Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Kaelen’s POV

Pain.

That was the first thing. A splitting, nauseating pressure behind my eyes, like someone had driven an iron spike through my skull and left it there to rust.

I tried to open my eyes. The light—pale, bluish, filtering through gauze curtains—hit me like a blow. I squeezed them shut again. My mouth tasted of copper and something sweet. Wrong-sweet. Alchemical.

Where—

I forced my eyes open a second time. Blinked. The ceiling above me was unfamiliar. Smooth plaster, painted a pale blue. Expensive. Modern. Not the palace.

A hotel. One of the high-end establishments in the city, if I had to guess. The kind with private entrances and staff who didn’t ask questions.

I was lying on a bed. Sheets tangled around my legs, rumpled. My chest was bare. My back was bare. I looked down.

Naked.

Completely naked.

My heart kicked hard against my ribs. Once. Twice. Then started hammering in a way that had nothing to do with the headache.

Think. Think.

I reached for the last clear memory. The council chamber. Gareth sitting at the table. That smirk. He’d said Isolde’s name. He’d said—

The smell. Sweet. Cloying. Coating the back of my throat.

Then nothing.

Nothing at all.

A void where hours should have been. Black and absolute, like a door slammed shut in my mind.

I sat up too fast. The room lurched sideways. Bile rose in my throat, and I pressed the heel of my palm against my forehead, breathing hard through my teeth.

That’s when I heard it.

A soft, hitching breath. From my left.

I turned.

Seraphine lay on the other side of the bed.

Naked.

Her dark hair was spread across the pillow in a tangled mess. Her face was turned toward me, eyes closed, lashes wet. Tear tracks stained her cheeks. And her body—

My stomach dropped.

Her neck. Her shoulders. Her collarbone. Her chest. Every visible inch of skin was marked. Deep purple bruises. Bite marks—fresh, angry, the kind that broke capillaries and left teeth impressions in swollen flesh. Some of them had broken the skin. Thin lines of dried blood traced down her throat.

I looked at my hands. They were trembling.

No.

No.

"Seraphine."

My voice came out like gravel scraping stone. Too loud in the silent room.

Her eyes fluttered open. Swollen. Red-rimmed. She looked at me—and flinched. Actually flinched. Drew the sheet up against her chest with trembling hands.

"Your Majesty." Her voice was barely a whisper. Broken. "I—I’m sorry. I didn’t—"

"What happened." Not a question. A command. Cold and flat and absolutely not a request.

She sat up slowly. Wincing. One hand pressed against a bruise on her shoulder like it still burned.

"You don’t remember?" More tears spilled down her face. "After—after Prince Gareth told you. About Isolde. About what she’d done. You were—" She swallowed hard. "You were so angry. You kept saying Lady Elara would leave you. That she’d never forgive you for bringing that woman back into your life. You were shouting. Breaking things."

"That’s not—"

"You grabbed my arm." Her chin trembled. "You said you needed to forget. Just for one night. You needed to forget everything. You brought me here. I tried to say no, Your Majesty. I tried. But you—"

"Stop."

The word cracked through the room like a whip.

I was on my feet. I didn’t remember standing. My hands were shaking—actually shaking—and I couldn’t make them stop.

"That didn’t happen," I said. My voice was someone else’s. Low. Dangerous. Barely controlled. "I would never—"

"I know you wouldn’t." She was sobbing now. Quiet, restrained sobs that shook her whole frame. "Not normally. You weren’t yourself. The look in your eyes—it wasn’t you. I know that. I know that."

I stared at the marks on her body. The evidence. Irrefutable. Damning.

But I don’t remember.

I couldn’t remember anything.

The last thing in my mind was Gareth’s face. That flat, patient expression. The sweet smell filling my lungs.

He drugged me.

The realization hit like a fist to the sternum. Gareth. The sealed room. The alchemical compound in the air. He’d set the entire thing up—the fake intelligence, Isolde’s name as bait, the sweet-scented poison that stole my consciousness.

And then what? Placed me here? With her?

I looked at Seraphine again. The bruises. The bites. If I hadn’t done this—

But they were there. On her body. Real. Undeniable.

I couldn’t prove I hadn’t done it. I couldn’t prove anything when my mind was a blank wall.

"Get dressed." I grabbed my crumpled trousers from the floor. Pulled them on with jerky, violent movements. My shirt was somewhere—there, draped over a chair. Wrinkled beyond repair. "Get dressed. Leave. Do not speak of this to anyone. Not a single soul."

Seraphine nodded quickly, still clutching the sheet. "Of course, Your Majesty. I would never—I’d never tell anyone. I know it wasn’t—"

"Go."

She went silent. I didn’t watch her dress. I stood at the window with my back turned, staring at the street below without seeing it.

A carriage passed. Morning light. It was morning.

An entire night. Gone.

I heard the rustle of fabric. The soft pad of bare feet on carpet. Then the click of the door opening and closing.

Silence.

I braced both hands against the windowsill and breathed. In. Out. In. Out. Each breath felt like swallowing glass.

Gareth.

If he’d orchestrated this—if he’d placed Seraphine in that bed, if he’d made those marks on her himself or had someone else do it while I lay unconscious—

But why? To what end?

The answer came immediately. Cold. Obvious.

Elara.

I had to get back. Now.

I finished dressing in seconds. Left the suite without looking back. The hotel corridor was empty—private floor, no other guests. The staircase took me down to a side exit that opened onto a quiet alley. My horse wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t.

I walked some distance before I found a stable. Paid for the fastest mount they had. Didn’t give my name.

The ride to the palace took too long. Every minute felt like a blade twisting deeper.

She doesn’t know. She can’t know. There’s nothing to know because nothing happened.

But the marks on Seraphine’s body. The bite impressions. The bruises shaped like fingers.

I didn’t do that.

I couldn’t have.

Could I?

Halfway to the palace, a royal messenger intercepted me.

"Your Majesty, a summons from the Queen—"

"Tell her I will see her shortly," I snapped, dismissing him without slowing my horse. "I have a private matter to attend to."

The rider swallowed hard. "Sire, her instructions were that if you refused the summons, I am to inform you that the Queen no longer needs to see you."

The words sent a cold spike through my chest. Before I could process them, another rider pulled alongside me—one of the junior messengers wearing Cassian’s colors.

"Your Majesty!" The boy looked relieved. "Sir Cassian sent me. He’s been asking after you since the morning military briefing. You weren’t there..."

"Tell Sir Cassian I had a private matter to attend to," I repeated coldly.

"Also, Your Majesty—the palace steward, Lady Claire, has been trying to reach you. She says—"

"Later."

The messengers hesitated, then wheeled their horses around.

I rode faster.

The palace gates opened without challenge. I dismounted in the courtyard and crossed the grounds at a pace that made servants flatten themselves against the walls.

The royal wing. Our wing. The corridor was dark—no lamps lit, curtains drawn against the morning sun. Wrong. The staff always lit the lamps by dawn.

I pushed open the doors to our chambers.

Darkness. Complete stillness.

"Elara?"

My voice echoed against stone and silk.

The sitting room was empty. The hearth was cold—no fire had been lit.

"Elara."

Louder now.

Then I saw her.

She sat on the sofa. Perfectly still. Hands folded in her lap. She wasn’t reading. Wasn’t working. Wasn’t doing anything at all. Just sitting there in the dark, fully dressed, as if she’d been waiting.

Or as if she’d stopped waiting a long time ago.

"Elara—"

She turned her head toward me.

And I felt the blood drain from my face.

Her eyes were open. Clear. Dry. But there was nothing behind them. No anger. No hurt. No accusation. No warmth. No recognition.

Nothing.

She looked straight through me. Past me. As if I were made of glass. As if I were already gone.

As if I were a ghost.