Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother novel Chapter 106

Chapter 106: Chapter 106

Elara’s POV

The sergeant’s voice scraped across the silence like a blade on stone.

"Elara."

Just my name. No title. No surname. Spoken the way a butcher names the next animal on the hook.

The two guards behind him moved before I could draw a full breath. Hands locked around my upper arms. Iron fingers digging into bruised flesh. They hauled me to my feet so fast the cell tilted sideways.

My legs buckled. Without Moonlight’s strength feeding my muscles, my body was just a broken thing running on fear and adrenaline. The guards didn’t care. They dragged me forward, my boots scraping across the wet flagstones.

Cold metal snapped around my wrists. Shackles. Heavy ones. The edges bit into the raw skin where ropes had already torn me open, and I hissed through my teeth.

"Walk," the sergeant ordered.

I didn’t walk. I was dragged.

Through the heavy iron door. Into a corridor that stretched in both directions, lit by rusted iron lanterns hung along the low ceiling. The firelight was the color of infection—yellowed, flickering, casting shadows that jumped and shrank. The air was worse here. Thicker. Copper and rot and something alchemical underneath it all, something that stung the inside of my nose.

We passed more cells. Through narrow gaps beneath doors, I caught glimpses. Eyes staring out from the dark. Hollow faces. One cell was completely silent. The smell leaking from beneath its door told me why.

A boot slammed into my lower back.

I pitched forward, my knees cracking against the stone. Pain exploded up through my thighs, my spine. The shackles wrenched my wrists as the chain caught my weight.

"Faster," the shorter guard muttered behind me.

I forced myself upright. One step. Another. My blood vessels burned with the residual poison—every heartbeat pushing that vile holy water deeper into tissue, deeper into memory, deeper into the empty space where Moonlight should have been.

I’m still here. I’m still breathing.

That was all I had left to hold onto.

The corridor ended at a wider door. Reinforced. Bolted with several separate locks. The sergeant produced a ring of keys and worked through them with mechanical efficiency.

The door swung inward.

The room beyond was larger than the cells. But "room" was generous. It was a slaughterhouse dressed up as a throne room. Chains hung from ceiling beams—thick chains, the links dark with old rust and older stains. The floor was stone here, and the grooves between the slabs were black. The walls bore scratch marks. Fingernail height.

Someone had tried to claw their way out of this place.

And there, waiting for me—

Isolde stood to the left, one hip cocked against a wooden table cluttered with instruments I refused to look at too closely. Black leather pants. A red silk blouse that probably cost more than most families earned in a season. The fabric was cut low across her collarbones, and I could see them—faint blue-green bruises ringing her throat like a necklace. My handiwork. From before they’d broken me down with poison.

Good. I hoped they hurt.

And at the center, seated on a grotesque throne welded together from scrap metal and draped in animal hides, sat a man who made the room feel small.

Marak.

I’d heard his name whispered in the cell. The Rogue King. He was massive. Shoulders like a mountain ridge. Arms thick as tree trunks, crossed over a barrel chest. His face was a map of violence—scars layered over scars, one slicing through his left eyebrow and pulling the skin into a permanent half-squint. His eyes were pale. Almost colorless. The eyes of something that hunted in the dark and enjoyed it.

The guards shoved me to the ground. My knees hit stone. The impact sent a jolt of white-hot pain through my already screaming body.

I stayed down for exactly one breath. Then I lifted my chin.

"Dear sister." I let the words drip with sweetness, masking the powerlessness of being cut off from Moonlight. "Love what you’ve done with the place. Very cozy."

Isolde’s lips curved. Not a smile. A blade in flesh form.

"Ela." She pushed off the table, her heels clicking against the stone as she crossed toward me. "Still running that mouth. Even now." She crouched, bringing her face level with mine. Her perfume was thick and floral, obscene against the stench of the room. "I always admired that about you. The sheer stupidity of it."

"And I always admired your neck," I said, staring at the bruises. "Looks better in purple."

Her hand moved fast. The slap cracked across my cheekbone, snapping my head sideways. Stars burst behind my eyes.

Marak laughed. A low, rumbling sound, like rocks grinding together deep underground.

"She has teeth," he said. His voice was deep. Unhurried. The voice of a man who had never once needed to raise it to be obeyed. "I can see why he chose her."

He meant Kaelen.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify