Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Chapter 102

Elara’s POV

The fat one moved first.

He crossed the room in lazy strides, his gut swaying over his belt like something barely contained. His fingers were filthy—black under the nails, grime in every crease. He reached for my face.

"Don’t be scared, sweetheart," he murmured, his breath hot and rancid against my skin. "We’ll be gentle. At first."

The one with the yellow teeth laughed from behind him. A wet, rattling sound. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded, a rusted short knife dangling loosely from one hand.

"Little princess," Yellow Teeth said. "All alone. No emperor to save you now."

The third one—thin, gaunt, with dead cold eyes that reflected nothing—circled to my right. Silent. Watching. His gaze crawled over me like something with legs.

"Pretty little commoner," the fat one whispered. His finger touched my cheek.

Something ignited.

Not heat. Not fire. Something deeper. Something that had been sleeping inside my bones, curled up in the marrow of me, waiting. Patient. Ancient.

It didn’t ask permission. It didn’t build slowly. It detonated.

The ropes around my wrists didn’t snap. They disintegrated. Turned to ash and dust that scattered across the concrete floor like gray snow. The bindings at my ankles followed a heartbeat later—simply ceasing to exist, as if they’d never been there at all.

I was on my feet before any of them could blink.

A sound tore from my throat. Low. Guttural. Not a scream. Not a cry. A growl—deep enough to vibrate the air, to rattle the swinging bulb overhead, to make the concrete walls hum. The kind of sound that bypassed the ears entirely and went straight into the spine.

"I am not," I said, and my voice wasn’t my own, "a commoner."

The fat man’s pig eyes went wide. His mouth opened. No sound came out.

My hand closed around his throat.

Not grabbed. Closed. Like a vise. Like iron forged specifically for the purpose of crushing the life out of something soft and worthless. My fingers sank into the folds of his neck, and I squeezed until I felt cartilage shift under my palm.

He made a gurgling noise. His feet left the floor. His sausage fingers clawed at my wrist, scratching uselessly at skin that might as well have been steel.

I held him there. One hand. No effort. Like holding a doll.

His face turned purple. Veins bulged at his temples. His eyes rolled, showing whites streaked with red.

"She—she’s—" Yellow Teeth stammered from behind me.

I dropped the fat man. He crumpled to the floor in a wheezing, gagging heap, both hands at his throat, sucking air through a windpipe that would never quite work right again.

Yellow Teeth moved. Stupid. Brave and stupid. He lunged with the rusted knife, aiming for my ribs in a clumsy upward thrust.

I caught his wrist.

The bones broke with a sound like dry wood snapping, and his arm flopped sideways at an angle that arms were never meant to achieve. The knife clattered to the floor.

He screamed. High and thin. Like a wounded animal. He staggered back, cradling his ruined arm against his chest, teeth bared in a rictus of agony.

I watched him scream. Felt nothing.

The thin one ran.

He bolted for the door, his dead eyes suddenly very much alive with raw terror. His boots scraped and slipped on the gritty floor.

I crossed the distance in a single stride. My hand caught the back of his collar. I pivoted and hurled him.

He flew. Actually left the ground entirely, his limbs pinwheeling uselessly before he slammed into the concrete wall with a sickening crunch. He slid down, leaving a dark smear on the stone. Blood poured from his nose, from a gash above his eyebrow. He blinked up at me, dazed, his mouth working around broken syllables.

"P-please!" the thin man begged, blood bubbling from his lips. "You’re a madwoman!"

My knee drove into his stomach. He doubled over with a retching gasp, bile spattering the concrete.

"My sister," I said pleasantly. "The woman who hired you. Where did she go?"

"I don’t—we don’t—"

"You crazy bitch," the fat man croaked from the floor, still clutching his throat. "What the hell are you—"

I didn’t look at him. Just turned my head slightly in his direction. Whatever he saw in my expression made his words die in his ruined throat.

I crouched in front of the thin man. Grabbed his jaw. Forced him to look at me.

"I’ll ask one more time," I said quietly. "And then I start removing things that don’t grow back."

His dead eyes were swimming with tears now. Real, honest tears of pure animal terror. Whatever he saw in my face—whatever had changed in me—it was enough.

"The bridge," he choked out. "The old Raven Bridge. South corridor, through the metal door at the end of the hall. She’s—she’s meeting someone there. She said she’d wait."

I released his jaw. He sagged sideways like a puppet with cut strings.

I stepped over the fat man. He flinched. Drew his legs in. Made himself small in a way that would have been comical if I’d had any humor left in me.

The door was locked from the outside. A heavy metal bolt, the kind used in warehouses or slaughterhouses. Thick. Industrial.

I wrapped my fingers around it. Twisted.

The metal groaned. Warped. Then tore free from the frame entirely, screws and all, clattering to the floor in pieces.

I dropped the mangled bolt and stepped through.

The corridor beyond was narrow. Oppressively narrow. Damp walls pressing in from both sides, the ceiling low enough that I had to duck under exposed pipes crusted with rust. A single flickering bulb buzzed overhead, casting more shadow than light, with a dying electrical hum that set my teeth on edge.

My footsteps echoed. Steady. Measured. Each one deliberate.

There—at the far end. A heavy metal door. Industrial grey. Unmarked.

I pushed it open.

Night air rushed in. Cold and clean and sharp with the smell of river water and rust. My eyes adjusted to the darkness beyond.

The bridge stretched ahead. An old thing—iron framework, riveted crossbeams, metal grating underfoot that showed the black water churning far below. The kind of bridge that had been forgotten by everyone except rats and people with things to hide.

And there, halfway across, silhouetted against the faint glow of distant city lights, stood a figure.

That posture. Those narrow shoulders thrown back with borrowed confidence. The faint trace of that cloying, sickly-sweet perfume cutting through the river stench.

Isolde.

She was facing away from me. Leaning against the railing. Waiting, just as the thin man had said.

She had no idea.

As the heavy metal door thudded shut behind me, she spun around. Her hair whipped across her face. Her dark eyes found me, and for one perfect, crystalline moment, every ounce of smug cruelty drained from her expression. Her lips parted, no sound coming out, leaving her eyes wide with utter shock.

I stepped out of the shadows, my boots clanging against the metal grating of the bridge, and smiled at her.

"Hello, sister. Miss me?"