Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 97: A Worried, Angry Angel

My eyes open to the world in stages. First, a blur of intricate plasterwork—the luxurious ceiling of the bedroom.

A soft, pained sound escapes my lips.

Ahhh...

I lie still, blinking slowly, trying to coax the world into focus. My body feels like it’s been drained of all its substance, leaving only a heavy, aching weakness behind.

I stare upward, blinking at the gilded cherubs and swirling patterns, as if the answers might be written there.

Then, a voice. Gentle, saturated with worry.

"Zyren? How are you feeling?"

I turn my head on the pillow. Angel is sitting in a chair pulled close to the bed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

His beautiful face is a canvas of pure, unguarded anxiety.

I just blink at him for a long mont, my mind still drifting in the fog between sleep and the mory of strong arms catching my fall.

Moon’s arms.

"Zyren?"

Angel prompts again, leaning forward.

I blink again, the silence finally breaking.

"Angel..."

"Are you okay?" His voice is barely a whisper.

I nod weakly. "Yes. I’m... I’m okay."

I try to sit up, but my arms tremble. Angel is there instantly, his hands gentle but firm as he helps , fluffing pillows and arranging them behind .

His care is so natural, so ingrained.

"Do you need water?" he asks, already reaching for the carafe.

"No. I’m alright."

He sits back down, but he doesn’t relax. His expression is uncharacteristically serious, his usually soft eyes sharp with concern.

"The doctor was here," he says, his voice low.

"You have a very high fever. He was... quite firm about bed rest."

I offer a weak, conciliatory smile. "I’m fine now, really."

Angel doesn’t return the smile. His gaze holds mine, unwavering. "Zyren," he begins, and his tone shifts.

It’s not just worried now; it’s probing.

"Last night... where were you?"

My faint smile vanishes. I blink.

A sudden question.

"What... what do you an?"

"I know you," he says softly, his eyes locking onto mine with an almost painful intensity.

"I know how much you love the snow fall."

He pauses, letting the implication hang in the air between us.

"I have a suspicion you were out playing in it. Weren’t you?"

I blink, summoning every ounce of wide-eyed innocence I possess.

Playing in the snow?

A weak, genuine laugh bubbles out of . It sounds pathetic even to my own ears.

"Angel, I’m grown up. Why would I go play in the snow?"

His face doesn’t soften. The worry hardens into sothing stricter, more maternal.

"Then how did you get so sick, so suddenly? This isn’t a normal fever."

His voice drops, fraught with imagined horrors.

"What if sothing had happ—"

I don’t let him finish. I reach out, my hands still too warm, and cup his face between my palms. His skin is cool, so soft. I offer him my softest, most reassuring smile.

"My dear, worried Angel. I’m okay now. Really. No need to worry. I’m not a kid anymore."

He looks at , his beautiful eyes searching mine, and says slowly, with utter conviction,

"You are."

My smile widens, touched.

"How am I?"

He looks away, a faint, worried pout touching his lips. "If you were truly grown up, you wouldn’t have ended up with a fever like this. Not exactly when the first snow started."

He looks back at , his gaze firm—accusing.

"I know you played in the snow."

After saying it, he looks away again, lips pressed tight.

I stare at him. He looks so unbearably adorable like this—pouty, stern, overflowing with a care so deep it manifests as frustration.

A worried, angry angel.

My voice gentles further.

"Angel. Look at ."

He slowly ets my eyes again.

"I’m sorry," I whisper.

He blinks, confused. "Why... why are you apologizing?"

I keep my smile soft, and I give him the truth. It feels like the only gift I have to offer.

"Last night... I was walking in the snow with a friend. I slipped. I fell. It was... an accident."

Angel’s eyes fly wide open. "Zyren!" The word is a gasp of horror.

"How could you be so careless? My suspicion was right!"

My hands fall from his face as he pulls back, and I watch, transfixed, as his worry morphs into full-blown, scolding anger.

I thought his anger would vanish once he heard the truth.

Instead, it’s getting worse.

"How could you go out without security? Without the driver?" he continues, his voice rising.

"You’re such a child!"

My smile finally dies. I look down at my hands, twisting in the silk blanket, the picture of a properly chastised little kid.

I shouldn’t have told him the truth, I berate myself. I should have just lied.

My fists clench the fabric tightly.

Angel watches for a long mont. Then, he takes a deep, shuddering breath, mastering his fear. He reaches out and gently takes my clenched hands in his, his touch infinitely tender now.

"Zyren."

I look up, my eyes probably as wide and woeful as I can make them.

"You don’t know," he says, his voice thick with emotion.

"When you’re sick... it makes sick with worry. It feels like everything in the world is wrong. Please... just don’t be careless with your health. Not when I..."

He trails off, but the aning hangs, clear and precious, between us.

I blink, the innocent act lting into real, soft gratitude.

He’s so worried about . I shouldn’t make him worry.

I slowly nod. "I won’t. I won’t do anything like that again."

"Promise?"

I nod again, a solemn, childlike bob of my head.

"I promise."

A soft, relieved smile finally touches his lips. "Good boy."

I manage a small, answering smile. Before I can say anything else, however, a traitorous, loud GGRRROOOWWWLLL erupts from my stomach.

The sound is absurdly loud in the quiet room.

My eyes widen in sheer mortification. Angel freezes for a second, then his smile returns, warr this ti, touched with amusent.

"I’ll prepare sothing healthy for you," he says, standing.

I can only look away, my cheeks burning, and give a tiny, shy nod.

He pats my head lightly, the gesture so familiar it aches.

"Rest. I’ll bring your al."

I look up at him as he turns to go, and I give him one last, small, genuine smile—a silent thank you for the scolding, for the worry, for simply being my Angel.

I lie back, eyes drifting to the ceiling once more.

My mind isn’t on Angel now—it’s tangled in Moon, in the way he moved, the strange weight behind his questions, the brush of his hands.

I raise a trembling finger, tracing the spot on my ear where his lips had been, where his teeth had nipped, where his tongue had lingered.

A shiver runs down .

Why... why did he do that?