. Then he rises.

He lifts Zyren from the couch, sliding one arm beneath his shoulders, the other beneath his knees. Zyren feels weightless in his arms, his body burning through the fabric of Moon’s shirt, his fever seeping into Moon’s skin.

His head falls back, his silver hair brushing Moon’s arm, and his fingers find purchase on Moon’s collar, clinging weakly, desperately, like someone clinging to the last solid thing in a collapsing world.

Moon carries him to the bedroom. His steps are steady, measured, each one placed with care. The hallway is dark, the bedroom door open, the bed waiting.

He lays Zyren down on the sheets, and for a moment, Zyren’s hands don’t let go. His fingers twist in Moon’s shirt, pulling, clinging, as if Moon is the only thing anchoring him to the world.

Moon’s voice is rough, scraped raw.

"Zyren. Let go."

Zyren’s fingers loosen. One by one, they fall away, dropping to the sheets, curling into the fabric. He turns his head, his silver hair spreading across the pillows like moonlight on water, like something painted, something not quite real. His body shifts restlessly, seeking something he can’t name, can’t reach.

Moon leans over him. His fingers find the buttons of Zyren’s shirt, and he works them open slowly, carefully. Each button is a small surrender, a small admission. The fabric parts, revealing pale skin, the rise and fall of his chest, the heat radiating from him in waves.

"Stay still," Moon murmurs. His voice is low, meant only for the space between them. "Don’t move. I need to cool you down."

Zyren’s hand rises. Slow. Unsteady. His palm presses against Moon’s face, fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him closer.

Moon’s eyes widen.

Zyren kisses him.

It’s soft at first. Almost innocent. Almost chaste. Not quite either. His lips are dry, cracked, burning, but they move against Moon’s with a desperation that has nothing to do with skill and everything to do with need. His fingers tighten in Moon’s hair, pulling him closer, closer, as if there’s not enough air, not enough contact, not enough of him.

Moon tries to pull back. His voice is a strained whisper, barely audible.

"Zyren. Don’t."

Zyren doesn’t stop. His lips find Moon’s again, and again, his eyes closed, his breath warm, his body arching up toward Moon like something drawn helplessly toward heat. He kisses like he’s drowning, like Moon is the only air left in the world.

Moon’s restraint shatters.

He cups Zyren’s face, tilts his head, and kisses him back. Deep. Hungry. His tongue slides into Zyren’s mouth, tasting, claiming, stealing the breath from his lungs. A small sound escapes Zyren’s throat—a sigh, a moan, something that makes Moon’s control splinter further, makes his hands shake, makes his blood roar in his ears.

He kisses Zyren’s chin. His jaw. The column of his throat. His lips find the pulse point, feel it fluttering beneath his mouth, fast and fragile and alive. He bites down gently, just enough to feel, just enough to leave a mark, and Zyren’s fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, closer.

He returns to Zyren’s mouth, kissing him again, and again, losing himself in the heat, the taste, the scent of peach blossoms flooding his senses, drowning him, consuming him—

Warmth drips onto his hand.

Moon pulls back.

Blood runs from Zyren’s nose, thin and dark, staining his lips, his chin, the white pillow beneath him. It pools in the hollow of his throat, spreads across the pale skin of his chest, dark against the light.

Moon’s heart seizes. His breath catches. He stares at the blood, at the way it catches the light, at the way Zyren doesn’t move, doesn’t wake, doesn’t know.

He pushes back. His hands are trembling. His body is screaming at him to stop, to stay, to take what’s being offered. His blood is still roaring, his skin still burning, his lungs still full of peach blossoms.

He forces himself to move.

The bathroom door closes behind him with a click that sounds like a gunshot. His hands are shaking as he locks it. His chest heaves. His skin burns where Zyren touched him, where Zyren kissed him, where Zyren’s fever branded him.

He turns the shower on. Full blast. Cold.

Water pounds against his skin, freezing, shocking, but his body still burns. The fire is in his blood now, in his lungs, in the spaces where Zyren’s scent still lingers. It coils there, refuses to leave.

He braces his hands against the tile, his head bowed, water streaming down his face, mixing with the sweat, the heat, the need still coursing through him. His breath comes in ragged gasps, each one pulling more of Zyren’s scent from his clothes, his skin, his memory.

What are you doing?

He presses his forehead against the cold wall. The tile is smooth, slick with water, grounding him in the present, in this moment, in the choice he has to make.

He’s not in his right mind. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Doesn’t know who you are in this moment, doesn’t know what he’s asking for. He’s sick. He’s feverish. He’s not himself.

The water cascades over him, freezing, relentless, unforgiving.

You’ve waited this long. You can wait longer. You will wait forever if you have to. Because if you take this now—if you take him now—you’ll never forgive yourself. And neither will he.

He stays there. Minutes pass—maybe hours. The water runs cold, then colder, until he can’t feel his skin, until his hands stop shaking, until his breath finally steadies.

Moon... control yourself.