Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother novel Chapter 56

Chapter 56: Chapter 56

Elara’s POV

Sunlight touched my face before I opened my eyes.

Warm. Golden. Soft as a whisper against my skin. It came through the small window in long, slanted beams, catching the dust motes that drifted lazily through the air.

I didn’t move. Not right away. I lay still beneath the fur blanket, breathing in the smell of clean wood and lye soap and something else—something drifting from deeper in the cottage. Porridge. Honey. Fresh-baked bread.

My body felt different. Lighter. As though something heavy had been lifted from my chest during the night. The pillow beneath my cheek was damp—evidence of the tears that had finally run their course—but the ache behind my ribs had loosened. Softened into something bearable.

I sat up slowly. The springs creaked. Morning light filled the little room, illuminating every crack in the wooden beams, every knot in the floorboards. The mountains outside the window wore a crown of mist, and the sky above them was the pale, washed blue of early morning.

It was the most peaceful sleep I had experienced in fifteen years. So completely. No dreams. No jolting awake with my heart hammering and my hands reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. Just darkness. Just rest.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood. My reflection caught in the basin water on the washstand—pale face, swollen eyes, silver-white hair tangled from sleep. I splashed cold water on my cheeks. It bit. Sharpened everything into focus.

Then I looked down at myself.

The clothes I’d been wearing since I left the capital hung from my frame like they belonged to someone else. The hem of the skirt was frayed. One seam along the shoulder had split and been mended badly—my own clumsy stitching, done by candlelight back in the capital. There were stains I couldn’t wash out no matter how hard I’d scrubbed. Dirt. Sweat. A dark smear along the sleeve that might have been blood.

Every rip and mark told a story I didn’t want to carry anymore.

I pulled open the bedroom door and followed the smell of food down the narrow hallway.

The kitchen was alive with warmth. The hearth fire crackled. Steam rose from a heavy iron pot on the stove. Margaret stood at the table, her back to me, stirring something in a wooden bowl.

“Sit,” she said without turning around. “The porridge is almost done.”

I smiled despite myself. “How did you know it was me?”

“Your footsteps.” She glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Light as a cat’s. Finnian sounds like a horse coming down the hall.”

She set a bowl in front of me. Thick oat porridge, golden with honey, a pat of butter melting in the center. A cup of warm milk beside it. A small dish of dried berries.

I ate. Every bite tasted like safety.

Margaret busied herself at the counter, kneading dough, wiping surfaces, refilling my cup before I’d even realized it was empty. But I caught her watching me between tasks. Quick glances. Assessing.

Not my face. My clothes.

Her gaze lingered on the torn shoulder seam. Traveled down to the frayed hem. Paused at the stain on my sleeve. Her hands slowed on the dough. Her mouth pressed into a thin line.

Then her eyes moved to my wrists. To the place where my sleeves had ridden up as I reached for the bread.

I saw the moment she noticed. The faint marks. Not fresh—old enough to have faded to thin silver lines against my skin. Souvenirs from the Valois household. From hands that had gripped too hard. From ropes. From lessons in obedience that left their signature on flesh. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

A flash of heartache flickered across Margaret’s eyes as she noticed them. Her jaw tightened. But it passed quickly. She blinked it away. Smoothed the dough with steady hands.

She said nothing. Not yet.

I finished my porridge and pushed the bowl aside. “Thank you, Margaret. That was wonderful.”

“Hmm.” She wiped her hands on her apron and disappeared down the hallway without another word.

I sat alone in the kitchen for a few minutes, listening to the fire pop and the wind stir the herbs hanging from the ceiling beams. Somewhere outside, the rhythmic crack of an axe split the morning quiet. Finnian. Already working.

Margaret’s footsteps returned. She came back into the kitchen carrying something folded carefully over both arms. She set it on the table in front of me.

A dress. Deep blue linen. Simple in cut but beautifully made—the stitching precise, the fabric soft and fine-woven. Beside it, a shawl of thick cream-colored wool, edged with a border of tiny embroidered wildflowers. Delicate work. The kind that took hours of patient attention by lamplight.

I stared at them. “Margaret...”

“I was up most of the night.” She said it casually, like she was commenting on the weather. “Couldn’t sleep anyway. Too much thinking.” She unfolded the dress and held it up against me, squinting critically. “The length should be right. You’re taller than I expected, but I left extra in the hem.”

“You made this? In one night?”

“I had the fabric already. Been saving it. Good linen—hard to come by up here.” She laid the dress back down and smoothed a wrinkle from the skirt with practiced fingers. “The shawl I started a while ago. Needed finishing, is all.”

My throat tightened. “I can’t accept—”

“You can and you will.” Her voice was firm. Not unkind, but absolute. The voice of a woman who had raised a son in the wilderness and kept a household running through hard winters and harder grief. A voice that did not entertain argument.

She picked up my sleeve. Rubbed the frayed fabric between her fingers. Her expression softened, but her eyes remained fierce.

“This dress you’re wearing,” she said quietly. “Where did it come from?”

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