Faking Love To Save The General

Eulah's agonizing scream made Flint flinch. His hands froze in mid-air for a fraction of a second.

That single second was all Eulah needed.

Her fingers, white-knuckled and desperate, gripped the edge of the carriage doorframe. She ignored the blinding pain radiating from her ankle and threw her upper body weight forward, rolling violently inward.

She tumbled into the spacious, luxurious interior of the carriage, bringing the smell of street dust, horse sweat, and fresh blood with her.

The heavy carriage door slammed shut behind her, cutting off the loud gasps of the crowd outside.

Daryl was momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity of the move.

But his battlefield reflexes were faster than thought.

Before Eulah could even push herself up from the plush velvet floorboards, Daryl lunged.

His large, powerful hand clamped around her throat.

He slammed her backward. Eulah's spine hit the polished walnut paneling of the carriage wall with a loud thud.

Daryl leaned over her, his massive frame blocking out the little light coming through the curtains. His grayish-blue eyes were no longer cold; they were blazing with lethal intent.

The space inside the carriage was suddenly suffocating. Their bodies were forced together, separated by less than six inches.

Eulah's airway was crushed. She was forced to tilt her head back, her mouth opening as she struggled to pull in a breath.

But the moment the door had closed, the pathetic, lovesick mask vanished from her face.

The tears stopped. The trembling ceased. Her eyes, previously wide with fake adoration, narrowed into sharp, icy daggers that stabbed straight back into Daryl's furious gaze.

The instantaneous, terrifying shift in her demeanor caught Daryl off guard. The fingers tightening around her windpipe loosened by a millimeter.

Eulah didn't try to pry his hand off her neck. Instead, she reached up and grabbed his thick wrist with both of her hands, anchoring herself to him.

She opened her mouth and spoke in a breathless, barely audible whisper.

"Thirty repeating crossbowmen. Hidden in the rafters of the West Corridor."

Daryl's body went completely rigid. The sheer impossibility of her words struck him like a physical blow. The West Corridor was supposed to be secure, swept by his own vanguard just hours prior.

Eulah didn't blink, her gaze boring into his. "They are positioned above the third pillar. They have the high ground and armor-piercing bolts," she hissed, her words rushing out in a desperate, urgent stream. "If you march in standard formation, you will be slaughtered before you reach the throne room."

The pupils of Daryl's eyes contracted into tiny, black pinpricks. The air in the carriage seemed to freeze.

The hand around Eulah's throat tightened again, the knuckles turning stark white as his combat instincts warred with this sudden, highly classified intelligence.

"Who sent you?" Daryl demanded. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in his chest.

Eulah swallowed hard against the crushing pressure on her throat. The corners of her mouth twitched up into a weak, mocking smile.

"I just... didn't want to see a hero die like a slaughtered pig," she rasped.

Outside, a heavy fist pounded against the carriage door.

"My Lord!" Flint yelled, his voice muffled by the thick wood. "Do you need me to break the door down?"

Instantly, Eulah flipped the switch.

Her face crumpled. She let out a loud, dramatic sob. "Please, General! Have mercy on my poor heart!" she wailed, making sure her voice was loud enough to pierce the carriage walls.

Daryl stared down at her. He watched her seamlessly transition from a cold-blooded intelligence operative back into a hysterical fangirl. His eyes darkened with a complex mix of suspicion and shock.

He weighed his options in a split second.

He abruptly released her throat.

Daryl reached into the breast pocket of his uniform and pulled out a pristine, white silk handkerchief. He wiped his leather glove with slow, deliberate disgust, as if touching her had contaminated him.

"Flint," Daryl commanded, his voice returning to its icy, emotionless baseline. "Escort this 'frightened' lady back to the Duke's estate immediately."

The carriage door was yanked open from the outside. Bright sunlight flooded the dim interior.

Eulah slumped onto the carriage step. She pressed her dirty hands over her face, her shoulders shaking as she faked a devastating bout of weeping.

Flint grabbed her by the arms and hauled her up, dragging her away from the convoy.

Just before she was turned around, Eulah peeked through the gaps in her fingers. She shot Daryl one last, meaningful look.

Don't die.