Chapter 262: Chapter Two Hundred And Sixty One
"Ah!" the maids screamed loudly, covering their heads.
Damon did not step back. He stood firmly in front of the roaring fire. He glared at the flames, looking like he was prepared to fight the fire with his bare fists.
Mr. Murry panicked. The situation was a total disaster. The General was going to burn the entire Benson mansion to the ground before breakfast was even ready.
Murry rushed forward with an iron lid and slammed it down onto the burning pan, immediately killing the hungry flames. The smoke slowly drifted out the open windows.
Murry stood in front of Damon. The old housekeeper was breathing heavily. He looked at the broken cutting board, the shattered eggs on the floor, and the smoking stove.
Murry gave Damon a desperate, pleading look.
"My Lord," Murry said, his voice shaking. He needed to find a task that Damon could not possibly destroy. He needed something that actually required brutal strength.
Murry looked around the kitchen. His eyes landed on a large basket filled with fresh oranges.
Murry quickly grabbed the basket. He placed it on the table. He placed a large glass pitcher right next to it.
"My Lord," Murry spoke, forcing his voice to sound very cheerful. "The Lady loves fresh fruit juice in the morning. We need orange juice. Please, I beg of you, just handle the oranges."
Damon looked at the basket of fruit. "How do I cut them?" he asked, reaching for another knife.
"NO KNIVES!" Murry shouted quickly in panic. He waved his hands in the air. "No tools at all! Just... just use your hands, My Lord! Squeeze the juice directly into the pitcher!"
Damon looked at Murry. He looked at his own large, empty hands. Then, he looked at the oranges.
"Understood," Damon nodded his head.
This was a task he could actually do.
Damon picked up an orange and held it with both of his hands over the glass pitcher.
He tightened his grip. His forearms flexed visibly. The thick muscles shifted and popped under his skin.
He squeezed.
The orange skin instantly burst open under the pressure. Fresh orange juice sprayed violently out of the fruit. It poured like a stream into the glass pitcher.
Damon crushed the fruit until he pppppnothing was left but a flat, dry, empty peel. He tossed the ruined peel into a waste bucket. He picked up another orange and repeated the violent process.
Squish. Splash.
He lined the oranges up in his mind like a row of enemy soldiers. He crushed them one by one, his powerful arms flexing and straining with every single squeeze. Drops of sticky, sweet orange juice flew into the air, splattering lightly against his muscular arms and spotting his white linen shirt.
Murry and the kitchen staff stood safely in the corner, watching the ridiculous scene in silence. It was bizarre, but it was working. The pitcher was filling up rapidly.
While the kitchen was trapped in chaos, the sun finally rose high above the capital city.
Inside the quiet guest room on the east wing of the mansion, Camilla slowly opened her eyes.
She let out a soft, tired groan. She stretched her arms high above her head.
As she moved, a sharp, dull ache shot through her lower back and her neck. The mattress in the guest room was different from the one in the master bedroom. It was much harder, and the pillows were too stiff.
Camilla rubbed her sore neck with her hand.
"This bed is terrible," Camilla thought to herself, her internal voice filled with an annoyed complaint. She sat up slowly. "I miss sleeping in the master bedroom. The mattress there is so soft, and the blankets are so warm."
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her bare feet touched the floorboards.
As she sat there, her mind suddenly drifted back to the events of the previous afternoon.
She remembered how he had grabbed her waist so tightly. She remembered the firm pressure of his mouth against hers. She remembered the clean, masculine scent of his skin and the strong grip of his fingers tangled deeply in her hair.
A sudden, intense rush of heat flooded Camilla’s chest. Her cheeks turned a warm shade of pink in the room.
She quickly raised her hands and slapped her own cheeks lightly to wake herself up.
"Stop it, Camilla," she scolded herself strictly in her mind. Her internal voice was sharp and punishing. "Do not think about that. It was just a mistake. He was just jealous. You do not actually love him. You cannot fall for a fictional man."
She stood up quickly. She walked over to the washbasin and washed her face with freezing cold water to chase the blushing heat away.
She took her bath and dressed herself carefully for the day. She brushed her hair until it shone, leaving it to fall softly over her shoulders.
She looked out the window at the bright morning sun.
"It is quite late," Camilla thought to herself. She felt a small wave of relief. "He has probably gone to the camp by now. He always leave early. Good. I don’t have to see his face and deal with the awkwardness today."
She walked out of the guest room and stepped into the hallway.
She walked slowly toward the master bedroom. She wanted to be sure he’s truly gone.
She reached the door, grabbed the brass handle and turned it very slowly. She pushed the door open just a tiny crack and peeped inside.
The large bedroom was empty. The wool blankets on the bed were made.
Camilla let out a long, quiet sigh of relief. She smiled a small, soft smile.
She closed the door softly.
"He’s truly gone," Camilla whispered to herself in the empty hallway.
She turned around and began to walk toward the grand staircase. She felt relaxed. She had successfully avoided a terrible, awkward morning encounter. She could eat her breakfast in peace, read her book, and plan her next business moves without someone looking at her.
Camilla walked gracefully down the stairs. She entered the grand foyer.
She walked down the long, carpeted hallway leading to the dining room. As she walked, a delicious smell drifted through the air. It smelled like roasted duck, sweet pastries, baked bread, and fresh fruit.
Her stomach gave a loud, hungry rumble.
"Uncle Murry," Camilla called out cheerfully as she walked down the hallway. Her voice was bright and happy. "Breakfast smells incredibly good. I’m really hungry today."
She reached the double doors of the dining room and pushed both doors wide open.
Camilla stepped into the dining room.
She expected to see the long table with her porridge or fruit tart and Uncle Murry standing politely near the window.
Instead, she stopped dead in her tracks.
The table was covered with an unbelievable amount of food. There were plates of crispy roasted duck, bowls of hot soup, baskets of sweet honey pastries, and tall glass pitchers filled with orange juice. It was a feast.
But Camilla did not look at the food. Her eyes were locked onto the head of the table.
Sitting in the large chair was Damon.
He was still wearing his sleeping shirt. The top three buttons were undone, exposing the muscled skin of his chest. The sleeves of the white shirt were rolled up past his elbows.
His forearms were bare. They were covered in small, faded white battle scars, and veins popped visibly against his skin. There were tiny, bright yellow spots of orange juice and a light dusting of white flour on his arms and his shirt from the kitchen.
He looked wild, domestic, and devastatingly handsome.
Damon looked up when the doors opened. He saw her standing there. His dark brown eyes locked onto hers. He looked earnest, waiting nervously for her reaction to the massive breakfast he had fought so hard to help prepare.
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