Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 221: Waking Up From A Dream

My eyes open slowly.

Not the way they usually do—quick and sharp, ready for the day. This is different. It feels like surfacing from deep water, from a place where there was no light, no sound, no ti.

My eyelids are heavy, weighed down by sothing that isn’t sleep. Sothing deeper. Like the aftermath of a long, dreamless void— where my body existed, but my soul didn’t.

Everything around is white.

Soft. Glowing.

Not the kind that hurts the eyes, but the kind that settles over everything, quiet and gentle. A warm, golden light lingers at the edges of my vision, diffused and distant. It brushes against my skin—soft, almost forgiving.

Is this heaven?

Did I finally die?

The thought doesn’t frighten .

It feels... peaceful. Like relief.

I blink, struggling to focus, to pull the world into shape. The brightness softens. Forms begin to erge.

An expensive ceiling. Polished.

Gilded moldings curl along the edges, ornate but familiar. A crystal chandelier hangs above, catching the morning light and scattering it into faint, shifting colors.

Heavy curtains filter the sunlight into sothing soft.

Zyren’s room. I’m in Zyren’s room.

I’m not dead.

My body feels strange—distant, like it belongs to soone else, like I’m wearing sothing that doesn’t quite fit.

Numb. Heavy.

As if I’ve been asleep for far too long, and my limbs have forgotten how to respond. There’s a dull weight in my muscles, a sluggishness in my bones—closer to waking from anesthesia than from sleep.

I try to move. Nothing happens. Not because I’m restrained. Not because I’m held down. My body just... won’t listen.

It’s caught sowhere between sleep and waking, suspended in a place I can’t quite reach.

My fingers twitch against the sheets. My toes curl, then fall still. Small, uncertain movents—testing what still belongs to .

Then I realize—

I’m bare.

The sheets are soft against my skin—cool, smooth. There’s nothing between and the fabric. Not a single layer.

What the hell?

A flicker of panic cuts through the fog. I try to sit up—to understand—

Sothing shifts behind . Warm. A body. A hand rests on my waist, fingers curved around my hip, holding firmly in place. Not painful. Just... certain.

I can feel the chest behind . Solid. Close. Warm breath brushes against the back of my neck—slow, steady.

My heart starts to race, pounding hard against my ribs.

Why am I naked?

Who is behind ?

Didn’t I...

Wasn’t I dying?

The mories co in fragnts—shattered pieces I can’t put back together.

The apartnt. Deniz’s cold voice. Bryan’s cruel smile. The hallway. The darkness. The ground rushing up to et .

Then—nothing.

I reach for the hand on my waist, my fingers weak, trembling, barely able to close around his wrist. I try to push it away—to create distance, to break free from a touch I don’t understand.

The grip tightens. Not painful. Not cruel. Just... certain. It pulls closer, pressing my back against a bare chest, erasing the last trace of space between us.

I feel his heartbeat against my spine. Steady. Slow. Unhurried.

Lips brush against my neck—soft, warm, almost reverent.

"Finally awake."

Moon.

The voice is unmistakable. Even through the fog, through the confusion—I would know it anywhere.

My voice cos out weak, barely a whisper. My lips are dry, sticking together when I try to speak.

"Moon..."

"Mm." I feel him smile against my neck, the curve of his lips warm against my skin. A soft hum vibrates through him—into .

"Yes, my love."

My love.

The words settle sowhere in my chest—heavy, unfamiliar. Like sothing dropped into still water. The ripples spread quietly, disturbing everything.

I try to turn—to face him, to see his expression, to demand an explanation— Pain cuts through .

Sharp. Sudden. Low and deep, spreading outward like fire under my skin.

My body goes still. My breath catches. The fog in my mind clears just enough— just enough for understanding to settle in.

Sothing is wrong.

No—

Sothing is there.

"Moon." My voice sharpens, cutting through the haze, through the confusion, through the strange warmth spreading through my chest.

"You bastard. Take it out."

He laughs.

Low. Warm. Utterly unbothered by my anger, my panic, my sha. The sound vibrates against my back, through his chest, into my skin.

His hand slides down my belly—slowly, deliberately, palm flat against the soft skin just below my navel. He rubs in slow circles, almost soothing, almost tender.

"Finally," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear, "you can feel it."

I grab his hand, my fingers digging into his skin, weak but determined. "If you don’t want to die, take it out. Now. You lunatic."

He laughs again—soft and amused, as if I’ve said sothing charming, sothing endearing, sothing that makes him love more. Then he moves.

Slowly. Carefully. Separating from with a tenderness that feels almost mocking, almost cruel in its gentleness. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t pull away harshly. He slides out of like he has all the ti in the world, like he wants to savor every mont of contact.

I press my lips into a thin line, teeth grinding together, the pain sharp and unforgiving. My whole body aches beneath the sheets—sore in places I didn’t know could feel pain, tender in ways I don’t want to think about.

He shifts, leaning over .

His hands plant on either side of my head, caging in—his arms forming a barrier between and everything else.

His blue eyes lock onto mine. Bright. Clear. That sa teasing glint I know too well—the one that says he’s always one step ahead, always seeing more than he lets on.

His chest is bare, golden in the morning light, muscles shifting as he holds himself above . His hair is ssy, blue waves falling across his forehead, tangled from sleep—or from other activities I don’t want to think about.

And he’s smiling.

That infuriating, familiar smile. The one that made want to punch him the first ti we t.

I stare at him.

Why am I alive?

I was supposed to die.

I was ready to.

In that dark hallway, with the world spinning and my heart coming apart piece by piece, I closed my eyes and wished—hoped—they wouldn’t open again.

But they did.

And now I’m here.

In this bed.

Naked.

With this ridiculous, impossible Alpha looming over like he has every right to be here.

"Good morning," he says softly.

Before I can respond—before I can gather the anger or confusion twisting in my chest—he leans down and presses a kiss to my lips.

It’s gentle. Lingering.

A quiet pressure against my dry mouth, like he’s trying to breathe life back into . He pulls back just enough to look at , his eyes searching mine.

"After sleeping for three days," he murmurs, "you’re finally awake."

My eyes widen. The words take a mont to settle—slow, heavy, unreal.

"Three... days?"

He nods, his smile softening into sothing almost tender. "Your first heat... it’s finally over."

First heat... over?

Deniz’s cold voice echoes in my head. I was never interested in you. From the beginning, you were the one who always clung to .

The dark hallway. That desperate, aching wish—that I would never wake up again.

Then how...?

"How did I end up here?" My voice is barely a whisper, fragile as glass. "Am I dreaming?"

He leans down again and kisses —soft, quick, a fleeting warmth against my lips. "You’re finally awake," he whispers. "From the dream."

A pause.

"This is reality, Zyren."

I look at him.

His blue eyes hold mine—steady, certain. His body is warm against , his breathing slow and even, grounding in a way that feels too real.

Reality.

Waking up from a dream.

I don’t know what’s real anymore.