Faking Love To Save The General

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.