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

Chapter 205: Angel Doesn’t Feel The Same...

I sit on the couch in the living room, the lights turned low—dim and golden, pooling in soft circles across the polished marble floor while the high corners of the room fade into shadow. The heavy velvet curtains are drawn over the tall windows, shutting out the night, and the only sounds are the distant ticking of the antique clock on the mantel and the quiet hum of the mansion settling around me.

My head is bowed, my eyes fixed on the phone in my hands—the screen glowing with messages I’ve sent into a void of silence.

Deniz... why did you leave like that?

Without seeing me? Without saying goodbye?

Is everything okay?

Why aren’t you answering my calls?

Are you alright?

Please call me when you see this.

The words stare back at me—unanswered, unread.

The ticks beside each message remain single, never turning into that small confirmation that he’s seen them.

He’s never done this before.

Never left without a word. Without a touch.

Without looking back. Never ignored my calls. Never let my messages sit unopened while the minutes stretch into hours.

Everything was fine. We were laughing, eating, talking. The dinner was warm, the conversation easy. I went to the restroom for just a few minutes— and when I came back, he was gone.

The chair stood empty, pushed back slightly from the table, as if he’d risen in haste. His napkin lay crumpled beside his plate. His wine glass remained half full.

Maybe he felt unwell. Maybe something urgent came up. Maybe—

I should go to him. Check on him. Make sure he’s okay.

Before I can stand, the cushion beside me shifts.

Angel sits down—close enough that I can feel his warmth, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes mine.

He sets a glass of milk on the table. The soft clink of glass against wood cuts through the silence like a small bell. I flinch. I was so lost in my thoughts—so focused on the glowing screen in my hands— I didn’t hear him come in.

"Zyren."

His voice is soft. Careful.

"Are you okay?"

I look at him and force a smile, stretching my lips into something that might pass for reassuring.

"Yes. I’m fine."

My fingers tighten around the phone, my knuckles paling.

I want to go. I need to go.

But I promised Angel I would give him time. I promised myself I would make things right. So I stay. At least until he falls asleep. Then I can leave.

Angel watches me for a long moment. His golden eyes are steady. Unblinking. Reading something in my expression I’m trying to hide.

"You’re thinking about Deniz."

It isn’t a question.

I nod, my voice quiet—almost ashamed. "He’s never done this before. Leaving without telling me... He said he would stay." I pause, staring at the dark screen of my phone.

"I don’t know what happened."

Angel picks up the glass of milk and holds it out to me. The light catches its surface—the liquid pale, smooth, almost too still.

"Here," he says softly.

"You look weak."

I take it. The glass is warm in my hands, the heat seeping slowly through the ceramic.

Steam curls faintly into the cool air.

Angel’s voice is calm, measured—each word carefully placed. "Deniz received a message. After he read it, he said he had to leave."

A pause.

"He looked like he was in a hurry. Like someone had called him."

I blink, trying to process it.

A message. Someone called him. Who would call him? What could be so urgent?

But no matter what it was, Deniz wouldn’t just leave like that. He wouldn’t disappear without a word. He wouldn’t ignore my calls, leave my messages unanswered— vanish into the night like a ghost.

Angel pours himself a glass of wine—deep red, almost black in the dim light—and takes a slow sip. I watch him, a flicker of surprise crossing my face.

"Since when do you drink wine?" I ask. "I’ve never seen you drink before."

He swirls the glass lazily, his eyes fixed on the dark liquid as it turns, catching the light in brief crimson flashes.

"I’ve learned many things," he says quietly,

"while I was away."

I don’t answer.

I just watch him—trying to read the spaces between his words.

He looks at me then, and smiles. Small. Almost sad. A curve of lips that never quite reaches his eyes.

"You don’t know," he says softly.

"Is that so?" I murmur.

He nods once. I take another sip of the milk. It’s warm. Smooth. But something about it feels... off.

Angel doesn’t feel the same.

His smile isn’t soft anymore. His voice sounds different—flatter, distant, like it’s coming from somewhere far away. Maybe I’m overthinking. Maybe I’m just tired.

I take another sip, letting the liquid settle on my tongue.

"Angel..." My brow furrows. "Why does this milk taste... strange?"

He tilts his head, his golden eyes catching the light. "Really?"

I nod and set the glass down, the ceramic clinking softly against the wood. "Maybe it’s because of the pudding. The sweetness is still on my tongue... so the milk tastes different."

"Maybe," he says.

I lean back against the couch and close my eyes. The cushions give beneath me—soft, deep—my body sinking into them like something slowly pulled under.

Angel shifts closer. I feel the subtle dip of the couch beneath his weight. The warmth of him beside me.

And then— his scent. Sweet. Too sweet.

Like strawberries—stronger than before, clinging to the air around me, wrapping too tightly around my senses.

"Zyren." His voice is soft, almost a whisper, meant only for me.

"You know... I was really sad when you ignored me."

I keep my eyes closed.

My eyelids feel heavy, like something pressing them down, and the darkness behind them is warm... almost comforting.

"I’m sorry," I murmur, my words slow, thick on my tongue.

"If I hurt you. I didn’t mean to."

Fingers brush against my chest—light, almost hesitant. Barely there. Then they move upward. Slow. Deliberate. Tracing the line of my shirt buttons.

My eyes open. I catch his wrist. "What are you doing?"

His voice stays soft. Calm. Almost... gentle.

"I was just going to loosen your shirt," he says. A small pause. "You look uncomfortable."

I try to move—to put space between us, to sit up, to clear my head— but a sharp pain slices through my temples.

Sudden. Blinding.

The room tilts.

I press my fingers against my temple, trying to steady myself, trying to hold onto something solid— but nothing stays still.

Why is everything spinning?

Why am I so dizzy?