Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother novel Chapter 138

Chapter 138: Chapter 138

Elara’s POV

The Morrison farmhouse appeared through the trees like something from a half-remembered dream.

White stone walls. Forest-green shutters. A chimney trailing woodsmoke into the pewter sky. The gravel drive crunched under the wheels of the hired cart as Finnian guided the horse to a stop.

"Fair warning," he said, setting the brake. "My mother cooks like she’s feeding an entire knight squadron. She’ll have a plate in front of you before you get your boots off."

I tried to smile. It didn’t quite land.

The front door flew open before we reached the porch steps. Margaret Morrison came barreling out in a flour-dusted apron, her grey hair escaping from a lopsided bun, and seized me in a hug so tight my ribs creaked.

"Look at you." She pulled back, hands gripping my shoulders, eyes sweeping over me with maternal horror. "Skin and bones. Absolute skin and bones. Finnian, why didn’t you tell me? I would have sent a pie."

"Ma, I didn’t know she was coming—"

"Inside. Now. Both of you. There’s roast on the table and I won’t hear a single argument."

She steered me through the doorway with an arm locked around my waist as if I might blow away in the breeze. The house smelled like home—roasted meat, root vegetables, lemon polish on old wood. Everything was exactly as I remembered from past visits. The same knitted throw on the armchair. The same crooked landscape painting above the mantel.

Robert Morrison rose from his seat by the fire and offered me a warm, calloused handshake. His eyes were kind. Observant. He squeezed my hand once—gently—and said nothing about the shadows under my eyes.

"Sit, sit." Margaret was already at the stove. Within minutes, a plate appeared in front of me piled impossibly high. Roast beef. Mashed potatoes drowning in gravy. Green beans glistening with butter. A thick slice of bread on the side.

"Eat," she commanded.

I picked up the fork. The food was perfect. Warm and rich and seasoned with the kind of love you couldn’t buy. But every bite felt like swallowing sand.

"More bread, sweetheart." Margaret slid a second slice onto my plate. Then a third, slathered in butter. She settled into the chair across from me, chin propped on her hand, watching me eat with fierce satisfaction. "Now. Tell me about those babies. How’s the little one? The new girl?"

I froze.

The fork hovered over my plate. My throat closed.

Valerius has his father’s eyes. Those dark gold eyes that see right through you. And Lyra—Lyra’s eyes are like the sea. Blue and green and shifting. She’s both of us, woven together in one tiny, perfect body.

"They’re perfect," I whispered.

Something flickered across Margaret’s face. A mother’s instinct—that radar for pain that no smile could fool.

Robert cleared his throat, sensing my hidden pain. "Finnian, how are things at the blacksmith shop?"

Finnian glanced at me. Then at his father. Understanding passed between them like a silent handshake.

"Keeping busy," he said, following his father’s lead.

The conversation drifted. Robert guided the talk with quiet precision, steering the topic toward the weather, local news, and Finnian’s blacksmith shop, navigating around every potential wound like a man steering a boat through rocks.

I was grateful. So grateful it made my chest ache.

After dinner, Margaret bustled around the upstairs landing, opening doors and muttering to herself.

"Finnian’s old room is Robert’s workshop now—papers everywhere, can’t have you sleeping on ledgers. And the guest room..." She opened the door and sighed. Boxes of holiday decorations were stacked floor to ceiling. Garlands spilled from a half-open crate. "Well. That’s not happening tonight."

She marched downstairs, pulled fresh linens from a cedar chest, and made up the parlor sofa with military efficiency. Two quilts. A feather pillow. A glass of water on the side table.

"It’s not much," she said, smoothing the quilt with both hands.

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