Faking Love To Save The General

Cold, murky water dripped from the moss-covered stone archway.

The drop fell with a hollow splash into a foul-smelling puddle on the floor.

The Royal Dungeon was built deep beneath the capital city, a place designed to make prisoners forget the sun existed. The air down here was thick, tasting of rust and rotting flesh. It coated the back of the throat like a physical weight.

A heavy, wrought-iron cell door shrieked. The harsh friction of metal on metal echoed down the corridor.

Mace, the prison guard, pushed the door open with all his weight. He kept his eyes trained on the floor, his body stiff with extreme, deferential caution.

Brandt Fischer stepped into the cell.

He wore a pair of immaculate, custom-made black leather boots. The expensive leather splashed directly into the filthy puddle, but Brandt didn't flinch. As the Cabinet Minister, a man who controlled the kingdom's laws and shadows, he was not supposed to be here. The dungeons were for the condemned, not for the highest-ranking officials. But Brandt used the official excuse of "interrogating the families of traitors" to mask his private, twisted obsession.

The flickering light from the hallway torches spilled into the cell.

It illuminated Eulah Merrill.

She was suspended from the wall, her wrists bound tightly by heavy steel chains. The metal had rubbed her skin raw, leaving bloody, infected rings around her delicate bones.

Her body trembled. It was an involuntary, violent shivering caused by five years of starvation, severe blood loss, and the freezing dampness of the underground cell.

Brandt walked toward her. He raised a hand clad in a pristine white glove.

His long fingers clamped down on Eulah's jaw. His grip was a vice, forcing her chin up.

The sudden, harsh torchlight stabbed at Eulah's dry, sunken eyes. She squinted instinctively, her eyelashes fluttering against the painful glare.

Brandt stared down at her. The corners of his mouth curved up into a smile. It was a gentle, polite smile, the kind he wore at royal banquets. It made the hairs on the back of Eulah's neck stand up.

"Your father, Duke Harrison, is dead," Brandt said.

His voice was like velvet. Soft. Soothing. Completely at odds with the words leaving his mouth.

Eulah's heart seized. It felt as if a giant, invisible fist had punched straight through her ribs and squeezed her heart muscle until it stopped beating for a full second.

Her stomach dropped, a cold, hollow sensation spreading through her abdomen.

But she didn't make a sound.

Her cracked, bleeding lips pressed tightly together. Not a single whimper. Not a single plea for mercy escaped her throat.

Brandt's polite smile faltered. A flicker of irritation crossed his gray eyes. He hated this dead-water reaction. He wanted her to scream. He wanted her to beg.

He slowly reached into the cuff of his dark, patterned sleeve.

He pulled out a silver dagger. The hilt was heavily engraved with the Royal Crest-a lion intertwined with thorns.

Brandt pressed the flat, freezing edge of the blade against Eulah's cheek. The metal dragged against the layer of grime and dried blood on her skin.

Eulah didn't look away. Through the tangled, dirty strands of her hair, her eyes locked onto his. Her gaze was cold. Piercing. Filled with a mocking defiance that refused to be broken.

That look. That unyielding, rebellious stare.

It was a spark thrown into a pool of gasoline. It instantly ignited the sadistic, violent urges buried deep inside Brandt's chest.

He twisted his wrist.

The razor-sharp edge of the dagger sliced into the pale, fragile skin of Eulah's neck.

Warm blood immediately welled up. It spilled over the metal blade and trailed down her collarbone, disappearing into the filthy, torn fabric of her prison uniform.

A sharp, electric pain shot through Eulah's entire body. Her lungs seized.

She bit down hard on the tip of her tongue. The metallic taste of her own blood flooded her mouth, the sharp sting forcing her brain to stay conscious.

Brandt leaned in close. So close that his hot breath fanned over the fresh, bleeding cut on her neck.

"The executioner was clumsy," Brandt whispered directly into her ear.

He began to describe the execution. He detailed exactly how the heavy axe had missed the first time, biting into her father's shoulder blade before finally severing his head on the second swing.

Eulah's chest began to heave. Her breathing turned ragged.

Extreme, suffocating hatred clawed at her throat.

Her mind violently replayed the last five years. Five years of being locked away. Five years of being used as a substitute, a punching bag, a plaything for this monster, all because she looked like someone else.

Brandt's gloved finger moved. He pressed the pad of his thumb directly into the fresh, bleeding wound he had just made on her neck. He pushed hard.

A muffled, agonizing groan was ripped from Eulah's throat.

Her body convulsed against the stone wall, the steel chains rattling violently as her muscles spasmed in pure agony.

Brandt's gray eyes lit up. A sick, twisted satisfaction washed over his features. The thrill of absolute control made his pupils dilate.

He released his grip on her jaw and took a half-step back.

He tilted his head, admiring the way she hung there. Like a broken, discarded ragdoll.

Eulah's eyelashes were heavy with cold sweat. She forced her eyes open, staring dead at the demon who had systematically destroyed her entire life.

Her dry, ruined throat worked.

She let out a sound. It started as a rasp, then grew into a low, chilling sneer.

It was a laugh.

A spark of absolute, destructive vengeance ignited in the ashes of her despair.

That grating, mocking laugh hit Brandt like a physical blow.

The polite mask shattered. The veins in his neck bulged against his high collar.

He lunged forward. His large hand clamped around Eulah's slender throat.

Brandt's fingers dug into her windpipe. He squeezed, his knuckles turning white. He stared intensely into her eyes, desperate to find a shred of terror, a hint of submission.

There was none.

Eulah's face turned a deep, mottled purple from the lack of oxygen. Her lungs burned as if she had inhaled fire. But the madness in her eyes only burned brighter.

She gathered every last ounce of strength left in her broken body.

She threw her head forward.

Eulah opened her mouth and sank her teeth directly into the side of Brandt's neck, right over the edge of his carotid artery.

Her sharp teeth tore through the expensive, stiff fabric of his collar. They sank deep into his hot flesh.

The heavy, rusty taste of blood instantly flooded Eulah's mouth. It was thick and sickeningly warm.

Brandt let out a roar of pure, agonizing rage.

He yanked his arm back and swung it forward with brutal force.

The impact threw Eulah backward.

Her body flew through the air, the heavy chains snapping taut.

A sickening, wet crack echoed through the dungeon.

The back of Eulah's skull smashed into the jagged, unyielding stone wall.

Hot blood gushed from the back of her head. It poured down the wall, staining the green moss a dark, terrifying crimson.

Eulah's body slid down the rough stone. She hung completely limp, suspended only by the tension of the chains around her wrists.

Her vision blurred into a gray haze. But she kept her eyes locked on Brandt.

Brandt stumbled back. His hand was clamped over his bleeding neck. Blood seeped through his white glove.

Panic-raw and unfamiliar-flashed in his gray eyes.

He lunged forward, his hands violently grabbing her hair to pull her skull away from the stone. He pressed his blood-soaked fingers against the wound, not out of any sense of mercy, but driven by a furious, twisted possessiveness. She was his toy. She was not allowed to break, and she was certainly not allowed to die without his explicit permission.

Outside the cell, Mace heard the commotion.

The guard rushed in, his keys jingling wildly at his hip.

Mace froze. He stared at the Cabinet Minister covered in blood, and the prisoner bleeding out on the wall. His knees gave out. He collapsed into the filthy puddle, stuttering a panicked cry for help.

Brandt's mind snapped. His prey had died without his permission. He had lost control.

He spun around, his eyes wild. He snatched the standard-issue shortsword from Mace's belt.

Without a second of hesitation, Brandt drove the blade straight through the guard's chest.

Mace's body slumped into the water. His blood mixed with the muddy puddle, turning it a dark, rusty red.

Eulah watched the monster lose his mind.

The corners of her mouth twitched up into a gruesome, victorious smile.

Then, the endless, suffocating darkness swallowed her whole.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

A sharp, rhythmic ticking sound pierced the heavy void.

Eulah was violently yanked from the sensation of falling.

She gasped loudly, her lungs expanding so fast it hurt. Her eyes snapped open.

She was lying on a soft, silk-sheeted four-poster bed.

Bright, morning sunlight sliced through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains, stabbing at her sensitive retinas.

Eulah's hands flew to the back of her head. Then to her throat.

Her skin was smooth. Intact. There was no blood. No gaping wound. No chains.

Her chest he heave as she scrambled up, her eyes darting around the room.

She saw the mahogany vanity table. She saw the oil paintings of landscapes she had painted as a young girl.

Eulah's breath hitched. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She was back in her bedroom at the Merrill Estate.

She was eighteen years old again.

Eulah threw off the thin silk blanket.

Her bare feet hit the floor. The thick wool rug was freezing against her toes.

She stumbled forward, her legs shaking so badly she almost collapsed. She crashed into the mahogany vanity, her hands gripping the cold marble top to keep herself upright.

She stared into the brass-rimmed mirror.

A young, pale face stared back. There were no scars. No hollowed-out cheeks from starvation. Just the beautiful, untouched features of a teenage girl.

Eulah raised a trembling hand. She traced the smooth line of her neck, pressing her fingertips against her pulse point.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It was strong. It was real.

A wave of overwhelming disbelief crashed over her. Her eyes burned. A single, hot tear slipped down her cheek and splattered onto the marble surface.

Suddenly, her stomach violently contracted.

The phantom smell of the dungeon-the rust, the rotting flesh, the metallic tang of Brandt's blood-flooded her nasal passages.

Eulah bent over the vanity and dry-heaved. Her throat spasmed painfully, but her stomach was empty.

She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. She pressed so hard the skin broke.

The sharp, stinging pain grounded her. It forced the PTSD-induced panic back into a locked box in her mind.

Knock. Knock.

Two muffled thumps sounded against the heavy oak double doors of her bedroom.

Agnes, her personal maid, pushed the door open. She looked exactly as she had five years ago-young, vibrant, holding a silver washbasin filled with warm water.

Agnes gasped when she saw Eulah standing barefoot on the rug. She quickly set the heavy basin down on a side table and grabbed a cashmere shawl.

"Miss Eulah, you'll catch your death of cold," Agnes fussed, hurrying over.

Eulah stared at the living, breathing maid. Before she could stop herself, she threw her arms around Agnes and hugged her tight.

Agnes froze. She was terrified by the sudden, uncharacteristic display of affection from her usually reserved mistress. But slowly, she raised a hand and patted Eulah's back.

Eulah took a deep, shuddering breath. She forced her muscles to relax and pulled away.

She needed to control her voice. She needed to sound normal.

"Agnes," Eulah said, her voice slightly hoarse. "What is today's exact date?"

Agnes blinked, confused as she moved to straighten the silk bedsheets. She clearly recited the year and the exact day according to the Foundation Calendar.

The moment the date registered in Eulah's brain, her pupils shrank to pinpricks.

A bloody, forgotten memory tore through her mind like a lightning bolt.

Today. She was eighteen. Today was the day Lord Daryl Langley, the Kingdom's God of War, returned to the capital in triumph.

And today was the day he would be ambushed.

In her past life, Daryl had been attacked while entering the Royal Palace to report his victories. He survived, but he was severely crippled and stripped of his military power.

That ambush was the exact moment Brandt Fischer and the King began their systematic destruction of the military's influence.

Eulah's mind raced. Daryl was the only military force in the entire kingdom capable of standing against Brandt.

If she could save Daryl today, she would be holding the ultimate trump card in this deadly game of chess.

The grandfather clock against the wall chimed eight times.

Daryl was scheduled to enter the palace in less than two hours.

Eulah shoved away the complicated, heavily corseted gown Agnes was holding out to her. Noblewomen's clothing was designed to restrict movement, to keep them docile. She didn't have time for docile.

She tore through the silk dresses, pushing aside the frilly, pastel gowns until she found an old, unadorned riding habit from years ago-the simplest garment she owned. She pulled it on with frantic, jerky movements.

Agnes watched in absolute shock. "Miss! What are you doing? You cannot go out like that!"

Eulah ignored her. She yanked open a drawer and grabbed a leather riding crop.

When she turned back to Agnes, her eyes were completely devoid of warmth. They were cold, calculating, and utterly ruthless.

"Stay in this room," Eulah ordered, her voice cracking like a whip. "Cover for me. Do not let anyone inside. Do you understand?"

Agnes flinched. The sheer, overwhelming authority radiating from the young girl paralyzed her. She nodded dumbly.

Eulah didn't wait. She threw open the heavy glass French doors leading to her balcony.

She grabbed the thick, sturdy vines clinging to the stone exterior of the manor and slid down into the back garden.