Damon’s eyes narrowed sharply. This was going too far.

"Impossible," Damon spoke firmly. His voice carried absolute certainty.

He turned away from her and rushed toward the tall wooden chest of drawers sitting against the far wall. The Benson mansion was incredibly wealthy. His personal drawers were always fully stocked by the maids.

He grabbed the brass handles of the largest bottom drawer. He pulled it open quickly, expecting to find stacks of thick wool blankets, heavy quilts, and extra pillows.

The drawer slid open with a soft squeak.

It was completely empty. Not a single thread of wool remained.

Damon stared into the dark, empty wooden box. His jaw clenched tightly. He aggressively slammed the drawer shut.

Bang.

He moved quickly to the next piece of furniture. He walked over to his massive wardrobe where he kept his daily clothes and his military uniforms. He grabbed the two large handles and pulled both doors wide open at the same time.

He expected to see his neat rows of jackets and clean white shirts.

Damon completely froze.

He was staring directly into the wardrobe, but his clothes were not alone.

Someone had completely shifted all of his clothes tightly to the left side of the wooden rail. On the right side, taking up half the space, was an entire collection of women’s clothing.

There were several beautiful, expensive silk day dresses hanging neatly. But that was not what made Damon freeze.

Hanging right next to his dark military uniform, touching the fabric of his clothes, was a collection of very delicate, very intimate female undergarments. He saw a thin, sheer white silk chemise lined with soft lace. He saw several pairs of fine, delicate silk stockings neatly folded on the wooden shelf below.

The sight of his wife’s most private, intimate clothing hanging right next to his own clothes sent a massive, violent shock of heat rushing straight to Damon’s face. His neck instantly turned bright red.

Damon gasped softly in shock. He grabbed the wooden doors and quickly slammed the wardrobe shut.

Bang, bang.

He took a large step backward, as if the wardrobe was on fire. He turned his back to the closet, breathing heavily.

He raised his right hand and pinched the bridge of his nose tightly between his thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes, trying to calm the sudden, chaotic racing of his heart. He folded his left arm defensively across his chest.

His mind finally connected all the strange clues.

The jammed lock on Camilla’s door. The missing chaise lounge. The empty blanket drawers. The shared wardrobe.

This was not a mistake. This was not a coincidence. This was a highly coordinated, perfectly executed plan by someone who had absolute control over the household staff.

"This must be Uncle Murry’s doing," Damon thought to himself, his internal voice groaning with heavy, tired realization.

He kept his eyes closed, rubbing his nose.

"That nosy old man," Damon continued in his thoughts. "Grandfather has started meddling again. The old Duke sent Murry here specifically to force us together. He removed all the furniture so I would have absolutely no choice but to share the bed with her."

Damon let out a long, heavy sigh. He opened his eyes and dropped his hand from his face. He knew he was completely trapped. He could not yell at Uncle Murry. Murry was acting under the direct orders of the old Duke, the head of the Benson family. If Damon fought against this, the old Duke would just come to the mansion himself and make things even worse.

Damon had to accept his defeat. He was a man of war; he knew when a battle was lost.

He turned slowly back to face the center of the room.

Camilla was still sitting in the exact same spot on the bed. She had watched him check the drawers and slam the wardrobe shut. She had a very small, very smug smile resting on her pink lips.

Damon walked slowly toward the side of the large bed. He stood tall, looking down at her. His face was a mask of cold, serious stone. He needed to establish clear boundaries to survive this night.

"Okay," Damon spoke. His deep voice echoed in the quiet room. He accepted the situation.

But he raised his right hand and pointed a strict, warning finger directly at her face.

"But I am warning you," Damon stated firmly, his voice dropping into a deadly serious tone. He looked her right in the eye, making sure she understood he was not playing around. "Even if the two of us are forced to share a bed till the problem with your room is settled..."

He paused, letting his dark eyes narrow slightly.

"Do not even think about doing anything to me," Damon warned her strictly. "Stay on your side of the mattress. Do not touch me. Do not cross the middle. If you try to play any of your strange games, I will make you sleep on the hard floor, blankets or no blankets. If you are still stubborn, I will bundle you and throw you out of the balcony."

Camilla stared up at his serious, warning face. She looked at his pointed finger. She did not look offended.

Camilla slowly lowered her eyes from his face. She looked at his loose white shirt and his dark sleeping trousers.

Inside her head, her internal voice exploded with loud, pure mockery.

Camilla scoffed loudly in her mind. Her thoughts were incredibly clear and filled with absolute disbelief.

"Do anything to him?" Camilla thought to herself, her mental voice laughing harshly. "As if I would want to touch you!"

She crossed her arms over her chest, matching his defensive posture.

"You think you are a piece of precious gold?" her internal voice continued to mock him ruthlessly. "I have seen better-looking men in cheap magazines. You are the one who ran to put a shirt on just because I looked at you. You are acting like a frightened virgin!"

Damon stood completely still. He listened to her brutal insults echoing clearly inside his brain. He slowly lowered his pointing finger.

Camilla was not finished. Her mind began to form a new, very insulting theory.

"Actually," Camilla thought, tilting her head slightly as she analyzed his behavior. "Every single time I get close to him, he is completely terrified of intimacy. He flinches. He runs away. He builds walls around himself."

She tapped her finger gently against her chin, pondering the situation.

"Is he sick?" Camilla asked herself in her mind, her internal voice sounding genuinely curious. "Does he have some kind of strange historical disease?"

She paused. A new, much darker, much more insulting thought popped into her head. It was the ultimate insult to a proud man’s ego.

"Or maybe..." Camilla thought, a wicked, highly amused smirk forming in her mind. "...maybe he is just impotent?"

Damon completely stopped breathing.

His lungs froze. His blood ran cold. His eyes widened to the absolute maximum limit. They looked like they were going to pop right out of his head.

"Impotent?" Damon thought to himself.

His internal voice was a mixture of pure, absolute shock, and massive, deeply offended male pride.

"Me?!"

Damon stared down at his wife sitting on his bed. He could not believe she had just questioned his manhood inside her own mind.

He opened his mouth to defend his honor, to shout that he was perfectly healthy, but he quickly snapped it shut. He could not defend himself without admitting he was reading her dirty, insulting thoughts.