Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Elara’s POV

“You don’t seriously expect me to walk in there.”

I stared at the heavy oak doors of the training yard. Through the thick wood, I could hear voices. Dozens of them. The low hum of a crowd waiting.

Kaelen’s palm settled against the small of my back. Warm. Steady. The kind of pressure that said I’m here without demanding anything in return.

“They’ve been asking about you since dawn,” he said. “Every single one of them.”

“They should be resting. Many of them were bleeding out yesterday.”

“And now they’re not. Because of you.” His thumb traced a small circle against my spine. “This is the condition, Ela. Walk in. Let them say thank you. Then you can retreat to your quiet archives to your heart’s content.”

I exhaled. Squared my shoulders. “Fine. But if anyone tries to kneel, I’m leaving.”

He pushed the door open.

The sound hit me first. Not gradual—not a slow build of recognition and polite acknowledgment. It was immediate. A wall of applause that crashed over me like a wave, accompanied by shouts and whistles and the rhythmic stamping of boots against packed earth.

The training yard was full. Knights in various states of recovery lined the wooden benches along the perimeter. Medics stood in clusters near the supply tables. Stable hands and squires crowded the archways. And every single one of them was on their feet.

My face went hot. Instantly. Catastrophically.

“Oh no,” I muttered under my breath.

Kaelen’s hand pressed firmer against my back. Guiding. Grounding. “Breathe.”

Ben Thompson was the first to break from the crowd. He pushed through the front line with all the subtlety of a charging bull, his scarred face split into a grin so wide it pulled the puckered tissue along his jaw tight. He stopped two paces in front of me and slammed his fist against his chest in a formal salute.

“The Miracle Worker returns!” His voice boomed across the yard. Several knights behind him cheered.

“Ben, please—”

“Don’t you dare tell me to stop.” His eyes—bright, alive, unmistakably alive—glistened. “I was gone, Elara. I felt myself slipping. Cold all the way through. And then there was this warmth. Like someone reached into the dark and pulled me back by the collar.” He shook his head. “That was you. So you’re going to stand here and let me say thank you, or I’ll follow you around this palace until you do.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Swallowed hard against the tightness in my throat.

“You’re welcome, Ben.”

He grinned wider—if that was even possible—and stepped aside.

Sir Marcus came next. The grizzled knight was built like a fortress wall, all broad shoulders and weathered skin and a permanent scowl that could curdle milk from across the yard. I’d seen him bark orders at junior knights until they looked ready to faint.

He wasn’t scowling now. Instead, he offered a rare, grateful smile.

“Healer.” His voice was rough gravel. He dipped his chin—a gesture that, from Marcus, carried more weight than a full bow. “You saved Ben’s life. You saved Cassian’s. You saved men I’ve fought beside for longer than you’ve been alive.” A pause. Something flickered behind his hard eyes. “I won’t forget that. None of us will.”

The rare crack in his stoic exterior made my chest ache. I nodded, not trusting my voice.

He clapped my shoulder once—brief, solid, the way soldiers acknowledged each other—and moved on.

The crowd shifted, and then Cassian was there.

He walked toward me with the fluid, unhurried stride of a man who had absolutely no business looking that healthy. His left arm hung at his side—relaxed, easy, as though it hadn’t been shattered beyond repair and nearly caused him to bleed to death less than twenty-four hours ago.

He stopped in front of me and raised that arm. Slowly. Deliberately. He turned his wrist. Flexed his fingers. Made a fist. Released it. Then he gripped the edge of the nearest wooden training post and squeezed.

The wood groaned.

“Not only healed,” Cassian said, his voice carrying across the now-hushed yard. “Stronger. The bones knit denser than before. The muscle rebuilt thicker.” He released the post. A visible indentation remained in the grain. “Whatever you did, Elara, it didn’t just fix what was broken. It improved it.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. I stared at the crushed wood, my stomach doing something complicated.

“I... didn’t know it could do that,” I admitted.

“Neither did anyone else.” Cassian’s dark eyes held mine. Warm but serious. “You’ve done something unprecedented. The medics have been arguing about it all morning.”

Speaking of medics.

My gaze drifted past Cassian’s shoulder—and landed on Leila.

The physician stood near the supply table along the eastern wall, her auburn hair pulled back in its usual practical ponytail. She held a roll of bandages in one hand and a leather ledger in the other, and she was staring at Cassian’s back with an expression that could only be described as transfixed.

Her cheeks were as red as a ripe apple.

Not delicately flushed. Not subtly warm. Red. The deep, unmistakable shade of someone caught doing something they absolutely should not have been doing—like memorizing the exact way a certain knight commander’s shoulders moved beneath his training tunic.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning.

“Cassian,” I said innocently. “Your physician seems concerned about your recovery. She’s been watching you very closely.”

Cassian blinked. Turned his head. The moment his gaze found Leila, she snapped her attention down to the leather ledger so fast I heard the cover rattle.

“Purely professional observation,” Leila said without looking up. Her voice was admirably steady. Her ears, however, were scarlet.

Cassian’s mouth curved. Slow. Dangerous. The kind of smile that had probably caused several young noblewomen to walk into walls at court functions.

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Purely professional.”

I caught Kaelen’s eye across the yard. He raised one brow. I pressed my lips together hard.

The afternoon sun slanted through the high windows of the supply alcove as I helped Leila organize the medical stores. Jars of salve. Rolls of linen. Pouches of dried herbs that smelled sharp and green. The work was simple, rhythmic, grounding—exactly what my overstimulated nerves needed after the morning’s onslaught of gratitude.

Leila, however, was not grounded.

She kept glancing through the open archway into the training yard, where the recovered knights had begun light sparring drills. Her hands sorted bandages with mechanical precision, but her eyes drifted every few seconds.

I followed her gaze.

Cassian was in the center ring, moving through a practice sequence with one of the younger knights. His footwork was liquid—each step precise, each pivot effortless. He favored his healed left arm slightly, testing its range, pressing its limits. Every movement sent a ripple through the lean muscle beneath his tunic.

Then he stopped mid-drill. Reached behind his neck. And pulled the training shirt over his head in one fluid motion.

The fabric hit the ground.

Leila dropped a jar of salve. It shattered on the stone floor with a sharp crack.

I looked at the mess of glass and green paste. Looked at Leila. Looked back at Cassian, who was now stretching his arms overhead, displaying an abdomen that could have been carved from marble. The healed left arm matched the right perfectly—maybe even surpassed it. Every line of muscle was sharper, more defined, as though the healing magic had sculpted him rather than merely repaired him.

“So,” I said pleasantly. “Purely professional observation?”

“Shut up.” Leila crouched to gather the broken glass. Her hands were trembling. “That salve was expensive.”

“Mmhm.”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what? I’m sorting bandages.”

She shot me a glare that held absolutely no real heat. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.” I crouched beside her, picking shards from the puddle of salve. “How long?”

“How long what?”

“Leila.”

She pressed her lips together. A strand of auburn hair slipped free from her ponytail and fell across her flushed cheek. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You dropped an entire jar because he took his shirt off.”

“It was slippery.”

“The jar or your composure?”

She made a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh, pressing the back of her wrist against her forehead. “Moon Goddess, is it that obvious?”

“Only to anyone with functioning eyes.”

Before she could respond, a voice rang out from the training yard.

“Leila!” Cassian called. He was rotating his left wrist with exaggerated concern, brow furrowed. “I think I may have strained something. Could you come take a look?”

Leila froze. Her entire body went rigid, the way a deer freezes when it scents a predator.

“He’s fine,” she said flatly. “I examined that wrist this morning. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“He doesn’t look fine,” I offered helpfully. “He looks very distressed. You should probably go check. Thoroughly.”

She shot me another death glare. But she stood up. Brushed the salve from her knees. Straightened her ponytail with trembling fingers.

“Purely professional,” she muttered.

“Absolutely.”

I watched her cross the yard toward Cassian, her stride deliberately measured, her leather ledger clutched against her chest like a shield. Cassian watched her approach with that slow, devastating smile still playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Let me see,” Leila said, reaching for his wrist. Her voice was clipped. Efficient. A perfect imitation of detached medical authority.

Cassian extended his hand. Their fingers touched.

Leila’s breath hitched. Just barely. Just enough.

She turned his wrist gently. Pressed along the tendons. Her auburn head bent close to his forearm, and from where I stood, I could see his gaze drop to the curve of her neck, lingering there with an intensity that had nothing to do with wrist injuries.

“Flex for me,” she said.

He did. Slowly. His fingers curling and releasing while his eyes never left her face.

“Does this hurt?” She pressed a spot near his pulse point.

“Tremendously,” he said, his voice dropping to something low and warm and private.

She looked up. Their faces were inches apart. The leather ledger had drifted forgotten to her side. Cassian’s free hand hovered near her elbow—not touching, just there, radiating heat across the gap between them.

Neither moved.

Neither breathed.

The entire training yard had gone conspicuously quiet. Knights leaned on practice swords. Squires nudged each other. Even Sir Marcus had paused mid-instruction to watch.

The tension stretched—delicious, agonizing, electric.

Then Ben Thompson’s voice erupted from the far end of the yard.

“For the love of the Moon Goddess, Cassian, just kiss her before the rest of us die of embarrassment and look for a hole to hide in!”