Damon realized this was different. These tears were real. She wasn’t acting. They were born from a place of deep, unconscious pain. The fearless lady of the house, the woman who had slaughtered a giant rcenary without blinking, was currently weeping quietly against his chest like a lost, frightened child.
"Is she having a nightmare?" Damon thought to himself. His internal voice was filled with sudden, intense concern.
He forgot that he was not supposed to let her see him. He forgot about his embarrassnt. His protective instincts took over entirely. He hated seeing her in true pain.
He wanted to comfort her. He slowly raised his hand. He wanted to gently clean her tears away with his thumb. He wanted to smooth her red hair and wake her up gently from the bad dream.
His hand hovered just a single inch above her wet cheek.
Just as his fingers were about to touch her soft skin, Camilla’s lips parted slightly.
She spoke in her deep sleep. Her voice was very soft, thick with tears, and incredibly tender.
"Winston," Camilla murmured sweetly into the quiet night. "It is so good to hold you."
Damon’s large hand completely froze in mid-air.
His entire body went stiff. His lungs stopped pulling in air. His blood turned to solid, freezing ice in his veins.
Winston.
The na echoed loudly inside his brain like a massive, heavy iron bell ringing in a silent church.
It was a man’s na. It was a completely foreign, strange-sounding na. He did not know anyone in the entire kingdom nad Winston. There were no nobles, no generals, and no servants in his camp with that na.
Damon’s hand hovered over her face. He hesitated. He could not move.
The tears increased. More wet drops fell from her closed eyes, soaking his shirt. She rubbed her face gently against his chest, seeking more comfort from the warm body she was holding.
"I miss you so much, Winston..." she murmured sadly. Her voice cracked with overwhelming longing. It was the voice of a woman speaking to soone she loved more than anything else in the entire world.
Damon stared down at her crying face.
She wasn’t having a scary nightmare. She was dreaming about a man. A man nad Winston. And she missed him terribly.
Damon noticed her grip tightened even more around his waist. Her arm squeezed his chest firmly, holding him as if she were desperately afraid he might disappear into the shadows.
She was holding him, but in her mind, she was holding kitty, Winston.
A sudden violent wave of dark, burning jealousy exploded straight into Damon’s heart. It was a physical pain, sharper and deeper than any sword wound he had ever received on the battlefield.
Damon frowned deeply. His thick, dark eyebrows pulled together in a look of terrifying anger.
He slowly brought his hovering hand down. He did not wipe her tears away. He clenched his hand into a tight, hard fist resting on the mattress beside her head.
"Who is Winston?" Damon demanded silently in his own mind. His internal voice was a dark, dangerous, furiously jealous growl.
His mind raced wildly, trying to solve the mystery. Was Winston a secret lover from her past? Was he a guard she had t in the capital city? Was he the reason she was always so desperate to get a divorce and run away? Was she planning to take the gold coins and run straight into the arms of this Winston?
The thought of her smiling, laughing, and holding another man exactly like she was holding him right now made Damon feel physically sick with rage.
He could not stand being a replacent for another man in her dreams. He needed to get away from her touch imdiately.
Damon tried to release her grip again. He grabbed her arm much more firmly this ti. He tried to pull her leg off his thigh.
But she held him tightly. She refused to let the warm body go.
She continued speaking in her sleep. Her voice beca even more watery, broken, and desperate.
"Don’t push away, Winston," Camilla begged softly, her tears flowing freely now. She buried her face deeper into his shirt.
Damon stopped trying to push her away. He was completely paralyzed by the raw, desperate emotion in her voice.
"I won’t leave you again, I promise," she murmured, her chin trembling against his chest. "Just don’t be angry at . I will take good care of you from now on, just don’t leave ."
She let out a soft, heartbreaking sob.
"I have been completely lost without you," she finished, her voice fading into a quiet, sad whisper.
The bedroom was completely silent again, except for the sound of her soft, crying breaths.
Damon lay perfectly flat on his back. He did not move a single muscle. He let her hold him. He let her cry onto his shirt.
He stared blankly up at the ceiling of the master bedroom.
His anger slowly drained away, replaced by a crushing sense of defeat and deep sadness.
"She actually let herself be vulnerable for soone else?" Damon thought to himself. His internal voice was shocked and deeply wounded.
He thought about the tis she had been with him. He thought about how she treated him. When she looked at him, her eyes were always cold, calculating, or filled with sarcastic mockery. She fought him at every turn and act like a good wife at the sa ti. She is a very good, very skilled fighter. She never showed him a single ounce of genuine weakness.
"I have never seen her in this state before," Damon realized painfully in his mind.
He looked down at the top of her red hair.
"Who actually is this Winston," Damon asked himself, his heart aching with a very strange, bitter longing, "to make her cry over him like this?"
He realized exactly what he was feeling. He was not just angry. He was jealous. He wanted her to look at him the way she looked at Winston in her dreams. He wanted her to hold onto him and beg him not to leave. He wanted to be the person she missed.
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