Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 89: A Bunny’s Deal..

The warmth of dinner sits comfortably in my stomach, a cozy contrast to the lingering memory of the cold street.

I’m curled on the couch, the ridiculous bunny hoodie still embracing me, the pink ears framing my vision. I reach up and touch one, a soft, wondering smile pulling at my lips.

He’s the only one here who sees me like this.

The thought isn’t embarrassing anymore.

It’s a secret.

A gift.

He really does like seeing me like this—soft, unguarded, his.

I’m lost in the silly, precious spiral of that thought when his voice pulls me back to the present.

"Here."

I flinch, looking up. Deniz stands beside the couch, holding a steaming mug. The scent that rises is earthy, herbal, sharp with ginger and something medicinal.

"It’ll help," he says, his voice gentle but firm.

"With the chills."

He sits beside me, leaving a careful, respectable few inches of cushion between us. A distance that feels like a canyon.

I take the mug, my fingers brushing his. The ceramic is almost too hot.

I stare into the steaming liquid, and the present blurs.

When I was little...

The kitchen is different—smaller, brighter. My mother is humming, holding a mug just like this.

"Neon, my love, come drink this."

"No, Mommy! It’s yucky!"

I’d run, giggling, and she’d always catch me, scooping me up, her laughter mixing with mine.

"Neon, my dear heart," she’d murmur into my hair, her voice a lullaby.

"If you don’t drink, you’ll catch cold. Be good for Mama."

"But I’m a strong boy!" I’d protest, even as I’d finally take a reluctant sip, scowling at the bitterness.

She’d smile, her eyes full of a love that felt like the sun.

"I know you are. But even strong boys need help sometimes."

Then the divorce.

The silence.

The empty kitchen.

No one to chase me.

No one to care if I was strong or shivering or sick. The memory is a ghost, bittersweet and cold.

"Zyren?" Deniz’s voice is a lifeline, dragging me back to his warm apartment, to his worried eyes.

"Are you okay?"

I blink, forcing the ghosts away. A soft, practiced smile finds my lips.

"I’m alright. You really didn’t need to go to all this trouble."

"You’re not alright," he states, no room for argument.

"Drink it. It’s my dad’s recipe. He always made it for me in the winter."

A father’s recipe.

I manage a smile and bring the mug to my nose, inhaling. My face instantly crumples.

I push the mug away like it’s offensive.

"Deniz, it smells... like bitter dirt."

"It’s not that bad. Drink it."

"No. I’m not drinking forest poison."

"It’s not poison."

He takes the mug and holds it steady.

"Just a little. It’s important. If you don’t, you’ll get sick."

My expression morphs into one of pure, unadulterated childish stubbornness.

It smells so bitter, how can the taste be anything but death?

I press my lips into a hard, flat line and look away.

"If I drink that, I’ll die. I can smell the death in it."

"Zyren..." His voice holds a thread of exasperation. He reaches out and takes my hand, his skin warm against mine.

"Drink. It."

I turn my head further, my nose in the air. "No."

He stares at me, and I can feel his gaze on my profile. He probably wants to toss me and my bunny ears back out into the snow.

"Zyren," he tries again, his voice dropping into a coaxing, patient tone that does strange things to my insides.

"Be a good boy. Drink it. It... actually tastes okay."

I risk a glance at him, full of suspicion. "You’re lying to me again. I know it’s bitter."

I cross my arms, the bunny ears flopping with the movement, and stare resolutely at the wall.

He sighs, a long, defeated sound.

"Please."

That word. Please.

I glance at him again. His eyes are downcast, his long lashes shadowing his cheeks.

He looks... sad. Disappointed. That look is a thousand times worse than any scolding.

I turn my whole body to face him. The game shifts. A new, dangerous idea sparks.

"If I drink it," I say, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.

"The whole mug. Will you do one thing for me?"

His eyes snap up to mine, wary. He studies my face for a long moment.

"...What thing?"

"I’ll tell you later."

He looks down, biting his lower lip in a gesture of such adorable confusion it takes all my willpower not to lean forward and kiss the worry away.

Finally, he gives a slow, hesitant nod.

"Promise?" I press, my heart beginning to race.

"Promise," he whispers.

A bright, victorious smile breaks across my face. I take the mug from his hands. I look at the dark liquid, my nemesis.

For him.

For this.

I take a sip.

My entire face contorts.

God. It’s worse than I imagined. It’s bitter, spicy, and medicinal all at once.

But I made a promise, and the reward is too sweet to forfeit. I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to swallow, gulp after agonizing gulp, until the mug is empty.

I slam it down on the coffee table with a gasp, shuddering.

Is this medicine or a biological weapon?

I look at Deniz, who is watching me with wide, astonished eyes. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, my smile returning, proud and blazing.

"See? All gone."

He blinks, seeming to process the feat. "Now," he says softly, cautiously.

"What’s your request?"

I lean back against the couch cushions, the soft bunny ears flopping. The smile that spreads across my lips now isn’t soft or shy.

It’s slow. Knowing.

Dangerous.

He looks at me, blinking innocently, completely unprepared.

"Tonight," I say, my voice a low, smooth ribbon in the quiet room.

"Don’t sleep on the floor." I let the words hang for a perfect, suspenseful beat.

"Sleep with me. In the bed. We can share."

His eyes widen, perfect circles of shock.

"Zyr— No. That’s not—"

I tilt my head. One bunny ear dips, brushing my cheek.

"You can’t step back from your words, Deniz." My voice is sweet, but the steel beneath is unmistakable.

"Remember? A promise is a promise."

"But that’s..."

"No ’buts’," I sing-song softly, mercilessly.

He looks down, his ears turning pink, completely and utterly trapped.

He struggles internally, his conflict written in the tense line of his shoulders. Finally, a soft, barely-there nod.

"...Okay."

Inside, my heart does a wild, jubilant somersault.

Woooo!

I’m going to sleep the whole night on his chest. The very thought feels like a blessing so profound it steals my breath.

Victory has never tasted so sweet. Or so herbal.