Transmigration: The Tyrant General Can Hear My Thoughts

Chapter 224: Chapter Two Hundred And Twenty Three

Damon did not answer her with words.

Seeing her shocked, bewildered face, a sudden wave of possessiveness filled his heart. He did not want any more distance between them.

Damon stepped forward.

He closed the small distance between their bodies in one single, large step. He moved so quickly that Camilla did not even have time to raise her hands to stop him.

Damon reached out his strong, muscular left arm. He wrapped his arm firmly around her small, delicate waist, pulling her body tightly against his broad chest.

Camilla’s breath caught in her throat. She felt the solid, hard heat of his muscles pressing directly against her front.

Damon slowly, carefully bent his upper body downward. He lowered his head until his face was just inches away from hers.

He gently, slowly rested his forehead directly against her forehead.

The physical contact was incredibly close and intimate. Camilla could feel the rapid pounding of his heart against her own chest. She could smell the clean scent of his skin and the fresh water from his morning bath.

Damon looked into her wide hazel eyes. His gaze was intense, deep, and filled with an unbreakable determination.

"Yes," Damon whispered softly. His deep voice rumbled right against her skin, sending a strange, electric shiver straight down her spine.

He kept his arm wrapped securely around her waist, holding her so close she could not pull away.

"If you tell me you want my heart," Damon declared, his voice dropping into a very serious, deadly quiet tone. "I will take a sharp dagger, cut it out of my chest, and hand it directly to you."

The words were heavy. He was not telling a silly romantic lie. He was a man of war, and he was stating a blood oath. He was willing to die for her, and he wanted her to know the absolute depth of his feelings.

Camilla stood pinned against his chest. Her forehead was still touching his.

For a brief second, she was paralyzed by the sheer intensity of his declaration. She had never seen a man look at her with such desperate, honest, and terrifying devotion.

But Camilla hated being caught off guard by confusing emotions. The physical closeness was making her heart beat way too fast, and she needed to escape immediately to protect her own sanity.

She raised both of her hands. She tensed her muscles.

With a hard, and violent motion, Camilla smacked his large hands directly off her waist.

Smack.

The sharp blow was full of her focused physical strength.

Damon quickly, instinctively removed his hands from her waist. He stepped backward rapidly in the sand, creating several feet of distance between them.

Damon stood in the center of the arena. His face showed a look of sudden, intense physical pain. He raised his hands in front of his chest. He began to wriggle his fingers rapidly in the air, his lips parting in a soft hiss of discomfort.

"How..." Damon muttered to himself, his voice full of pain and confusion. He rubbed his sore wrists.

He looked at her small, pale hands. He looked at her slim arms. He genuinely could not understand how a small, delicate woman’s simple smack could carry so much physical force. It felt exactly like being hit by a heavy iron club. His bones were literally throbbing with pain.

Camilla stood tall in the sand. She adjusted the front of her dark training tunic, looking calm and unbothered.

She looked at his wriggling hands.

"Keep your heart to yourself," Camilla said out loud. Her voice was smooth, cold, and practical. "You need it more than I do. A dead General is of absolutely no use to me."

She turned her back on him. She did not want to look at his handsome face anymore.

She walked slowly and gracefully across the soft sand, heading toward the far end of the arena where the weapon racks stood.

She stopped in front of the archery stand. Resting on the wooden pegs was a beautiful, dark wooden bow and a long leather quiver filled with sharp, feather-tipped arrows.

Camilla reached out her hand and picked up the bow, testing the weight in her left hand. It felt solid and strong. She reached into the quiver and pulled out a single, sharp arrow.

She walked over to the shooting line. A large, round straw target with a bright red bullseye was set up fifty yards away.

Camilla stood sideways. She raised the bow. She placed the notched end of the arrow onto the tight bowstring.

She began to speak as she pulled the string backward. Her voice was calm, carrying a clear, mocking edge.

"I thought you are a man of strict boundaries, My Lord," Camilla said, her eyes focusing on the distant target.

She pulled the tight string back smoothly, her muscles straining against the wood until the white feathers of the arrow brushed against her pale cheek.

"Why are you suddenly acting like a clingy, desperate husband?" Camilla asked, her voice dripping with sharp sarcasm. "I thought you hated things like that? I thought you preferred your cold, silent rules."

Twang.

She released the string. The arrow flew through the air with a loud, sharp snap.

The arrow hit the target with a solid thud, piercing the straw just an inch away from the center.

Camilla did not pause. She reached into the leather quiver and pulled out a second arrow. She placed it onto the string with fast motion.

She pulled the string back again, her shoulders perfectly aligned, her eyes focused on the exact center of the red target.

"You used to sleep on the floor and ignore my existence," Camilla continued to lecture him, her voice cool and steady. "But now you are following me around, smiling like a fool, and talking about cutting your heart out. It is very inconsistent behavior, My Lord."

She held her breath for a brief second.

And released.

Twang.

The second arrow flew straight and true, slicing through the cool air of the cavern.

Thwack.

The arrow hit the exact center of the red bullseye, splitting the wood of the previous arrow slightly. It was a flawless shot.

Camilla slowly lowered the bow to her side. She did not turn around to look at him. She stared at the bullseye, her red ponytail hanging quietly behind her.

Damon stood in the center of the soft sand, a few yards behind her.

He watched her perfect posture. He looked at the arrow resting exactly in the center of the bullseye. He listened to her sharp, sarcastic, and unfeeling words. He knew she was trying to push him away. He knew she was trying to build her cold walls again to protect herself from the sudden closeness.

A very soft gentle smile returned to Damon’s face.

The pain in his hands was forgotten. The confusion was gone. He looked at her, and his dark brown eyes were filled with devotion.

Damon thought to himself.

"Yes," He thought, his eyes tracing the elegant curve of her back. "I am a man of strict boundaries. I have lived my entire life behind cold, hard walls. I have always hated clinginess. I have always despised weakness and emotional drama."

He took a slow, deep breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs.

"But you," Damon’s thoughts concluded, his smile growing just a tiny bit wider in the quiet, torch-lit arena. "You are the exception. It is my turn to chase after you and make you see my feelings."