Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 94: Retired Villain’s Burning Cheeks

I slip from the bed like a thief, peeling myself away from the warmth with infinite care. The cold of the wooden floor bites into my bare feet, a sharp, grounding shock.

But it’s nothing—nothing—compared to the icy dread Moon’s voice has left coiled in the pit of my stomach.

What is he doing at the Kael mansion?

The thought is a silent scream.

I have to go.

Now.

I pause, my gaze falling back to the bed—to Deniz.

He lies deep in sleep, peaceful and vulnerable. The soft rhythm of his breath is the only sound in the room.

Dark hair spills messily across his temple, his expression unguarded and beautiful, touched with a faint, tired softness that makes my chest ache.

I shouldn’t disturb him. Let him have this peace.

Moving silently, I pad to the small writing desk. I pick up a pen, the cold metal familiar in my trembling fingers.

On a slip of paper, I write in a careful, controlled script—the handwriting of Zyren Kael, not the frantic scrawl of Neon’s fear:

Had to leave for urgent work. We’ll meet tomorrow. Rest well.

- Zyren

I set the note on the bedside table, the white rectangle a stark contrast against the dark wood.

A poor substitute for my presence. My feet carry me to the door, but my heart is a stone, dragging me back.

I stop. Turn.

My heart pleads to stay. To crawl back into that warmth, to listen to his breathing forever, to let the world and its psychotic Alphas burn outside this single, sacred room.

I walk back. It’s not a decision; it’s a gravitational pull. I lean over him, my shadow falling across his sleeping face.

My fingers, of their own volition, reach out. They brush a stray lock of hair back from his temple, the touch so light it’s barely there.

I lean closer. His warm, even breaths wash over the skin of my neck, carrying his scent—that clean, calming red rose—straight to my core.

It’s so good, so him, it’s a physical ache.

I can’t stop myself. I bend lower, my lips brushing the skin of his temple in a feather-soft kiss.

The contact sends a jolt through me. A murmur escapes, breathed into his skin, a secret for the sleeping world to hold:

"Rest well, my love..."

My own heart is a wild, traitorous drum against my ribs. My gaze, helpless, drops. It lands on his lips.

Soft. Parted just slightly in sleep. A pale, tempting pink.

I could... I could just...

The desire is a living thing, hot and urgent. To taste that softness, to claim that peace for myself, even in secret.

Neon. Get a grip.

The thought is a bucket of cold water.

It’s wrong. So wrong.

If I ever kiss him—when I kiss him—I want his eyes open.

I want him to see me. I want him to choose it, too.

With a force of will that feels Herculean, I pull back. I straighten, putting precious inches between my hunger and his innocence.

Go. Now. Before you lose what little control you have left.

I turn on my heel, a soldier deserting the one place that feels like home. My hand finds the cold brass of the door handle.

I squeeze it, the metal biting into my palm.

One last look. A final, stolen glimpse of peace.

He hasn’t stirred. Still beautiful. Still mine, in all the ways that matter in the quiet dark.

A soft, bittersweet smile finds its way to my lips, born of longing and a fierce, protective love.

I turn the handle with infinite care, easing the door open just wide enough to slip through. The click as it shuts behind me is the quietest sound I have ever made.

A final, silent vow hangs in the hallway’s stillness.

Sleep well, my future wife. I’ll handle everything.

The heavy doors of the Kael mansion swing shut behind me, sealing me in a tomb of gilded silence.

The familiar, hollow greetings of the servants—"Welcome home, Young Master"—slide over me. I do not offer my usual, practiced, polite smile in return.

My face is a mask of cold marble, all sharp angles and impassive calm. But beneath the surface, a silent scream is building.

"Where," I ask, my voice cutting through the hush without looking at the maid who curtsies, "is our... handsome guest?"

"In the main living room, Young Master."

Each step I take is deliberate, heels clicking on the polished stone—a measured drumbeat of confrontation.

Outside, the controlled heir returns. Inside, Neon screams:

Angel. Is he alright?

What has that storm cloud done to him?

A servant scurries ahead, swinging the double doors to the living room open.

I step through, and my eyes—trained by a lifetime of assessing threats—scan the room in a millisecond.

I find Angel first.

He’s standing in the center of the vast, opulent room, not seated, not at ease. He’s standing as if waiting for a verdict, his head bowed, his shoulders tense.

He looks small, scared, drowning in the grandeur. My carefully constructed calm cracks, a fissure of pure, protective rage.

Then, my gaze snaps to the threat.

Moon is lounging on the central sofa as if it’s a throne he’s already claimed, one leg crossed over the other, an picture of indolent control.

His presence is a stain on the room. As the door clicks shut, his head turns. Those famous blue eyes land on me, and a slow, triumphant smirk curls his lips.

"Finally," he purrs, the word a velvet-wrapped barb.

"You came."

I take a step forward. Just one. It’s enough.

My eyes lock onto his, and I let every ounce of my fury, my disgust, my absolute lack of welcome blaze there, unconcealed.

His smirk dies.

It doesn’t fade; it shatters.

His gaze, fixed on my face, drops. Slowly, deliberately, it travels downward—taking in the reality of me.

This is not Zyren Kael, the impeccably tailored villain in a thousand-dollar suit. This is someone else.

Someone in soft, grey sweatpants and a simple, borrowed hoodie.

My silver hair is messy, unstyled. A stark white cold patch is stuck clumsily to my temple—the one Deniz had applied with such gentle, worried care.

My cheeks still hold the high, telltale flush of fever.

I am disheveled. I am vulnerable.

I am real in a way the character of Zyren Kael was never supposed to be.

Moon’s blue eyes widen, just a fraction, before narrowing again into something sharp and intensely, unnervingly curious.

He’s not looking at a rival or a scripted obstacle anymore.

He’s looking at a mystery.

And in his world of boring, predictable luxury, nothing is more dangerous.