Transmigration: The Tyrant General Can Hear My Thoughts-Chapter 19 - Nineteen

"This level of clinginess should be enough for now," Camilla calculated in her thoughts. She kept her face hidden against his blankets, but in her mind, she was plotting.

"Damon hated the original Camilla the most because she was annoying and didn’t understand boundaries," she reasoned with herself. Damon listened to every single word she thought. "She has been crying and pestering him relentlessly for an entire year. So, the logic is simple. The more I cling to him, the more he will dislike me. And that dislike will quickly turn to pure hatred. He will be so disgusted by me that he will sign the divorce papers just to make me get out of his life."

Damon stared down at the top of her hair. His mind was spinning.

"She is doing this on purpose," Damon realized. His heart beat faster. "She does not care about my leg. She does not care about my life. She is faking these tears just to annoy me. She is using herself as a weapon of pure annoyance so I will sign the papers!"

A mix of anger and sheer disbelief washed over him. She was annoying him on purpose.

Damon decided he could not take this anymore. He needed her off his bed.

He placed his large hands flat against the mattress behind him. He pushed himself backward with all of his upper body strength. He slid his body up toward the top of the bed, moving his legs away from her.

Because he moved so quickly, Camilla lost her resting place. Her arms slipped off his waist.

With a soft thud, her head fell forward and hit the mattress where his lap used to be. She laid there face down on the blankets for a second, looking completely ridiculous.

Damon stopped moving. He leaned against the wooden headboard, breathing heavily. He looked at her lying face down on his bed.

He cleared his throat loudly.

Ahem.

He forced his voice to sound cold, harsh, and fully in command. He tried to hide the panic he felt inside.

"What are you doing here?" Damon demanded. His deep voice echoed in the large bedroom. He glared at her. "You have never entered my private room in the entire year we have been married. I forbade you from coming here. Why today? What is the meaning of this?"

Camilla slowly pushed herself up. She sat back on the edge of the bed. She raised her hands and gently cleaned her fake tears away with the tips of her fingers. She made sure to look very innocent and sweet.

Instead of moving away like he wanted, she sat closer to him. She slid across the mattress until she was right next to his side.

"I came because I care about you," Camilla said out loud softly. She turned to the small table next to the bed. "And because I made something for you."

She reached out and carefully took the ceramic bowl of porridge from the wooden tray. She held it with both hands. It was still very hot.

She turned back to Damon and held the bowl out toward his chest.

"I made this," Camilla said, smiling a gentle, loving smile. She looked incredibly proud of herself. "I went down to the hot kitchen this morning just for you. The cooks tried to stop me, but I insisted. I wanted to make your breakfast with my own hands."

Damon looked at the bowl. It was filled with thick, gray, watery oats. Then, Camilla dropped the bowl and slowly turned her hands over so he could see her palm.

"Look," she whispered, her voice full of fake pain. "My hands are raw from the hard work."

Damon looked at her small hands. Her palms were bright red. The skin looked swollen and slightly bruised. It really did look like she had been working incredibly hard, scrubbing pots or grinding heavy stones.

Damon felt a tiny, brief second of guilt. Maybe she actually did try to cook for him. Maybe he was being too harsh.

"You must try it," Camilla insisted out loud, picking up the bowl and bringing it closer to his face. She smiled warmly. She picked up a small spoon from the bowl. She began turning the thick porridge over and over, stirring it slowly.

She lifted a spoonful of the gray oats. She pursed her pink lips and began blowing softly on the steam to cool it down.

Whoosh. Whoosh.

"Here," she said sweetly, holding the spoon up toward his closed mouth. "Open your mouth, My Lord. I will feed you."

Damon stared at the spoon. He stared at her smiling face. He hesitated. He did not want to eat it, but she was acting so incredibly sweet. He slowly started to part his lips to accept the food.

But then, the loud, sarcastic voice inside his head spoke again.

Camilla’s smile remained perfect on the outside, but inside her mind, she was sneering.

"Why would I stress myself for you?" Camilla spoke in her thoughts. Her internal voice was dark, lazy, and completely unapologetic.

Damon froze. He closed his mouth instantly. His teeth clicked together.

"Do you really think I know how to cook?"

Camilla’s thoughts continued, laughing at his foolishness. Damon watched her hold the spoon, completely paralyzed by her internal confession.

"This porridge is just a quickie I threw together in five minutes," she admitted in her mind proudly. "I just dumped a bunch of raw oats into boiling water. And then, I filled it with salt. So much salt. I poured half a jar of salt into this bowl. It tastes like the bottom of the dead sea. It is practically poison."

Damon’s eyes grew as wide. He stared at the gray lump of oats on the wooden spoon just one inch from his lips. Salt? Half a jar of salt? She was trying to feed him a bowl of pure, concentrated salt!

"And these hands?" Camilla thought, mentally rolling her eyes. She looked down at her red knuckles. "My hands are red and raw from hitting them repeatedly on the cold stone wall in the hallway outside the kitchen. It hurt like crazy, but it makes the ’hardworking wife’ act look so much better."

Damon’s jaw dropped slightly. He looked from her red knuckles to her sweet, smiling face. She had punched a stone wall just to fake an injury to make him feel guilty. This woman was a complete psychopath. She was a master manipulator.

Camilla kept holding the spoon near his mouth. She kept smiling her innocent smile.

"Eat it, you pompous tyrant," Camilla ordered in her mind, her thoughts turning sharp and dangerous.

"If you eat this salty disaster, you will be sick all day. You will hate me so much you will throw the divorce papers at my head," she calculated silently.

Then, her internal voice dropped into a dark, terrifying whisper. It was the voice of the Black Widow assassin, cold and entirely serious.

"And honestly," Camilla thought, staring directly into his terrified eyes. "If you will not sign that paper today... I might as well just kill you. That works for me too. The male lead dies, the story ends."

Damon’s heart stopped completely.