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