Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most

Chapter 227: I Won’t Touch You, But I Demand a Kiss.....

I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands limp in my lap, my eyes fixed on the balcony doors. Morning light spills through the glass—pale, cold, indifferent. It pools across the marble floor in wide, silent rectangles, stretching toward me like fingers trying to reach.

The ache in my chest is still there. A dull, persistent throb lodged behind my ribs. Fainter now than when I first woke up, but present. Always present. A ghost that refuses to leave.

My hand moves slowly, pressing against my heart. Beneath my palm, it beats too fast. Uneven.

So that was a dream. A bad dream. But it felt so real.

His voice, low and warm, curling around my name like smoke. His smile, soft and familiar—the smile I used to wake up to. The way he looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was already a memory he was ready to forget. The way he walked away without looking back, his hand in someone else’s, the door closing behind him with a sound like a tomb sealing shut.

And I believed him again. In the dream, I opened my arms and let him hold me. I let him tell me he loved me. That he would never leave. And I believed every word.

My fists clench in the bedsheet, twisting the fabric until my knuckles ache.

My gaze drifts down to my body—bare chest, thin night pants, and the marks scattered across my skin like a map of last night. Faint reds, deep purples, some old and fading, some fresh and dark. Evidence. Reminders. A language written in bruises and bites.

The memories surface without warning, rising like bubbles through deep water.

Moon carrying me into the room, my body limp in his arms, too weak to protest. His pheromones heavy and warm, wrapping around me like amber smoke, leaving no room for thought, for resistance, for anything except the overwhelming heat of his presence. Melting my body and mind together until I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to force the memories away.

But they linger. Stubborn. Vivid.

A glass of water appears at the edge of my vision. I look up.

Moon stands in front of me, holding it out silently. His face is blank—expressionless, unreadable. But his eyes...

His eyes are wet.

Tears slide slowly down his cheeks, catching the pale morning light.

Is he still crying?

I take the glass from his hand. Our fingers brush, and his skin is warm.

I sip a little—the water is room temperature, tasteless—then set the glass aside. It clicks softly against the wood of the nightstand, the sound strangely loud in the quiet room.

I should ask him why he’s crying. I should say something. Anything.

But before I can speak, he sinks slowly to the floor in front of me.

My eyes widen slightly. "Moon," I say, my voice rough from sleep and the remnants of pain. "What are you doing?"

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he rests his head on my lap, his blue hair spilling across my thighs like silk. His face turns slightly away from me, and his shoulders rise and fall with each slow breath, controlled and deliberate, like he’s trying to hold himself together.

My hands hover uncertainly above him.

I don’t know where to touch him. I don’t know if I should touch him at all.

What happened to him?

Did he have a bad dream too?

His voice comes out quiet and raw, scraped clean of all its usual arrogance. "I’m sorry, Zyren."

"Why are you sorry?"

He doesn’t look at me. His gaze stays fixed somewhere else—on the floor, on the shadows stretching across the marble, on a place I can’t see. Tears slide silently down his cheeks, disappearing into the fabric of my pants.

"When I woke up," he says softly, "you were crying in your sleep. You were clutching your chest like you were in pain."

He pauses. His voice catches slightly.

"I tried to wake you, but you wouldn’t..." His fingers curl weakly against my leg. "You wouldn’t wake up."

Another pause. "And then you stopped breathing."

I stare at him.

His head lowers further against my lap, his blue hair shifting softly beneath my trembling hands.

"It’s all because of me," he whispers. "I pushed you. I forced myself on you. I promised I wouldn’t, and I did it anyway."

His voice breaks on the last words. "I won’t do it again. I promise." A shaky breath leaves him. "I won’t touch you again until you’re ready."

My hands still hover above him, uncertain and helpless.

I don’t know what to do.

His tears keep falling—silent, steady—and he truly believes I was suffering because of him.

But it wasn’t him. It was never him.

I reach down and hold his face gently, lifting it until his eyes meet mine. His skin is warm beneath my cold palms, flushed from crying, from sleeplessness, from whatever storm is raging inside him.

"It’s not your fault," I say softly.

His brows pull together immediately. "How could it not be my fault?" The words come out rough, almost desperate.

I hold his gaze for a moment before answering quietly, "Because... I had a bad dream."

He blinks slowly. Tears continue slipping down his cheeks, undisturbed. "A bad dream?"

"Yes." My thumb wipes the wetness from beneath his eye. "A very bad dream." His skin feels soft beneath my fingers. Fragile. Like something already cracked in too many places.

"I’m sorry I scared you like this."

He shakes his head quickly—a child’s reflex, desperate and immediate. "I was angry last night," he says hoarsely. "I lost control. I should have—I shouldn’t have—"

He stops, swallowing hard before forcing the words out. "I promise. I won’t touch you again." A pause. "Not until you’re ready. Not until you want me to."

My thumb keeps moving, tracing the curve of his cheekbone, the hollow beneath his eye. "I’m sorry too," I whisper. "For ignoring you like this. I won’t do it again."

He doesn’t smile.

His face remains unreadable—a mask barely held together by willpower and tears. But his eyes stay fixed on mine, searching for something I don’t know how to give him.

Then he moves.

One hand presses against the mattress beside my hip while the other cups my face, fingers spreading across my jaw and cheek.

He leans forward.

And his lips meet mine. freewebnøvel.com

The kiss is soft at first. Almost tentative. Like he’s asking permission he already knows I won’t give.

My breath catches.

I lose my balance as he pushes forward gently, and I fall back against the mattress with a soft thud. He follows me down immediately, his body hovering over mine, warmth pressing against my chest.

I push against him—my palms flat against his bare chest, his skin warm and solid beneath my hands. He doesn’t move.

I bite his lower lip. Hard. He flinches, pulling back just enough to look at me. A thin line of blood wells against his lower lip, bright red against pale skin.

"Didn’t you promise me?" My voice comes out sharp, cutting through the haze of pheromones and heat. "You said you wouldn’t touch me against my will."

His eyes hold mine steadily, unblinking. "I promised," he says quietly. "But there was a condition." A faint pause. "I said I would demand a kiss whenever I wanted."

My expression stiffens.

He tricked me again.

Before I can answer, he leans in once more. This time, the kiss is deeper.

His tongue slides into my mouth, slow and deliberate, stealing my breath, my thoughts, my resistance. His body presses against mine—warm, solid, overwhelming—and I feel myself sinking deeper into the mattress, into him, into the suffocating heat of his presence.

Somewhere on the nightstand, my phone starts buzzing.

"Moon," I mumble against his lips. "My phone."

He doesn’t stop. His hand slides into my hair, fingers tangling in the silver strands, holding me in place. "Focus on me," he whispers, his voice low and rough.

He kisses me again, deeper still, and I close my eyes.

The phone keeps buzzing, but I can’t think about it anymore. I can’t think about anything at all.

President Kael, Lovebeauty’s executive team has confirmed tomorrow’s meeting.

Mr. Deniz Hart will attend as the company’s acting secretary.