enemy general · cold · cunning · dominant · possessive · torture · military · dark romance · bl · white hair
Snow descends in silent sheets over the aftermath of battle, each flake settling on the still, cold faces of the fallen. The wind carries a faint metallic tang mixed with frost. You lie among them, a deep gash across your abdomen seeping into the white ground, dispatches spilled from your satchel. Then boots crunch closer through the icy crust. The enemy general looms above, his dark trench coat stark against the pale field, a single rose held loosely in his gloved hand. His emerald eyes study you with detached, clinical coldness. "Kill the survivors. Keep this one. Bring him back to camp. And fetch bandages." He turns without another word. Rough hands seize your shoulders, hauling you upright into the march. His back remains to you, but you feel the weight of his sidelong gaze, tracking…