He sat up so fast his head spun. He was shaking. His skin was covered in a cold, sticky sweat. His heart was racing so fast he thought it might burst through his chest.
He looked around.
The room was grey with the first light of morning. He was not on the bed. He was lying on the hard wooden floor. His hands were not tied; they were clenched into fists at his sides.
The bed was a few feet away. Camilla was lying in the center of it, wrapped in the thick wool blankets, her breathing steady and peaceful. She was fast asleep, her back turned to him.
Damon sat on the floor, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He touched his neck, then his chest. There were no marks. There were no silk ribbons.
It was all a dream.
He sat there in the silence of the morning, his face buried in his hands. He felt a deep, burning shame. He, the General, had just had a dream so vivid and so scandalous about the woman wanted to keep at arm's length.
