Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Chapter 154

Elara’s POV

Behind me, the chilling footsteps in the dark street broke into a jog.

I ran, desperate to shake them off.

The grocery bag slammed against my ribs with every stride. One loaf of bread and a tin of jam—that was all I had.

No time to look back. No breath to spare.

My boots hit the cobblestones hard, the impact jolting up through my shins. The street blurred—shuttered windows and a broken cart wheel propped against a wall. The lampposts grew sparser. The shadows between them grew teeth.

I turned left. A narrow street. Darker. I didn’t care. I just needed distance.

Moonlight. The name rose unbidden, an old reflex. I reached inward, grasping for that familiar pulse of warmth, that silver thread of awareness that had once connected me to something vast and ancient and powerful.

Nothing. Just the hollow thud of my own heartbeat. Just the ragged scrape of my lungs pulling air.

No heightened senses. No supernatural speed. No surge of strength waiting behind the panic.

I was just flesh. Just bone. Just a woman running in the dark.

Another turn. Right this time. I chose it blindly, desperate for any gap, any open door, any sign of life.

The alley narrowed. The buildings pressed close on either side, their brick faces slick with moisture. The ground underfoot changed—cracked cobblestones gave way to uneven stone, then loose gravel that crunched under my heels.

Then I saw the wall.

It rose straight ahead of me. Solid brick. Taller than I could reach. Seamless.

My stomach dropped.

I spun. To my left—another wall, windowless, climbing high into the dark. To my right—the same. Behind me, the mouth of the alley gaped open.

A dead end.

I pressed my back against the cold brick. The stone seeped through my jacket, through my blouse, through my skin, all the way down to my spine. My breath came in short, sharp bursts that turned to mist in the freezing air.

The footsteps slowed.

He appeared at the mouth of the alley like a shadow solidifying. Broad shoulders filled the narrow opening. He wasn’t running anymore. He didn’t need to.

"There you are." His voice was thick. Slurred at the edges. "Thought you’d lost me, sweetheart?"

I pressed harder against the wall. My fingers scraped the brick behind me, searching for a crack, a ledge, anything I could grip. Climb. Escape. But the surface was flat and slick with condensation.

He stepped closer. The weak light from the street behind him caught his face—heavy jaw, dark stubble that hadn’t been trimmed in days, eyes threaded with red. The smell hit me a second later. Alcohol, sharp and chemical, layered over something sour. Old sweat. Unwashed clothes.

"Stay back," I said. My voice was steadier than I expected. "My husband is waiting for me. He’s expecting me home."

The man tilted his head. A grin spread across his face. Slow. Knowing.

"Husband." He let the word sit in the air between us, turning it over like a coin. "That right?"

"Yes. He’ll come looking if I’m late."

The man took another step. Then another. Each one unhurried. Each one closing the distance between us by another measure.

"See, sweetheart..." He raised one thick hand and pointed at me. At my left hand, specifically, where it gripped the grocery bag against my chest. "A woman with a husband wears a ring. That’s how it works."

My fingers curled tighter around the bag. The paper crinkled loudly in the silence.

He chuckled. The sound bounced off the three walls around us and came back distorted.

"No ring," he said. "No husband. Just you."

He reached inside his jacket. I flinched, but what he pulled out was a small bottle of strong liquor. Clear glass, dark liquid. He unscrewed the cap with his teeth, spat it onto the ground, and took a long pull. His throat worked. A trickle ran down his chin and disappeared into his collar.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and exhaled. The air between us thickened with fumes.

"Please." I hated the word the moment it left my lips. "I don’t have anything worth taking. Just bread. Just—"

"Who said anything about taking?" He tucked the bottle back into his jacket. "I’m a friendly guy. Ask anyone."

He moved again. Not toward me—sideways, cutting off the last sliver of open space near the alley’s mouth. He positioned himself between me and the only exit with the casual ease of a man who had done this before.

My back was flat against the wall. To my left, brick. To my right, brick. Behind me, brick. In front of me, him.

I tried to think. Without Moonlight, I had no enhanced strength. No claws. No speed that could outrun a massive man in a space this small. My body was ordinary. Fragile. The kind that bruised easily and broke under pressure.

Think. Think.

"Someone will hear me if I scream," I said.

He looked up and down the alley. Made a show of it. Then he looked back at me and shrugged.

"Go ahead."

The invitation was worse than any threat. Because he was right. The alley was a pocket of dead air wedged between buildings with no windows facing inward. The street behind him was empty. I’d been running for blocks without seeing a single soul.

He closed the remaining distance in quick strides. His hand landed on my shoulder. Heavy. His fingers dug into the muscle. The grocery bag crumpled between us—I could feel the bread compress against my sternum, the hard edge of the jam tin pressing into my ribs.

"Pretty eyes," he murmured, his hot, rancid breath puffing against my cheek. He leaned closer, studying my face with bleary fascination. "Like green glass. You know that?"

Before I could look away, his other hand came up. Thick fingers. Blunt nails. They reached out and stroked my cheek.

I jerked away violently from his touch.

The back of my skull cracked hard against the cold brick wall.

Light exploded behind my eyes. White. Then gold. Then nothing but a high-pitched ringing that swallowed every other sound.

I blinked, gasping. The world swam. His face doubled, then merged back into one. The ringing faded into a dull, persistent throb at the base of my skull.

"Careful now," he said, his voice coming from very close. "Don’t want to hurt yourself."

But there was nowhere left to go. The wall held me in place. His body blocked the air in front of me.

"Easy," he said. The way someone might calm a cornered animal. "Easy, little thing."

His hand slid from my cheek. Down my jaw. Along the side of my neck. His fingertips dragged across the fabric of my collar, then found the bare skin at the hollow of my throat. They lingered there, pressing lightly.

"Name’s Uncle Dave," he said. He smiled. His teeth were yellow, uneven. "And what do they call you, little thing?"

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My throat had closed.

His hand continued downward. Over my shoulder. Along my arm. His grip was loose. Almost gentle. That was the worst part. The deliberateness of it. The patience.

"Cat got your tongue?" He leaned back just enough to look at my face. His bloodshot eyes moved slowly, tracing every feature. "That’s alright. We don’t need names."

His fingers curled around my wrist. He lifted my hand away from the grocery bag, examining it as though it were a curiosity. He turned it over. Ran his thumb across my bare ring finger.

"See?" he said softly. "No ring. Told you."

He let my hand drop. The grocery bag sagged. The bread shifted inside it.

"So here’s what I’m thinking." He planted his palm flat against the wall beside my head. His arm formed a bar across any remaining gap. "Nice quiet alley. Nice quiet night. Just you and Uncle Dave."

His other hand settled on my arm again. Slid down. Slowly. Knuckles brushing the fabric of my sleeve. His thumb traced a lazy circle against the inside of my elbow.

"What do you say, little thing?" His voice dropped. Low and thick. His face was inches from mine. "Want to play?"