Serve Me, My Lord

Emmett's eyes snapped open. He gasped. His throat closed up completely, blocking the air. He clawed at the stiff, starched cotton sheets. His fingers tore at the thin fabric. The phantom weight of a thick, coarse rope still crushed his windpipe. He choked. A wet, ugly sound ripped from his throat. His chest heaved up and down. He rolled to the side, desperate for oxygen. His body slid off the edge of the narrow mattress.

He hit the floor. His knees slammed into the cold, polished concrete floor. The sharp pain shot up his legs. He gasped again, and this time, air flooded his lungs. The pain in his knees was real. It wasn't the cold numbness of a broken neck.

He dragged his shaking hand up the side of the nightstand. His fingers hit a small box of matches. He grabbed one and struck it against the wood. The sudden flare stabbed his eyes. He squeezed them shut, then forced them open to look at the small paper calendar pinned to the wall.

He stared at the paper.

October 14th.

His heart stopped. Then it slammed hard against his ribs. Three days. He was exactly three days away from the afternoon Alistair Patterson would fall from his horse and snap his spine.

A loud electronic alarm went off in the hallway. A second later, a heavy fist pounded on his door.

"Emmett! Get up!" Rory yelled through the thin wood. "Finch is on a rampage today!"

Emmett stared at the door. His stomach cramped. Rory. He remembered Rory choking on his own vomit, dying of a fentanyl overdose two years after the Patterson estate went bankrupt.

Emmett swallowed the sour taste of bile in his mouth. He took a deep breath.

"I'm up," Emmett said. His voice sounded like gravel, but it was completely flat.

He pushed himself off the floor. He walked to the small mirror above the plastic sink. He grabbed the edges of the basin. He looked at his face.

There were no bruises on his jaw. No split lip from the police enforcer's fist. His skin was smooth and young. It was the face of a naive boy who thought hard work would get him out of the slums. But his eyes were different. They were completely dead.

He pulled his sweat-soaked t-shirt over his head. He grabbed the dark gray uniform of a lower-tier footman. He pulled the trousers up. He buttoned the stiff collar of the shirt. His movements were fast, rigid, and precise.

He opened the door.

Rory leaned against the wall. He rubbed his eyes. "They put me on laundry duty again. Elias hates me."

Emmett didn't nod. He didn't smile. He just stepped past Rory into the hallway.

"Hey, are you listening?" Rory reached out to grab Emmett's shoulder.

Emmett's body reacted instantly. He dropped his shoulder and twisted his torso. Rory's hand grabbed empty air.

Rory blinked. "What's your problem?"

"We're going to be late," Emmett said. He kept