Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Elara’s POV

“I’ll raise the child myself, of course.”

Harold’s voice oozed across the room like something rancid. He stood by the Baroness’s parlor window, thumbs hooked into his waistcoat pockets, chin tilted at an angle that suggested he genuinely believed he was being generous.

“A boy needs a father figure,” he continued. “I’m prepared to provide that. Education. Discipline. Structure.” His lips peeled back into a smile. The teeth were too white—unnaturally so, like porcelain caps hiding rot underneath. “And you, my dear, won’t have to worry about a thing.”

My stomach turned.

The smell of him reached me from across the room. Thick cologne layered over something sour. Sweat, maybe. Or just the natural stench of a man who believed money could mask anything.

“I’m not interested, Harold,” I said. My voice was steady. Flat. “In your offer. In this arrangement. In any of it.”

Harold chuckled. The sound was wet. “Now, now—”

“She said she’s not interested.” I turned toward the door. “This conversation is over.”

I only made it a few steps.

The Baroness moved faster than a woman her age should. Her hand clamped around my wrist like a manacle—bony fingers digging in with shocking strength, nails biting into skin. I felt the crescent marks form instantly.

“You’re not going anywhere, dear.” Her voice was silk wrapped around a blade. She positioned herself between me and the doorway, her thin frame blocking the exit with practiced precision. “We haven’t finished discussing your future.”

I tried to pull free. Her grip tightened. Pain shot up my forearm.

“Let go of me.”

“Don’t be dramatic, you little beast.” The Baroness’s lips curled. Not a smile. A calculation. “You’ve always been ungrateful. I fed you. Clothed you. Gave you a roof and a name. And how do you repay me? You run off, get yourself knocked up by some stranger, and then waltz back into society like you’re above the rest of us.”

“I said let go, Baroness.”

“You’ll listen.” Her voice dropped. Lower. Sharper. “Your little brat—what’s his name? Valerius?” She said it slowly, savoring each syllable. “Enrolled at the Royal Primary Academy, isn’t he? Lovely school. Very prestigious.” Her eyes glittered. “And your friend Brenna picks him up every afternoon. Same time. Same gate.”

The world tilted.

Inside me, something ancient stirred. Moonlight—my wolf—surged against my ribs like a caged animal slamming into bars. A flood of heat poured through my veins. Protective. Primal. Violent.

“If you touch my son—” My voice came out different. Rougher. Lower. Barely human. “—I will rip your throat out with my bare hands.”

The Baroness flinched. Just barely. A flicker of something—fear, maybe—crossed her face before she smothered it.

Harold laughed from behind me. A big, booming laugh, like I’d told a wonderful joke at a dinner party.

“Spirited!” He clapped his meaty hands together. “I do like that in a woman. Don’t worry, my dear. Once we’re settled, all that fire will find proper use.”

They moved together—coordinated, rehearsed. The Baroness still gripping my wrist, Harold’s clammy hand landing on my shoulder, steering me through the parlor and down the narrow hallway toward the back of the house.

The bedroom door opened, and the smell hit me like a wall.

Camphor. Stale linen. Dust.

I knew this room.

The low ceiling. The warped floorboards. The single window too small to climb through. I’d slept here as a child, crammed into a narrow bed with Isolde on the other side, listening to her breathing in the dark while I stared at the crack in the plaster above and pretended I was somewhere else.

Nothing had changed. The same faded curtains. The same iron bed frame, now stripped to a bare mattress.

They pushed me inside.

Harold released my shoulder and turned to the Baroness. His voice shifted—businesslike now. Transaction mode.

“I’ll wire the first installment immediately. Fifty thousand gold coins. That should cover the Baron’s medical expenses.”

The Baroness’s eyes went bright. Hungry. “And the rest?”

“Upon the signing of the marriage contract.” Harold adjusted his cuffs. “You’ll have the full amount after the ceremony.”

Fifty thousand gold coins. That was my price. The amount it cost to buy a woman and call it marriage.

The Baroness released my wrist at last. The crescent marks throbbed, already bruising. She smoothed her dress and stepped back, positioning herself near the door like a prison guard on duty.

Harold turned to me.

His smile was different now. Softer. Hungrier. His thick fingers reached for the lacing at the back of my dress.

“Come now, my dear. Let’s not make this difficult.” His breath hit my neck—hot, fetid, cutting through the cologne like sewage through perfume. “Consider it a preview of our arrangement.”

His fingers found the first tie. Tugged.

Moonlight howled inside me. Every nerve screamed. Every instinct roared a single word: fight.

But I didn’t. Not yet.

I let my shoulders drop. Let my body soften. Let the tension drain from my posture until I looked like a woman surrendering.

“You’re right,” I whispered. I lowered my eyes. Bowed my head. Made my voice small. Compliant. Grateful. “I should be more thankful. You’re offering me so much. I’ve been foolish.”

Harold’s grin widened. His fingers relaxed on the lacing.

“There we are,” he murmured. “That’s much better.”

He leaned closer. His eyes half-closed. His guard completely down.

My hand closed around the neck of the empty wine bottle on the bedside table. Heavy. Solid. Thick glass base designed to survive being dropped.

I swung.

The bottle connected with the side of Harold’s skull with a sound like a melon hitting cobblestones. Glass didn’t shatter—the base was too thick for that. But the impact was devastating. His eyes went blank. His knees buckled. He crumpled sideways, hitting the floor in a heap of expensive fabric and cologne.

Blood. Immediate and dark. Spreading from a gash above his ear.

The Baroness screamed.

She lunged at me—nails out, teeth bared, that thin body suddenly all sharp angles and fury. Her hands clawed for my face.

I caught her forearm in both hands and bit down.

Hard.

My teeth sank through skin, through muscle, through something that resisted and then gave way with a muffled crack. The taste of blood flooded my mouth—iron and salt and something chemical, like old perfume absorbed into flesh.

The Baroness shrieked. A real shriek—animal, uncontrolled, nothing like the composed cruelty she wore like a mask. She wrenched backward, and I let her go. Her forearm hung at an angle. Wrong. Broken.

I didn’t wait.

I stepped over Harold’s unconscious body, shoved past the Baroness as she cradled her arm against her chest, and ran.

Down the hall. Through the parlor. Out the front door. The evening air hit my face like cold water. I tasted blood and bile and freedom.

The carriage was still where I’d left it. My hands shook so badly it took several tries to get the reins untangled. Moonlight pulsed inside me—triumphant, feral, still hungry for violence.

We did it, she growled. We’re free.

I whipped the horse forward. The carriage lurched onto the road, rattling toward the capital.

Halfway back, my breathing came in ragged gasps. Blood still stained my teeth. My wrist throbbed where the Baroness’s nails had carved half-moons into the skin. But I was out. I was free. I was going home to my son.

The communication crystal on the seat beside me flared.

Brenna’s sigil. Pulsing frantically. Erratically. Not the calm, measured rhythm of a routine check-in—this was panic.

I activated it with trembling fingers.

“Elara!” Brenna’s voice exploded through the crystal. Shattered. Hysterical. “Elara, please—I went to the Academy—I went at the usual time—”

“Brenna, slow down. What happened?”

“The Academy said someone else already picked Valerius up!”