Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 128: Unfortunately You’re Not My Omega...

The bed dips beneath me, soft and unfamiliar. I sit on the edge, my back straight, my hands resting at my sides, staring at nothing.

Exhausted. Helpless. Trapped in the warm, amber-scented quiet of my own inner suite.

Moon’s head rests on my lap.

Sleeping. Like a child curled in his mother’s arms. His blue lashes fan against his cheeks, his lips slightly parted, his breathing slow and even.

Peaceful. Innocent.

Innocent.

The word feels wrong attached to him.

What did he mean?

’I like your scent.’

I turn the moment over in my mind, examining it from every angle. When he said those words, there was no tease in his eyes.

No cruelty. No anger.

Just... something I can’t name.

Something raw. Something real.

I look down at him slowly, my gaze tracing the sharp line of his jaw softened by sleep, the way his brow is smooth, untroubled. The room is thick with his amber wood pheromones—they surround me, wrap around me, sink into my skin.

Soothing. Calming. Comforting.

He must be releasing them on purpose.

I stare without blinking, caught in the strange, suspended quiet.

Then he speaks, eyes still closed.

"You’re admiring me again."

I flinch, heat flooding my cheeks. I jerk my gaze away, staring at the wall, at anything but him.

His eyes open slowly. When I risk a glance back, a smirk curves his lips—but it’s different this time.

Genuine. Playful. Almost warm.

I force my voice flat.

"Sleep. You have forty minutes left. I have urgent work."

He blinks up at me, those blue eyes that usually hold such dangerous intent now soft, hazy with sleep.

"Pat my head," he murmurs.

"Or release your pheromones. So I can sleep."

My eyes widen. I snap, "Are you an Omega? Do you need my pheromones to comfort you?"

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. Just blinks again, slow and unbothered. "Every strong Alpha needs their Omega’s pheromones to relax and feel calm."

His voice is quiet, patient, as if explaining something obvious.

"Just like an Omega needs their Alpha’s pheromones to feel safe. It’s the same."

I blink. Processing.

He’s right.

The thought slips through despite myself.

Omegas need Alpha pheromones for comfort.

Alphas need... but that would mean—

My eyes widen.

Wait.

"Every strong Alpha needs their Omega’s pheromones," I repeat slowly, the words clicking into place.

My gaze snaps to him, anger flaring. "Moon. I’ve already told you. I’m not an Omega."

He laughs. A real laugh, genuine and playful, lighting up his whole face.

"You’re so cute," he murmurs. "I can’t help but tease you."

I look away, completely done. Completely exhausted. Completely trapped with this impossible, infuriating Alpha.

"You’re pathetic," I whisper.

"Lunatic."

His laugh lingers, soft and warm. Then his hand moves, reaching for mine. I flinch at the touch, looking down at him.

He takes my hand—gently, carefully—and places it on top of his head. Then he closes his eyes, settling deeper into my lap, his expression peaceful.

"Unfortunately," he murmurs, his voice drowsy, "you’re not my Omega. So instead of pheromones..."

He presses my hand lightly against his hair.

"Pat my head. So I can sleep."

I stare at him, incredulous. "I’m not doing this."

He opens one eye. Just one. "Then let’s spend the whole night here."

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

Arguing with him is useless. I’ve learned that.

It’s like shouting at a mirror, at the wind, at a force of nature that doesn’t care.

I let out a long, defeated breath. My hand, still resting on his head, moves. Just a little. A small, reluctant stroke through his blue hair.

He smiles. Soft. Satisfied.

And I sit there, in the warm, amber-scented dark, patting the head of the most impossible Alpha I’ve ever known, counting the minutes until I can escape.

To Deniz.

Always to Deniz.

The soft glow of my phone illuminates the dim room, the only light besides the amber haze that still lingers in the air.

My hand hasn’t stopped moving—gentle, rhythmic strokes through Moon’s blue hair, a lullaby of fingertips I never agreed to but can’t seem to stop.

With my free hand, I reach for my phone on the bedside table. The screen lights up as I swipe away the lock.

Messages. So many messages.

Deniz: Zyren, where are you?

Deniz: Did you finish work?

Deniz: I’m waiting at my place...

Deniz: Please come quick.

Deniz: Is everything okay?

Deniz: I’m getting worried now.

A small, helpless smile spreads across my lips.

He’s waiting. He’s worried. He wants me there.

I need to go.

I glance at the time. More than an hour.

Much more. The meeting I lied about, the urgent work I invented—none of it exists.

But Deniz does.

I turn off the phone screen and look down.

Moon sleeps. Really sleeps, this time. His breathing is deep and even, his body utterly relaxed, unguarded in a way I’ve never seen him.

He’s asleep. I can slip away now.

I shift, preparing to move his head from my lap, to stand, to escape into the evening and run to Deniz.

Then I see it.

My hand, still resting on his hair, has pushed the blue strands back from his temple. The movement was unconscious, absent, but now—

There.

A scar.

Dark against his skin. A thin, jagged line cutting across his right temple, disappearing into his hairline.

Old. Faded, but unmistakable.

I freeze.

My fingers hover, trembling slightly, wanting to touch, to trace, to understand. I don’t. I just look.

How have I never seen this before?

The answer comes quickly.

He hides it. Always. His hair, styled carefully, swept just so—it covers this completely.

Moon Arden, who loves his beauty more than anything in the world, who preens and poses and demands admiration, carries a scar on his face.

A permanent mark. A flaw.

And he keeps it hidden.

But why keep it at all?

He could erase it. He has the money. The access. Every reason to make it disappear.

But he didn’t.

Why?