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.