Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 127: Because I Like Your Scent...

Moon walks toward me.

Not fast. Not slow. Something in between—a predator’s pace, unhurried because he knows there’s nowhere for me to run.

His blue eyes never leave mine. Not once.

My heart hammers against my ribs. I can feel it in my throat, my temples, the trembling tips of my fingers pressed flat against my desk.

Calm. Act calm.

Don’t let him see. Don’t let him know.

I slam my palms on the desk. The sound cracks through the enormous office like a gunshot, desperate and loud.

"Why did you lock the door?!"

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. He just keeps walking.

He stops on the other side of my desk. His hands rest on the polished wood—fingers spread wide, claiming territory, marking space.

Then he leans forward. The desk is between us, inches of oak and history, but it feels like nothing. A suggestion of a barrier. A lie.

Our eyes lock.

A slow, deliberate smirk curves his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

"Why... are you scared?"

I glare, pouring every ounce of defiance into my voice.

"Why would I be scared of you?"

His smirk widens. It’s not a kind expression. It’s the smile of someone who knows something you don’t.

"Your cheeks are red."

I touch my face before I can stop myself. They’re burning. Flaming. Traitors to every pretense of calm. I look away, but the heat only spreads—down my neck, across my chest.

"And I can hear your heart racing."

His voice drops, a velvet murmur that slides under my skin.

"Like an innocent, flustered little Omega."

My head snaps back. The words are a slap, a challenge, an accusation.

"Moon." My voice shakes, just slightly.

"You’re crossing a line."

The smirk fades. Vanishes. His eyes darken, deepen, become something I can’t look away from. He leans closer still, his face inches from mine, his voice dropping to something cold and quiet and hungry.

"I haven’t crossed it yet."

A pause that stretches, thin as wire, sharp as a blade.

"But I want to."

I stare at him. The words hang in the air between us, heavy with meaning I don’t want to understand, can’t afford to understand.

What is he saying?

What does he want from me?

I push back from the desk. The motion is sharp, sudden, desperate.

I need space. I need air. I need him to stop looking at me like that.

"Leave."

"I’m not going anywhere."

I meet his eyes again, forcing steel into my spine.

"Then what do you want from me?"

He tilts his head. A predator considering prey. Weighing options. Deciding how to strike.

"Are you sure," he murmurs, "you’re ready for what I want?"

My cheeks burn hotter. The question circles in my mind, unwanted, confusing, dangerous.

What does that mean?

What is he asking?

"If you’re not leaving, then I’ll—"

"Last night." His voice shifts. Softens. Something almost vulnerable flickers behind his eyes.

"I couldn’t sleep. Not at all."

I blink. The sudden change throws me, disorients me.

"And now," he continues, "I’m sleepy."

I stare at him. Processing. Trying to find the thread that connects this moment to the one before.

Sleepy?

"I want to rest. In your inner suite. For a while."

I keep staring.

The locked door. The intense gaze. The ominous questions. The territorial pacing.

All of it... for permission to nap?

The absurdity crashes over me in a wave.

I exhale, long and slow, dragging a hand through my hair.

"Moon Arden. Are you sure you’re human? You could have just asked. Why the melodrama? Why the locked doors? Why the—"

He moves.

Around the desk. Fast. Quiet. Before I can finish, before I can step back, before I can breathe.

His hand closes around my wrist. Not harsh. Not painful. But firm. Unbreakable.

His fingers circle my skin like a brand.

His face is inches from mine. Close enough that I can see the flecks of darker blue in his irises. Close enough that his breath ghosts across my lips.

"Who told you," he murmurs, his voice a low vibration that I feel in my chest, "that I’m asking for permission?"

My eyes widen. My heart stops, then lurches forward at twice the speed.

He pulls. Not hard, not violent—but undeniable, inescapable.

He leads me toward the inner suite door, my feet stumbling to keep up, my wrist trapped in his grip.

"Wait—why are you dragging me?!"

He doesn’t answer. His back is to me, broad and unyielding, his grip never loosening.

He pushes the door open. Warm, dim light spills out, the quiet sanctuary of the inner suite beyond.

He pulls me inside.

The door clicks shut behind us.

The inner suite wraps around us like a held breath—warm, dim, impossibly quiet after the chaos of the office.

The curtains are drawn, softening the winter light to a golden haze that settles on every surface like dust.

Moon’s hand is still locked around my wrist.

With his other hand, he works at the buttons of his shirt—top one, second one—exposing the hollow of his throat, the sharp line of his collarbone.

I tug against his hold. Useless. His fingers don’t even flex.

"Moon." My voice comes out raw, scraped thin by something I don’t want to name.

"Let go."

He turns to me fully. Finally. His blue eyes meet mine, and there’s no mockery there now. No smirk. Just a quiet, exhausted certainty that makes my stomach drop.

"Stop arguing," he says. Not harsh. Just... tired.

"Let’s sleep."

I stare at him. The absurdity of it crashes over me in waves.

"First I was confused, but now I’m sure." My voice rises.

"You’ve lost your mind."

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Just looks at me with those impossible eyes, steady as a blade pressed to skin.

"Yes." The word is calm. Flat.

"I lost it when you started ignoring me."

I stop struggling. My wrist goes limp in his grip.

He steps closer. Not crowding—just closing the space I’ve been trying to keep between us.

His presence fills the air, his scent—that amber wood—wrapping around me like something physical.

"Just one hour." His voice drops, soft now. Almost gentle.

"Stay with me for one hour. Then you can go."

I search his face for the trap, the joke, the cruel punchline. I find nothing. Just exhaustion. Just honesty. Just Moon, stripped of his armor, asking for something I don’t understand.

"Why would I—"

"Because I like your scent."