Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 93: My Favorite Place In Any World

I lay back against the pillows, a fresh, soft hoodie (a plain one this ti) warming my skin. The cool, clinical tip of a thermoter rests under my tongue.

Deniz leans over , his brow furrowed in concentration as he peels the backing from a cold patch.

His touch is a whisper against my temple—careful, gentle, as if applying a bandage to sothing far more fragile than skin.

"Now, let’s check your temperature," he murmurs, his voice a low, steady hum in the quiet room.

I stare up at him, my expression deliberately sculpted into that of a petulant, fever-flushed child.

My cheeks are warm, and not just from the illness. He carefully extracts the thermoter from my mouth.

"I’m fine," I protest, the words coming out thick.

"Don’t need all this..."

He ignores , squinting at the slender glass strip. "Nope. It’s lower, but not low enough. You need rest."

He turns, already moving toward the door.

"I’ll make you so warm soup."

"Don’t go."

My hand shoots out, fingers closing around his wrist. He flinches at the suddenness of the touch, looking back at , startled.

I let my lower lip jut out in a perfectly practiced, dramatic pout.

"Don’t go anywhere. Please. Stay with ." I blink, layering on a sheen of innocent, needy vulnerability.

He looks genuinely confused.

"Aren’t you hungry?"

I shake my head quickly, my silver hair fanning out.

"Nope. Just stay. With ."

"Zyre..."

"Please."

A long, weary sigh escapes him—the sound of a man whose defenses are crumbling under a sustained, fluffy-haired assault.

He sinks back down onto the edge of the bed. "Okay. I’ll stay. Until you fall asleep." His wrist remains in my grasp, a captive connection.

"You sat in a cold bathtub because of ," I remind him, my voice softening with a real thread of guilt.

"You need rest, too." I shift over, making a deliberate space beside .

"Let’s share the bed."

"No, I’m okay." He glances at the clock. "I should go see Dad at the hospital before it gets late."

"You still have ti," I insist, my grip on his hand tightening just enough to be an anchor.

"Rest."

"No, Zyren, I really—"

"Please."

I give his arm a small, insistent tug, putting my whole soul into the single, pleading word.

He finally, beautifully, surrenders. With a defeated exhale, he lays down beside , leaving a careful, polite foot of space between us.

He imdiately reaches for a pillow—that traitorous, fluffy barrier—to reinforce the border.

I am faster. I snatch the pillow, my greatest enemy, and hurl it off the bed in one fluid, rebellious motion.

"Zyren!"

I don’t hesitate. I close the distance, wriggling until my head finds its rightful place: the solid, reassuring plane of his chest. I let out a contented sigh.

"Shh. Don’t disturb . I’m a patient."

His entire body goes rigid. His eyes are wide, his cheeks flushing a delicious, warm pink.

"Zyren, you can’t—"

"Just sleep," I murmur, snaking one leg over his to tangle us further. I yank the blanket up, creating a shared cocoon that covers us both.

He is utterly trapped. A soft, victorious smile touches my lips.

My favorite place in any world.

He stays silent, but I can feel it—the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart beneath my ear. It’s a wild, beautiful drumbeat of flustered panic.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

A teasing smile curls against the fabric of his shirt.

"Deniz," I whisper, snuggling closer, if that’s even possible.

"Are you okay?"

He tries a weak, half-hearted push.

"I... I’m... Zyren, please, just stay still..."

I cut him off smoothly, my voice a purr.

"I know. You’re feeling relaxed."

"No, I’m n—"

I push myself up on one elbow, breaking the contact just enough to look down at him. Our eyes lock.

He’s looking up at , his face a breathtaking canvas of shy shock, his blush deepening to crimson.

The playfulness in my own gaze lts away, replaced by sothing softer, truer.

"Deniz," I say, my voice dropping, losing its teasing edge.

"When are you coming back to the office?"

He blinks, thrown by the sudden, serious shift.

"My... my days off still have ti left..."

I hold his gaze, letting the genuine sadness I feel show in my eyes. It’s not an act.

"Without you," I confess, the words quiet but clear, "I don’t like anything. The office. The work. Everything feels wrong every day. Please co back."

He looks away, his throat working.

"But my father..."

I gently take his chin, guiding his face back to mine. "During your work hours, you can visit Mr. David whenever you need to. And you..."

My thumb strokes his jawline. "You need to be there."

"Please," he whispers, a plea in his own right.

"No ’please’," I say, but my tone is gentle.

"Tomorrow."

"But—"

"No ’buts’." I let a flicker of my CEO persona, of Zyren, slip through.

"I’m your boss."

A weak, flustered protest.

"But we’re not in the company right now!"

I huff, the CEO mask falling away into pure, spoiled petulance. I let go of his chin and flop back down onto his chest, my arms winding around him in a possessive, octopus-like squeeze.

"I don’t know! Tomorrow. Just co back to work." I give him a little squeeze for emphasis.

He lets out a choked, nervous sound.

"O-okay! But please, don’t do th—"

"Let’s sleep," I cut him off gently, nestling my face back into the hollow of his throat.

A final, utterly triumphant, and deeply teasing smile curves against his skin.

The war is won. The pillow barricade is destroyed. The distance is annihilated. And my stubborn, beautiful, flustered secretary will be back at his desk tomorrow.

All is right in my captured, cozy world.

Deniz and I are a tangled island of peace. His breath is a soft, steady tide against my hair, my head a familiar weight on his chest.

The world has shrunk to the warm darkness behind my eyelids, the feel of his heartbeat, the scent of him—rose and sleep and safety.

Then—a shard of noise.

BRRRNNNGGG!

My eyes fly open. Adrenaline, cold and imdiate, floods my veins.

On the bedside table, my phone is a vibrating, shrieking beacon of intrusion.

Beside , Deniz stirs. A soft, sleepy murmur escapes his lips, his body tensing as the noise claws at the edges of his rest.

No.

My hand shoots out, fumbling, desperate. I snatch the phone, my thumb jabbing at the side button until the awful sound cuts off.

God, it was so loud.

The silence that follows is fragile, ringing. I hold my breath, watching Deniz’s face. His eyelashes flutter, but he sinks back into the pillow, his breathing beginning to even out again.

Good. Stay asleep.

But the phone isn’t done. It lights up again, vibrating with a muted but insistent fury against my palm. I glance at the screen.

MOON.

My blood runs a degree colder.

Why is he calling? Now?

Of all tis?

I reject the call, my thumb a weapon.

The screen dims. I unlock it, scrolling through the notifications.

My stomach tightens.

Missed Call: Moon (14)

Missed Call: Moon (15)

Missed Call: Moon (16)

A relentless, obsessive bombardnt.

What does he want?

A claw of dread scrapes down my spine. This isn’t a social call. This is a hunt.

Before I can even process the icy fear, the screen erupts again.

A different na this ti, but no less dangerous.

ANGEL.

My thumb hovers. If it’s Angel, maybe it’s important.

I swipe to answer, bringing the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

The voice that cos through is not Angel’s soft, lodic tenor. It’s lower. Smoother.

Laced with a predatory, velvet warmth that I know all too well.

"Finally," the voice purrs, a smile audible in every syllable.

"You picked up."

My eyes widen, my free hand curling into a fist in the blanket.

Moon.