Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother novel Chapter 196

Chapter 196: Chapter 196

Elara’s POV

Pain dragged me up from the dark like a hook through my ribs.

I didn’t open my eyes right away. Couldn’t. The left one was swollen shut completely—I could feel the tight, hot pressure of fluid trapped beneath skin stretched to its limit. The right cracked open a slit. Light poured in. White. Clean. Wrong.

My ribs screamed with every breath. Short, shallow inhales were all I could manage. Anything deeper sent a jagged bolt of fire through my left side—cracked, maybe broken. My jaw throbbed in time with my heartbeat. My lower lip was split. I could taste old copper on my tongue.

I lay still. Listened.

No crowd noise. No distant roar of spectators pounding their fists against the iron railing of the pit. No grit of sand beneath my cheek. No dripping pipes. No stench of sweat and rust and blood.

Instead—silence. Deep, expensive silence. The kind you could only buy.

I forced my right eye open wider.

A ceiling. High. Vaulted. A crystal chandelier hung above me, its facets catching light from somewhere and scattering faint rainbows across white plaster. The bed beneath me was soft—obscenely soft—the kind of mattress that swallowed your weight and held you like something precious. White linens. Too many pillows. The faint scent of fresh-cut flowers drifted from somewhere to my left.

This was not the changing room behind the arena.

This was not my apartment.

This was not the warehouse.

I turned my head. Slowly. Every vertebra in my neck protested. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along one wall. Beyond the glass, a city glittered far below. Magelights dotted the grid of streets like scattered jewels. The buildings looked small. Distant. I was high up. Very high.

Luxury hotel. That much was obvious.

I looked down at myself. Someone had stripped me out of my fighting leathers. Gone—the bloodstained wraps, the reinforced vest, the boots I’d laced myself into before stepping into the ring. In their place, a soft cotton shirt. Loose pants. Clean. The fabric smelled like lavender soap.

Bandages circled my torso beneath the shirt. I could feel them—tight, professional, wrapped with the practiced hand of someone who knew what they were doing. My split knuckles had been cleaned and dressed. Even the gash along my forearm—the one I’d gotten from that elbow strike—was covered with a fresh compress.

Someone had undressed me.

Someone had undressed me while I was unconscious.

The realization hit like a fist to the sternum. Panic surged up my throat—hot, sour, immediate. My skin crawled. Every nerve ending fired at once, screaming at the violation of it. Hands I didn’t know. Hands I couldn’t see. Touching me while I lay there limp and defenseless, unable to fight back or even open my eyes.

I sat up. Too fast. My ribs shrieked. Black spots exploded across my vision and I doubled over, pressing both palms flat against the mattress. Sweat broke across my forehead.

Breathe. Breathe. Think.

I forced air through my teeth. Slow. Controlled. The way I’d taught myself in those early months in the pit, when every fight ended with me on the ground, gasping, wondering if the next breath would come.

The panic didn’t leave. But I shoved it into a corner. Locked it there.

Assess.

I patted myself down. Pockets—empty. My communication stone was gone. My keys. My coin pouch. Everything stripped away. I had nothing. Not a weapon, not a means of contact, not a single copper to my name.

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