Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 161: You’re Mine, Zyren...
I sit on the edge of the bed, my face still burning with embarrassment. The way that man looked at me—his gaze crawling over my skin like something physical, like he had a right to see, to assess, to want. It made my stomach turn.
I run a hand through my messy silver hair, my fingers catching in the knots.
Neon, you absolute fool. You always embarrass yourself. What must Deniz think of you?
Running out there half-dressed, covered in evidence of last night, in front of his teacher?
I look up at the ceiling, letting out a long, frustrated sigh.
I should have put on pants. I should have at least grabbed something to cover my legs.
Why didn’t I think of that? Why didn’t I stop for one second and think before I rushed out?
I’m completely dumb. Completely—
The door opens.
I look up, and Deniz enters, carrying a small tub of warm water and a soft towel. Steam rises gently from the surface, catching the light.
His movements are quiet, deliberate, purposeful.
I blink, confusion flickering through me.
Why is he—
He sets the tub down on the floor and kneels in front of me. The movement is fluid, natural, like he’s done this a thousand times. Like kneeling before me is where he belongs.
"Deniz?" My voice is soft, uncertain.
"What are you doing?"
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches for my feet, lifting them gently, cradling one in his warm palm. His touch is careful, reverent.
"I need to clean you up."
My cheeks ignite. A shy smile tugs at my lips despite myself, despite the embarrassment still lingering from earlier.
"No, you don’t. I can take a shower. Really, I—"
He looks up at me.
His dark eyes are soft, but his expression is serious—blank in a way that makes my heart stutter. There’s no anger there, but there’s something else. Something quiet and deep that I can’t quite read.
"No." His voice is quiet but firm, leaving no room for argument.
"I know you’re still sleepy. I’ll wipe you clean, and you can sleep more comfortably."
"I’m not sleepy," I protest weakly, but even I don’t believe it. The heaviness behind my eyes, the way my body still aches with pleasant exhaustion—he’s right, and we both know it.
He dips the towel into the warm water, wrings it out, and steam rises between us. "Your eyes look tired," he says quietly.
"And it’s the weekend. Rest a little more."
Before I can argue again, he presses the warm towel to my thigh.
He wipes away the slick gently, carefully, his touch impossibly soft. He treats me like something fragile, something precious, something worth handling with care.
The warmth of the towel, the gentleness of his hands—it soothes something deep inside me, something I didn’t realize was wound so tight.
I watch him in silence for a long moment.
The way his brow furrows slightly in concentration. The way his hands move with such care, such tenderness. The way he kneels before me like this is exactly where he wants to be.
Is he angry? He must be. I walked out there half-dressed, just in this shirt, and embarrassed him in front of his teacher. Of course he’d be angry. Anyone would be.
My fingers twist in the oversized pink silk sleeves, clenching and unclenching the fabric until my knuckles whiten.
"Deniz."
He looks up at me. "Hmm?"
Our eyes meet, and I almost lose my nerve. His gaze is so steady, so patient. But I need to know.
My voice comes out weak, hesitant, a child afraid of punishment.
"Are you... are you angry with me?"
He stays silent. Just looks at me.
I can’t bear the blankness in his gaze. I look away, at the wall, at the floor, at anything but him. The shame presses down on my chest, heavy and suffocating.
"I’m sorry." The words tumble out in a rush, desperate for him to understand.
"I didn’t do it on purpose. I was just—"
"Zyren."
His voice is soft, and something in it makes me look back.
His gaze shifts down to my bare legs, to the marks he left on me last night—pink and fading, scattered across my skin like evidence of his claim.
His fingers trace them slowly, featherlight, following the path of each bite, each kiss, each moment of possession.
"No matter what you do," he says quietly, "I could never be angry with you."
His voice drops, and something in it cracks, just slightly.
"I’m just sad."
My heart races. "Why?"
He lifts my foot to his face and presses it against his cheek. The gesture is so tender, so intimate, it steals the breath from my lungs. His eyes close for just a moment, as if savoring the contact.
He presses a light kiss to my foot and whispers, "I hate it when someone else’s gaze travels over your beauty."
A pause. "Like they’re trying to dirty you with their eyes."
I go still.
He’s sad. Because of me. Because of how that man looked at me.
"Deniz." My voice is soft, full of everything I can’t quite say.
"I’m sorry. I promise I won’t let anything like this happen again."
He stands, rising to his full height, and leans over me. I tilt my head back to meet his eyes—those dark eyes that are usually so gentle, so warm. Now they burn with something else.
Something possessive. Something fierce.
His hands find my face, cradling it gently. His fingers rub slow circles on my warm cheeks.
"I won’t let it happen again," he murmurs.
He leans closer. His lips meet mine—soft at first, then deeper, a kiss that’s as much a promise as it is a claiming.
When he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice is a whisper against my mouth.
"No one else can touch you. No one else can even look at you." His thumb traces my jaw.
"Just me."
A shiver runs through me.
"You’re mine, Zyren."
