Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Chapter 91

Elara’s POV

“You’re not going down there.”

Twenty-four hours after the successful operation, Kaelen’s voice hit the stone corridor like a wall. Hard. Final. The kind of tone that made lesser wolves drop their eyes and bare their throats without thinking.

I kept walking.

“Ela.” His hand caught my elbow. Firm but careful—always careful now, ever since the healers had confirmed what we both already knew. “The interrogation chamber is underground. No ventilation. No natural light. The air alone—”

“Is the same air your soldiers breathe every day.” I turned to face him. The torchlight caught the sharp angles of his jaw, the tension locked in his shoulders. His dark gold eyes searched mine with something raw. Something that looked a lot like fear dressed up as authority. “I’m pregnant, Kaelen. Not dying.”

His grip didn’t loosen. “You’re carrying my child into a room with a captured Rogue who has every reason to—”

“To what? Lunge at me through iron chains and reinforced shackles?” I stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. Close enough to watch his jaw flex with the effort of restraint. “I proved my tactical value to this empire. I earned the right to question him.”

A muscle ticked beneath his eye. The corridor was narrow here—rough-hewn stone pressing in from both sides, the ceiling low enough that Kaelen had to angle his shoulders slightly. Somewhere deeper in the passage, water dripped in a slow, measured rhythm. Like a clock counting down.

“You earned the right to rest,” he said. Quieter now. The emperor peeling away to reveal just the man. Just the mate. “You haven’t slept since—”

“Neither have you.”

Silence. The torches guttered.

He exhaled through his nose. Long. Controlled. His thumb traced a slow circle against my arm—unconscious, I think. A habit he’d developed lately, as though needing constant proof that I was real and solid and still here.

“If anything happens—”

“Then you’ll be standing right beside me.”

His eyes held mine. Searching for something—a crack, a hesitation, anything that would give him permission to overrule me. He didn’t find it.

“Fine.” The word sounded like it cost him something. He released my arm but stayed close. So close our shoulders nearly touched as we descended the final staircase into the belly of the military compound.

The interrogation chamber sat at the lowest level. The temperature dropped with every step. The walls wept moisture. The air tasted of damp earth and iron—old iron, the kind that had absorbed the memory of blood and screaming into its very essence. The corridor opened into a vaulted room lit by oil lamps mounted at the corners. Their flames barely moved. The air was that still. That dead.

Sir Cassian was already inside. He stood near a heavy oak table bolted to the floor, a rolled parchment in one hand. He looked up as we entered, his expression carefully neutral—though his eyes flicked briefly to my midsection before returning to my face.

“Your Majesty. My Lady.” A slight bow. Professional. Controlled. “The prisoner has been secured. Enhanced restraints—wrists, ankles, and waist. The chains are anchored directly into the floor stone.”

“Background?” Kaelen asked. He positioned himself between me and the iron door at the far end of the chamber. Not obviously. Not dramatically. Just... there. A wall of muscle and barely leashed violence wrapped in imperial composure.

Cassian consulted the parchment. “Based on our preliminary intelligence and physical markings, we believe he joined the Rogue tribe roughly eighteen months ago. Former border territory. No known previous affiliation with any registered pack. The scarring pattern on his forearms suggests—”

“Bring him in,” I said.

Both men looked at me.

I met their gazes. Steady. The child inside me stirred—a flutter, gentle as a moth’s wing. I pressed my palm flat against my stomach. Grounding myself.

“Bring him in.”

Cassian nodded to the guards flanking the iron door. They hauled it open with a groan of rusted hinges, and the smell hit me first—unwashed flesh, old sweat, something rancid underneath. My enhanced senses recoiled. I forced myself still.

They dragged him in.

He was lean. Wiry. Built for speed rather than power. Dark hair hung in matted, oily ropes across his face. His clothes were torn, crusted with dirt and dried blood that wasn’t entirely his own. Heavy iron shackles bit into his wrists and ankles, connected by thick chains to a central ring that the guards locked into the floor anchor with practiced efficiency.

He didn’t struggle. Didn’t resist.

He sat in the bolted chair and lifted his head.

His eyes found me immediately.

Not Kaelen. Not Cassian. Not the guards.

Me.

The look he gave me was slow. Deliberate. It started at my face and crawled downward with the lazy, predatory patience of a snake watching something warm-blooded. His gaze lingered on my swollen belly. His cracked lips stretched into a grin.

“Well, well.” His voice was a rasp. Gravel over broken glass. “The mighty Emperor himself. And his pretty little breeding bitch.”

The temperature in the room plummeted ten degrees. I didn’t need to look at Kaelen to feel it—the sudden, murderous stillness that radiated from his body like frost spreading across a windowpane. The air pressure shifted. The guards nearest to him took an involuntary step back.

The Rogue’s grin widened. He’d felt it too. He fed on it.

“Tell me, Your Imperial Majesty,” he drawled, rolling the title around his mouth like something rotten. “Does she scream pretty when you mount her? Or does she just lie there and take it like a good little—”

“Enough.”

The word came from my mouth. Not a shout. Not a plea. Something deeper. Something that vibrated in my chest and resonated outward with a force that surprised even me. Authority. Raw and unfamiliar, still rough at the edges—but real. The kind of command that didn’t ask for obedience. It assumed it.

The Rogue blinked. Just once. The grin faltered for a heartbeat.

Then it returned. Wider.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He leaned forward as far as his chains allowed. “You’ve got some bite in you. I like that. The boys back at camp would love a sweet little thing like you. They’d pass you around like—”

A sound came from Kaelen’s direction. Not words. Something lower. Something primal that bypassed language entirely and spoke directly to the ancient, animal part of the brain that recognized apex predators. The Rogue’s chains rattled—not from his movement, but from the involuntary tremor that ran through his body.

I placed my hand on Kaelen’s forearm. The muscle beneath my palm was stone. Vibrating with restrained violence.

“Don’t,” I said softly. Only to him. “That’s what he wants.”

Kaelen’s dark gold eyes didn’t leave the prisoner. His breathing was measured. Mechanical. The breathing of a man holding a blade’s edge between control and carnage.

I turned back to the Rogue. “The raids were your tribe’s operation. Your leadership ordered them. I want to know the command structure.”

He laughed. A wet, broken sound. “Command structure? Sweetheart, you think we’re your neat little imperial army with your ranks and your pretty medals? We’re wolves. We follow the strongest.”

“And who is the strongest?”

Something shifted in his expression. A flicker behind the bravado. Not fear exactly—but reverence. The kind reserved for something worshipped.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try.”

He tilted his head. Studied me with those feral, glinting eyes. “Your Emperor has his throne. His castles. His armies. But we have something better now.”

A pause. Theatrical. He was enjoying this.

“We have a queen.”

The word dropped into the silent room like a stone into still water.

“A queen,” I repeated. Flat. Controlled.

“Beautiful. Brilliant. And she hates you.” He leaned forward again. His chains went taut. His eyes burned with the zealous light of a true believer. “Hates you more than poison, little whore. Every plan she makes, every raid she orders, every blade she sharpens—it all leads back to you.”

My blood ran cold. I kept my face neutral. “Who is she?”

“Someone who knows you.” His voice dropped to a whisper. Intimate. Obscene. “Someone who watched you rise and decided to burn it all down. She has plans for you, sweetheart. Special plans. The kind that don’t end quick.”

“Her name.”

“Ah.” He grinned. The light caught something glassy wedged between his molars. “That would be telling.”

Without warning, the Rogue suddenly bit down hard on it, producing a sickening crunch like shattering glass. Blood erupted from his mouth like a crimson fountain. His eyes rolled white, and his body seized violently against the restraints before letting out one final, rattling breath. Then came complete stillness, blood dripping onto the metal table.