Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 141: You Need To Give Me Something In Return

His voice, when it cos, is ice.

"I have an offer for you."

I freeze.

Every muscle in my body goes still. The fight drains out of , replaced by sothing cold and wary.

An offer..?

I find my voice. It cos out rough, scraped raw by the day’s exhaustion.

"What kind of nonsense are you saying? Just leave alone." I push the words through clenched teeth.

"Or I’ll kick you out of this mansion. Out of this country. I don’t care anymore."

He doesn’t react. His face remains cold, carved from marble, those blue eyes fixed on with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

Then, slowly, he releases .

His hands fall away from my neck, my waist, and I’m free—scrambling off his lap so fast I almost fall. My feet find the floor, find solid ground, and I’m walking.

Walking toward the living room door, toward escape, toward anything that isn’t him and his burning eyes and his impossible questions.

I have nothing left. No energy. No fight.

If I stay here one more minute, I might actually kill him.

My hand closes around the door handle.

Cool tal. Solid. Freedom.

His voice cos from behind .

Quiet. asured. Deadly.

"It’s about your sweet Angel."

I stop.

My grip tightens on the handle. So tight the tal bites into my palm, leaving marks I won’t feel until later.

Slowly, I turn.

Moon is leaning forward on the couch, relaxed in that way that’s never really relaxed—the coiled stillness of a predator who knows he’s already won.

He pours wine into two glasses, the dark liquid catching the lamplight, shimring like liquid ruby. He lifts one to his lips and sips, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine.

With his other hand, he pats the space beside him.

"I’m sure you’ll like my offer."

I stand there, frozen. My mind is a warzone—one side screaming to leave, to run, to never look back. The other side whispering Angel’s na. Angel’s tears. Angel’s voice, broken and small, saying "Zyren, it’s all fake."

For Angel. For my family. I can do anything.

My hand loosens on the handle. Falls away.

I walk back to him.

I sit on the couch—as far from him as the furniture allows. A canyon of space between us. It doesn’t feel like enough.

"Don’t touch again," I say. My voice is flat. Empty.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t react. Just reaches for the second glass of wine and offers it to .

I stare at the glass. The dark liquid swirls gently, catching the light. It looks warm. Inviting. Dangerous.

I can’t drink. I’ve learned that lesson—two glasses and I lost an entire night.

Lost mories I’ll never get back. Lost control I’ll never reclaim.

But I take the glass. Just to hold it. Just to have sothing to do with my hands that isn’t trembling.

"Tell whatever your deal is."

The words co out heavy, dragged from sowhere deep.

"I’m already drained. I can’t play your gas tonight."

He leans back into the couch, sipping his wine lazily, comfortably, like a king surveying his kingdom.

His eyes never leave —sharp, knowing, cataloging every flicker of emotion on my face.

"I can erase every rumor," he says quietly. His voice is soft, almost gentle.

"Every hateful comnt. Every nasty post. In minutes."

A pause.

"No one will ever hate your Angel again."

I wait. Because I know there’s more. There’s always more with him.

"But..."

He draws the word out like silk, like honey, like poison.

"You need to give sothing in return."

Silence.

The word hangs between us, heavy with implication.

I stare at him.

Sothing in return.

What could he possibly want?

My voice cos out careful, asured—the voice of soone walking through a minefield.

"What do you want?"

A slow smile spreads across his lips. Not playful. Not warm. Sothing else entirely—sothing that makes my stomach tighten and my heart stutter.

"I’ll tell you later," he says.

"After I’ve removed all the rumors."

"Tell now." Frustration bleeds into my voice, hot and sharp.

"I’m not agreeing to sothing I don’t understand. I’m not that stupid."

He raises his hand. Palm out. Waiting.

"Deal," he says simply.

I look at his hand. Then back at his face. Then at his hand again.

What if he asks for sothing I can’t give? What if—

His eyebrows rise slightly. A slow smile flickers at the corner of his mouth—not cruel, not kind, just... knowing. He gestures with his hand, a small impatient motion.

Co on. Shake.

I reach out. My hand closes around his.

His palm is warm. Dry. Steady.

The shake is brief, businesslike, nothing more. But sothing passes between us in that mont—sothing I can’t na and don’t want to examine.

"Don’t ask for sothing I can’t give," I warn. My voice is quiet, but it carries.

His smile widens. Warms. Almost tender.

"Don’t worry."

His voice is soft, almost intimate.

"I’ll only ask for what you already have."

I pull my hand back. Stare at him.

What does that even an?

The question circles in my mind, unanswered, unwelco. But before I can speak, before I can demand clarification, he lifts his glass in a small toast.

"To deals," he murmurs.

"And to what cos next."

I don’t drink. I just watch him, this impossible man, and wonder what I’ve just agreed to.

🌸Bonus: (Deniz’s— POV)

The room is quiet. Dim.

Only the faint glow of the bedside lamp keeps the darkness from swallowing everything whole.

Deniz lies awake, staring at the ceiling.

The silence feels heavier tonight.

He exhales slowly.

"Is Zyren awake... or already asleep?" he murmurs to himself.

His hand reaches toward his phone on instinct — then stops.

No.

He shakes his head lightly against the pillow.

He must be exhausted.

After the scandal. After everything.

Deniz had seen it in his face earlier — the way his eyes dulled, the way his shoulders carried too much weight.

I shouldn’t disturb him.

He turns onto his side, the sheets rustling softly beneath him.

The other pillow is still there.

Zyren’s pillow.

Deniz leans closer and inhales.

Soft.

Sweet.

Peach blossom.

The scent wraps around him instantly — warm, familiar, addictive.

He pulls the pillow into his arms, holding it against his chest the way he wishes he could hold him instead.

"He slept here..."

Deniz whispers against the fabric, his voice low and almost shy in the quiet room.

"It still slls like you."

His fingers tighten slightly.

"I miss you."

The confession is barely audible. Just breath and truth.

He closes his eyes.

"I want to hold you forever," he murmurs, softer now. "Not let you go. Not even for a second."

The room doesn’t answer.

Only silence.

Only the faint scent of peach blossom.

Deniz presses his face into the pillow and finally lets himself drift.

"Good night, Zyren."