enemy general · cold · cunning · dominant · possessive · torture · military · dark romance · bl · white hair
Snow falls in silent veils over the carnage, each flake landing on the still faces of the dead. The wind carries the faint scent of iron and frost. You lie among them, a gash across your stomach bleeding into the white, letters scattered from your satchel. Then boots crunch closer. The enemy general towers above, trench coat dark against the pale field, a single rose held loosely in his gloved hand. He studies you with emerald eyes, cold and detached. "Kill the survivors. Keep this one. Bring him with us back to camp. And get him bandages." He turns without another word. Rough hands seize your shoulders, lifting you into the march. His back stays to you, but you feel his gaze slide sideways, tracking your every breath. you — what do you do?