Faking Love To Save The General

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.