Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Chapter 157

Elara’s POV

The water was barely warm.

It sputtered from the rusted brass showerhead in thin, uneven streams, more mist than flow. I stood under it anyway, scrubbing. Scrubbing until the cheap bar of soap was worn down to a fraction of its size and my skin had turned an angry, blotchy pink.

The blood came off easy enough. His blood. It swirled down the drain in pale ribbons, mixing with grime and soap scum. But the feeling wouldn’t wash away. The phantom weight of his hand clamped over my mouth. The stink of his breath. The way the cobblestones had bitten into my spine when he’d shoved me down.

I scrubbed harder.

My knuckles stung. The skin had split across a couple of them, and the soap found every crack, every raw edge. I hissed through my teeth but didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Because if I stopped scrubbing, I’d start thinking. And if I started thinking—

I turned off the water. The pipes groaned in protest, shuddering inside the wall like something alive and in pain.

The towel was threadbare. More holes than fabric. I wrapped it around myself and stood dripping on the cracked tile floor, staring at the mirror above the sink.

The woman staring back looked like a stranger.

Pale. Hollow-eyed. Hair hanging in wet, tangled ropes against her neck and shoulders. There were bruises forming along her jaw. A scratch across her cheekbone she didn’t remember getting.

I looked away.

The apartment was barely bigger than a closet. One room. A narrow cot pushed against the far wall. A kitchen counter with a single heating-rune and a sink that dripped constantly. A window that didn’t open all the way, letting in a permanent draft that smelled like rust and wet stone.

I pulled on an oversized shirt that fell to mid-thigh. Then a pair of old drawstring pants, soft from too many washes, the knees almost worn through. The fabric swallowed me. Good. I wanted to disappear inside something.

I sat on the edge of the cot. The springs creaked.

The ruined groceries were still in the canvas sack by the door, exactly where I’d dropped them when I stumbled in. I hadn’t had the energy to deal with them. Now I forced myself to stand and cross the few steps it took to reach the bag.

I upended it onto the counter.

The bread came out first. Crushed flat. The heel had separated from the rest, and the whole thing was streaked with something dark. Preserves. The jar of fruit jam had cracked during the struggle. Half its contents had leaked out, soaking through the bread and pooling in the bottom of the sack in a sticky, glass-studded mess.

I picked out the shards carefully. Set aside the bread. Maybe I could salvage the pieces that weren’t contaminated with glass.

The quick-boil noodle rations had survived. Three of them. Dented but sealed. I lined them up on the counter like soldiers.

Then I opened the cupboard.

Half a loaf of bread, stale at the edges. The three dried noodle rations I’d just added. One jar of jam—no. I picked it up. Tilted it. A thin scraping clung to the bottom. Maybe a couple of servings if I spread it thin enough.

I closed the cupboard.

Three days. That was it. If I skipped breakfast. If I made each ration last two meals instead of one.

My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the counter and breathed.

Count it. Just count it.

I crossed to the cot and reached under the thin mattress. The money pouch was there, tucked into the gap between mattress and frame. Small. Leather. Enchanted once, probably, though whatever preservation charm it had held was long since faded.

I poured the contents onto the blanket.

Gold coins. Copper bits. I sorted them with numb fingers, stacking them into neat little towers the way I used to organize documents in the archive. Methodical. Precise. As if being organized could somehow multiply what was there.

It couldn’t.

Two hundred and forty-seven gold coins. Eighty-three copper bits.

I stared at the towers. The gold caught the light from the single overhead light crystal, and for a moment they looked almost beautiful. Like tiny promises.

Rent was due next week. After that, I’d have less than fifty gold coins to my name. Less than fifty. For food. For soap. For the candles I burned at night because the light crystal flickered out whenever the wind picked up.

The money the Morrison family had given me—money I’d thought would last a long while, money I’d budgeted and rationed and planned around—had evaporated in barely two weeks. The city had eaten it alive. Deposit on the apartment. Initial rent. Basic supplies. The cheapest food I could find. And still it was gone. All of it. Consumed by a place that charged you for breathing.

Something hot pressed behind my eyes.

Don’t.

I swept the coins back into the pouch. Pulled the drawstring tight. Shoved it under the mattress.

The heating pipes clanged. A deep, metallic banging that vibrated through the walls and floor, loud enough to make my teeth ache. The building’s ancient system protesting the cold. Or maybe just protesting existence. I understood the feeling.

I sat back on the cot. Drew my knees to my chest. Pressed my forehead against them.

And cried.

Not quietly. Not the dignified, silent tears of someone bearing their pain with grace. These were ugly tears. Angry. Scalding. They burned tracks down my cheeks and soaked into the fabric stretched across my knees. My shoulders shook. My ribs ached with the force of it.

I cried for the groceries I couldn’t replace. For the jar of jam bleeding out across dirty cobblestones. For the man’s hands on me and the sound of his skull hitting the wall and the fact that I’d had to do that. That the world had shrunk to a place where those were the choices—be prey or be violent.

I cried because I was so tired. So impossibly, bone-deep tired.

When it finally stopped, I felt hollowed out. Empty as the cupboard.

I wiped my face with the hem of my shirt and sat there, breathing. The pipes clanged again. Somewhere outside, a dog barked.

My hand drifted to my pocket.

The card was still there.

I pulled it out. The edges were soft now, slightly damp from the shower’s residual moisture on my clothes. But the text was still legible. Clean black letters on white stock.

Zane Thorne. Talent Acquisition.

I turned it over. Blank on the back.

Underground fight rings.

The purse for a single bout could cover your rent for a long while.

Female fighters are especially in demand.

My thumb traced the edge of the card. Back and forth. A nervous habit I didn’t remember developing.

He could be anything. A slaver. A trafficker. The kind of man who dangled opportunity in front of desperate women and then locked the door behind them. I’d heard the stories. Everyone had. Women lured with promises of work, then sold to—

I put the card down on the cot.

No. Find a proper job. A legal one. Something in a shop or a tavern or scrubbing floors somewhere. Anything.

But how many doors had I already knocked on? How many shopkeepers had looked at my bruised face and thin frame and said we’re not hiring? How many tavern owners had offered work on conditions I wouldn’t accept?

I picked the card up again.

The purse for a single bout.

Rent for a long while.

Less than fifty gold coins after next week. After that—what? The street? A shelter, if the city even had one that didn’t require identification I couldn’t produce?

The pipes banged again. Louder this time. Like a fist pounding on metal. Like the building itself was losing patience.

I pressed the card flat between both palms. Closed my eyes.

The transmission sigil on the front—the faint magical watermark I’d almost missed—was standard mercantile grade. Cheap to produce. Easy to activate. All you had to do was press your thumb to it and speak a name, and the message would find its target within the city limits.

I memorized it. The sigil’s pattern. Its curves and angles. Burned it into my memory the same way I’d once memorized ancient texts and archive classifications. Precisely. Permanently.

Then I opened my eyes.

"I’ll find a real job," I said to the empty room. My voice sounded thin. Unconvincing. Even to me. "Something legitimate. Something safe. I won’t call him."

The pipes groaned.

I slid the card under my pillow. Lay down on the cot. Pulled the thin blanket up to my chin.

The card’s edge pressed against my scalp through the flat, worn fabric.

I didn’t move it.