Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Chapter 95

Elara’s POV

The desk still smelled like him.

Cedar and smoke and something darker underneath—something that belonged only to Kaelen. I pressed my fingertips into the mahogany surface and reached through the bond again, the way I’d done countless times since he left.

Nothing.

Not a flicker. Not a whisper. Not even the faintest ember of warmth where his presence used to burn steady and constant, like a second heartbeat tucked beneath my ribs.

I pulled back. Exhaled. Tried again.

Kaelen.

The void answered. Cold. Absolute. A door shut against me from the other side—or worse, no door at all. Just endless, empty dark.

My hands trembled against the wood. I flattened them harder, pressing until my knuckles ached.

A knock. Three sharp raps against the study door.

“Enter.”

Sir Marcus stepped through. Same weathered face. Same gravel voice. Same expression carved from granite and duty. He carried the morning briefing folder under his arm, and his boots left faint wet prints on the stone floor.

“Your Majesty.” He set the folder on the desk. “Morning patrol report.”

I opened it. My eyes moved across the words, but my mind kept drifting sideways—reaching, reaching, reaching into that hollow place where Kaelen should have been.

“No Rogue activity along the eastern perimeter,” Marcus said. “No tracks. No scent markers. No territorial disruptions of any kind.”

I looked up. “Nothing?”

“Nothing, Your Majesty. The border is quiet. Unusually so.”

Unusually so. The words sank into my gut like stones dropped into still water. Quiet borders meant nothing good. Quiet borders meant something was being planned where eyes couldn’t follow.

“And the Emperor’s unit?” My voice came out steadier than I felt.

Marcus’s expression didn’t change. But something shifted behind his eyes—a careful rearrangement. The kind soldiers learned when they had no good news to soften with.

“No communication, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Marcus. Continue standard rotations. Double the scouts along the tree line.”

“Already done, Your Majesty.”

He left. The door clicked shut, and the study swelled with silence again.

I stared at the briefing folder. Read every line. Absorbed none of it.

Days blurred together. Days without his voice in my mind. Days of reaching across the bond and finding only that terrible, yawning emptiness. Like pressing your hand against a wall where a window used to be. I pulled the next stack of documents toward me—supply requisitions, border dispatches, a petition from a minor lord about grain taxes. The machinery of empire didn’t pause for missing emperors. It ground forward, relentless, indifferent, and it needed someone sitting in this chair to keep the gears turning.

So I sat. And I worked. And I didn’t think about the silence.

By the sixth day, the fierce anxiety had completely destroyed my appetite.

The smell of food turned my stomach inside out—not morning sickness, not the baby. Just dread. Pure, corrosive dread pooling in my gut and rising like bile every time I tried to force a bite past my lips.

The study door opened without a knock. Only one person in this palace had that privilege.

Brenna set a tray on the desk. A bowl of soup, still steaming. A handful of soda crackers arranged in a neat semicircle beside it.

“Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were hungry.” She pulled a chair around to my side of the desk and sat. Her dark eyes were steady. Unflinching. The kind of steady that came from years of standing beside someone through every kind of storm. “Ela. Look at me.”

I looked.

“You have a baby growing inside you who needs fuel. You have a four-year-old son down the hall who watches everything you do with those ridiculous dark gold eyes and mirrors every emotion on your face. If you fall apart, he falls apart. You know this.”

My throat tightened. “Brenna—”

“Eat the soup. Eat the crackers. Then we’ll talk about whatever’s eating you alive, because I can see it from across the room and it’s scaring me.”

I stared at the soup. Steam curled upward, carrying the faint scent of herbs and chicken. My stomach clenched in protest.

I picked up the spoon anyway. Forced a mouthful down. Then another.

Brenna watched. Patient. Unyielding.

“He’s fine,” she said quietly. “You know what he’s capable of. You’ve seen it with your own eyes. He walked into a Rogue ambush once and walked out carrying two wounded soldiers on his shoulders.”

“It’s been six days, Brenna.”

“I know.”

“Six days without a single—” My voice cracked. I set the spoon down. Pressed my fist against my mouth and breathed through the fracture. “I can’t feel him. Not even a trace. It’s like he’s just... gone.”

Brenna’s hand found mine on the desk. Warm. Firm. Anchoring.

“He swore he’d come home. I was there when he said it. That man doesn’t break promises—especially not ones he made to you.”

I ate the crackers. All of them. Not because the nausea had passed, but because Brenna was right. The baby needed me whole. Valerius needed me standing.

And Kaelen needed me to hold this empire together until he walked back through that door.

At dawn on the seventh day, the sky was the color of ash. Low clouds pressed against the palace towers like a bruise, and the air through the cracked window carried the metallic smell of coming rain.

I was already behind the desk when the door creaked open and small footsteps padded across the stone floor. Valerius climbed into the chair across from me—the one that swallowed his small frame entirely—and settled his stuffed lion on his knee.

He studied me. Those dark gold eyes—Kaelen’s eyes—moved across my face with an attention that was too sharp, too knowing for a child his age.

“Mommy.”

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

“Your eyes are red.”

I touched the corner of my eye reflexively. “I stayed up late working.”

“You were crying.” Not an accusation. A fact, delivered with the same quiet certainty his father used when stating things that couldn’t be argued with.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. There was no fooling this child. There had never been any fooling this child.

“I miss Daddy,” I said simply. “That’s all.”

Valerius considered this. He slid off the chair, crossed to my side, and climbed into my lap with practiced ease, fitting himself against my body like a puzzle piece returning to its place. His small hand found my cheek. Patted it gently.

“Daddy always comes home, Mommy,” he whispered. “Always. He promised.”

I wrapped my arms around him and pressed my face into his dark curls. Held on. Let his warmth fill the hollow in my chest, just for a moment. Just enough to breathe.

“You’re right,” I murmured against his hair. “He promised.”

Valerius stayed for a while, coloring quietly on the floor. Desperate for a distraction, I threw myself into the requisition forms—ink and parchment and the mechanical comfort of tasks that demanded precision but not emotion. I signed authorizations. Reviewed supply manifests. Kept the gears turning.

Until a sudden commotion erupted in the corridor.

Voices raised, sharp and urgent, followed by the heavy clang of armor and the scuffle of boots against stone.

I straightened. My hand instinctively moved to Valerius.

“Stay here, sweetheart.”

The noise grew louder. Closer. Marcus’s voice cut through the chaos—commanding, furious.

“Stand down! You will NOT enter without—”

“Let me through! I have to—please, I have to see the Empress—”

A young voice. Ragged. Breaking apart at the seams.

I stood. Crossed to the door and pulled it open.

Marcus had his arm locked across the chest of a panicked, nineteen-year-old knight. His uniform was shredded along one sleeve. Grime covered every inch of him—dirt, sweat, and coal ash. His eyes were wide, hollow, unfocused. The eyes of someone who had seen something that couldn’t be unseen.

“Let him through,” I commanded.

Marcus turned. His jaw tightened, but he released the boy immediately and stepped aside.

The young knight stumbled forward into the study. His legs buckled halfway across the room, and he dropped to one knee before me. His whole body was shaking—violent, uncontrollable tremors that rattled his ruined armor.

Tears cut pale tracks through the filth on his face.

“Your Majesty,” he said, and his words fell like hammer blows into the sudden, deathly silence of the room, “the Emperor is dead.”