Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 160: Your Omega Is Truly Incredible.. Beautiful

The morning sunlight streams through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets. The room is warm, soft, filled with the kind of light that makes everything look dreamy and forgiving.

I stir slowly, my eyes fluttering open, blinking against the brightness. The ceiling cos into focus—familiar, ordinary.

I rub my eyes, wincing as my body protests the movent. A dull ache settles deep in my muscles, a pleasant soreness that whispers of last night’s activities.

The mories rush back in a flood—heat and touch and the way his hands felt on my skin, the sounds I made, the way I fell apart under him completely.

My cheeks ignite. I press my palms against them, feeling the burn, then drag them up to cover my entire face.

Oh god. Oh no.

That was so embarrassing. I rember everything. Every single detail.

I squeeze my eyes shut behind my hands, as if that could erase the images playing on repeat in my mind.

His touch. The heat between us. The way my voice sounded—breathy, desperate, nothing like an Alpha should sound.

Nothing like the composed, cold Zyren Kael the world knows.

I felt like a weak little Oga under him. Completely undone.

Helpless in the best way. My body just... surrendered.

I grab the blanket and pull it over my head, hiding from the morning light, from the mories, from myself.

The fabric slls like him—that clean, fresh red rose scent that follows into dreams.

I should have drunk that wine. At least then I’d have an excuse not to rember.

But no—I rember everything. How am I supposed to face him?

I lie there for a long mont, cocooned in fabric and embarrassnt, my heart still fluttering at the mories.

Then a thought breaks through.

Deniz.

I pull the blanket down and look beside .

Empty.

The space where he should be is cold. No warmth. No indentation in the pillow. Just empty sheets and the fading scent of red rose.

My face changes instantly. The warmth drains away, replaced by sothing cold and sharp. I sit up so fast my head spins.

"Deniz?"

Silence.

I look around the room—empty. The bathroom door is open, dark inside. No sounds of running water. No movent.

My body goes still. My hands turn cold. My feet, bare against the sheets, feel like ice.

Neon. Calm down. Why are you panicking? This is ridiculous. He’s probably in the kitchen. Making breakfast. Getting coffee.

He wouldn’t just... he’s not going to leave you. He wouldn’t.

I try to force a smile, try to convince myself, but my lips won’t cooperate. The fear is irrational, I know it is. But it sits in my chest anyway, heavy and cold, whispering things I don’t want to hear.

I throw off the covers and scramble out of bed. My pink nightshirt—the one he loves, the one I blushed over last night—lies crumpled on the floor.

I grab it and pull it on as I stumble toward the door, my fingers fumbling with the buttons, missing holes, cursing under my breath.

"Deniz!"

Silence.

I stumble into the hallway, my bare feet cold against the wood.

I glance at the open kitchen as I pass. Empty. Spotless. No signs of breakfast being made.

My heart hamrs against my ribs, a wild, desperate rhythm. I round the corner into the living room and stop dead.

"Deniz.."

He’s there.

Deniz sits on the couch, his back partially to . Relief floods through so quickly I almost stagger.

But he’s not alone.

A man sits beside him on the couch.

I take him in quickly—brown-blonde hair, soft eyes, smooth skin. He’s dressed professionally, like soone who spends their life in classrooms or offices. His posture is relaxed, comfortable, like he belongs here.

From the soft features, he almost looks like an oga.

I recognize him. I saw his face once in a photo—Deniz in his high school uniform, standing beside this man.

His teacher.

The man’s eyes land on . His expression shifts—surprise, then sothing else. Sothing that makes my skin crawl. His gaze travels slowly down my body, taking in every detail.

I’m standing in nothing but a silk nightshirt. Barefoot. My legs completely exposed from mid-thigh down.

The shirt is wrinkled, hastily buttoned, gaping in places. My hair is a ss, silver strands tangled from sleep and other activities.

And sothing warm and slick is sliding slowly down my inner thighs, dripping onto the floor.

My face floods with heat so intense I can feel it in my ears, my neck, my chest.

Deniz turns at the sound of my voice. His dark eyes find , and I watch them widen—not with embarrassnt for , but with sothing else. Sothing protective and fierce.

He takes in the scene in an instant—, half-dressed, clearly just woken, with evidence of last night still on my skin.

He moves faster than I’ve ever seen him move.

In seconds, he’s crossed the room, grabbed a soft shawl from the other couch, and wrapped it around .

His movents are gentle but firm, pulling the fabric closed, covering completely, hiding from that watching gaze. His hands adjust the shawl, making sure I’m fully covered, safe.

"Zyren."

His voice is low, controlled, ant only for .

"Why did you co out like this?"

I look up at him, my voice small, embarrassed, still shaking from the irrational fear of finding him gone.

"I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had a guest. When I woke up and you weren’t there, I just—I..."

His hands cup my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. His dark eyes search mine, and I watch the worry flicker across his features—worry for , not anger.

He understands. He always understands.

Behind us, the man rises from the couch. His movents are unhurried, deliberate, like soone who knows he’s being watched and wants to make an impression.

A soft smile plays on his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes are calculating, assessing.

"Deniz."

His voice is smooth, polished, the voice of soone used to being listened to.

"Aren’t you going to introduce to your partner?"

Deniz turns to look at him. I feel the shift imdiately—the way his body tenses, the way his warmth seems to withdraw slightly. When he speaks, his voice is different.

Cold. Flat. Nothing like the warmth he just showed .

"If you’re done here, you can leave."

The man’s smile doesn’t waver. If anything, it deepens slightly, as if Deniz’s response is exactly what he expected.

He retrieves his coat from the couch with slow, deliberate movents and walks to the door. Each step is asured, controlled, a performance.

He pauses with his hand on the handle. Looks back.

"Deniz."

That smile again—polished, professional, utterly wrong.

"Your oga is truly incredible. Beautiful."

His eyes flick to one last ti—a long, slow look before —he steps out.

The door closes behind him with a soft click that echoes in the sudden silence.

I stare at the closed door, confusion swirling in my chest like storm clouds. The man’s words echo in my mind, wrong in ways I can’t quite articulate.

Deniz’s face is unreadable. Cold in a way I’ve never seen. His jaw is tight, his shoulders rigid.

He’s Deniz’s teacher.

So why was he so rude to him?