Chapter 174: Chapter Hundred And Seventy Three
Damon walked slowly down the stone corridors of the underground cellar. He climbed the steep stone stairs and finally returned to the quiet, carpeted hallways of the third floor.
The estate was completely silent. Everyone was deeply asleep.
Damon walked back to the room. He turned the brass handle as quietly as possible. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room was bathed in pale, soft moonlight shining through the tall glass windows. The fire in the fireplace had burned down to a few glowing orange coals.
Damon closed the door without making a single sound. He walked slowly toward the silk-draped bed in the center of the room.
He got inside the sleeping area and found Camilla exactly where he thought she would be. She was sleeping peacefully, lying on her side, completely relaxed. Her chest was heaving with very soft, slow, steady breaths.
Damon stopped at the edge of the bed. He looked down at her.
He noticed that she had kicked her legs in her sleep. The warm wool blanket had come off her body, leaving her shoulders and her back exposed to the cool night air of the large room.
Damon did not hesitate. He reached out with his hands and grabbed the edge of the blanket. Very gently, making sure not to wake her, he pulled the blanket up. He carefully tucked her in, wrapping the warm wool securely around her shoulders so she would not catch a cold.
Damon did not climb into the bed with her. He knew the rules they had silently agreed upon.
Instead, Damon slowly bent his knees. He sat down on the floor right next to the bed. He leaned his broad back against the wooden frame of the mattress. He crossed his arms over his chest.
He turned his head slightly and sat on the floor, just watching her sleep in the moonlight.
As he sat there in the quiet darkness, the same confusing question kept on tormenting him over and over again. His mind was spinning in endless circles.
"What is the name of this feeling?" Damon asked himself in his mind. He stared at her soft, relaxed face.
He understood anger, fear, loyalty, and duty. But this specific feeling inside his chest was completely unknown to him. It had no shape, no clear rules, and no logic.
"Why can’t I bear to see her hurt?" Damon questioned himself silently. His dark eyebrows pulled together in deep frustration. "Even knowing she can protect herself perfectly well? I watched her defeat a giant mercenary with her own two hands. I know she is a deadly assassin. She does not need a shield. Yet, when my aunt swung that sword at her in the garden, my body moved on its own. I was ready to die to stop that blade."
He shifted his weight on the floor, his mind digging deeper into his own strange behavior.
"Why do I feel the need to kill any man who looks at her?" Damon wondered, remembering the furious heat that had burned his blood during the waltz. "Why do I want to destroy any man who she compliments? When she looked at Allen, I wanted to throw him out of a window. I never cared about things like this before."
He looked at her red curly hair resting on the white pillow.
"And why do I want to do anything to get her approval?" Damon asked his own heart. "Even after she insults me? Even after she infuriates me with her terrible lies and her acting? Why do I feel like I have won a massive, glorious war anytime she simply chooses to stand by my side? Why do I want her to remain by my side when I know she is not the real Camilla?"
He let out a very long quiet breath. The confusion was giving him a headache.
"Is this obsession?" Damon asked himself. He knew he was a possessive man. "Or is it just control? Because she is my wife, do I just want to control her?"
He rubbed his forehead with his hand.
"Or am I just going completely mad?" he thought.
He looked at her face again. A few strands of her curls had fallen forward, blocking her face from his view.
Damon slowly raised his hand. He wanted to reach out. He wanted to gently tuck her hair behind her ear so he could see her face clearly.
But as he raised his hand into the moonlight, he stopped. He hesitated.
He saw the dark, dried blood coating his knuckles. It was the blood of the guard he had just beaten to a pulp in the underground cell. His hands were dirty, violent, and cruel. They were not fit to touch her soft skin.
He slowly lowered his hand back to his side.
"Or is it love?" Damon asked himself. It was a terrifying word. He barely even dared to think it.
He stared at the floor. "How do I know it’s love?"
Damon realized he had absolutely no idea what love was supposed to look like. He had no frame of reference.
During his childhood, he had never seen his father show open affection for his mother. His father, the former General, was a very hard, extremely cold man. His father never smiled at his wife in public. He never held her hand. He never spoke sweet words to her.
As a young boy, Damon had thought his parents did not care for each other. But as he grew older, he finally understood the dark truth behind his father’s cold behavior.
His father thought the only way to protect her was to be cold. The Benson family had many ruthless political enemies. If his father showed the world how much he loved his wife, his enemies would know she was his ultimate weakness. They would target her.
So, his father acted like a block of ice. He acted like he did not care, so that his enemies wouldn’t go after her. He wanted to make sure they would concentrate all their attacks on him only.
But at last, the plan had completely failed. The enemies had sabotaged their carriage. They died together on a dark road, their blood mixing in the dirt.
Because of this tragic past, Damon never got to see what healthy, normal love looks like. He never saw hugs. He never heard romantic whispers. He only knew that love equaled weakness, and weakness equaled death.
Hence, his current confusion about his own feelings was increasing rapidly.
Damon let out a heavy sigh. He slowly stood up from the hard wooden floor.
He could not touch her with dirty hands. He walked quietly across the large bedroom and went into the attached washroom. He picked up a bar of soap and began to wash the dark red blood off his hands. He scrubbed his skin until it was clean, trying to wash away the violence of the night.
