Free Web NovelChapter 261: Chapter Two Hundred And Sixty
The sky outside the Benson mansion was pitch black. The sun was still hours away from rising. The air was incredibly freezing and quiet.
Damon had not slept a single wink. He had spent the entire night lying on the bed, thinking.
He got down from bed and walked out of the study. He was wearing his cotton sleeping trousers and his linen sleeping shirt.
He walked quietly down the back stairs, heading toward the servants’ quarters on the ground floor.
He reached a plain door at the end of the hallway. He raised his hand and knocked firmly.
Knock. Knock.
A few moments later, the door opened slowly.
Mr. Murry stood in the doorway. The old housekeeper was wearing a long white nightshirt and holding a small candle. His gray hair was messy, and his eyes were full of sleepy confusion.
When Murry saw the tall, broad figure of the General standing in the dark hallway, all the sleep instantly vanished from his brain.
"My Lord?" Murry gasped softly, his eyes widening in shock. "What has happened? Is there an emergency?"
"There is no emergency," Damon replied. His deep voice was completely serious. "We are going to the kitchen. You are going to teach me how to cook."
Murry stared at Damon. He thought the General had been joking the previous evening.
Murry gave Damon a set of wide, pleading eyes. He wrung his old hands together nervously around the candle holder.
"My lord, please have a rethink," Murry begged softly, shaking his head. "Are you sure about this? It is not proper. You do not belong in the kitchen among the pots and pans. If your grandfather, the Duke, ever finds out about this..."
Damon raised his hand, instantly stopping the old man from speaking further.
"I am sure," Damon stated firmly. His tone left no room for any argument. He looked into Murry’s tired eyes. "Grandfather won’t know unless you tell him. And you won’t tell him, right?"
Murry swallowed a heavy lump in his throat. He looked at the determined expression on Damon’s face. Murry knew exactly how incredibly stubborn the General could be. Once Damon made up his mind, a thousand wild horses could not pull him away from his goal.
Murry let out a long, defeated sigh. He gave up trying to convince him. He slowly nodded his gray head.
"Yes, My Lord," Murry agreed sadly. "I will not tell him."
"Good," Damon said, turning his body toward the long hallway. "Let’s head to the kitchen."
Murry quickly put on his black trousers and a simple shirt. He hurried past Damon and led the way to the main kitchen of the mansion.
When they arrived, Murry quickly woke up the head cook and three kitchen maids. The servants came running into the kitchen, rubbing their tired eyes.
When the cook and the maids saw the General standing in the middle of their workspace, wearing his sleeping shirt with his sleeves rolled up, they almost fainted from terror. They quickly bowed their heads, pressing themselves tightly against the cold stone walls.
"Lend a hand," Murry instructed the terrified servants in a quiet whisper. "The General wishes to prepare breakfast for the Lady."
The head cook’s jaw dropped open, but she did not dare to ask questions. She quickly brought out a clean white apron and approached Damon very nervously.
"Excuse me, General," the cook stammered, handing the apron over.
Damon took the white cloth. He tied the apron firmly around his waist. He looked ridiculous. He looked like a giant wolf wearing a tiny napkin.
"What do we do first?" Damon asked, rolling his white sleeves up past his elbows, exposing his scarred forearms.
"We... we need to chop the vegetables for the hot soup, My Lord," the cook suggested, pointing to a large wooden cutting board filled with fresh carrots and potatoes.
Damon nodded his head. He walked over to the wooden counter and picked up the kitchen knife.
Damon did not hold the kitchen knife like a normal cook. He wrapped his fingers around the wooden handle with a tight, reverse grip. He held the knife exactly like he held a combat dagger on a bloody battlefield.
He stared down at a carrot. He narrowed his eyes, treating the vegetable like a serious enemy threat.
Damon raised his arm high into the air. He swung the knife down with military force.
CRACK!
The sound was incredibly loud. The sharp blade did not just slice through the carrot. The blade completely cleaved the carrot in half, sliced straight through the cutting board, and buried itself two inches deep into the table underneath.
The two halves of the carrot flew off the table and hit the floor.
The three kitchen maids jumped back, gasping loudly in horror.
Damon frowned deeply. He pulled the knife out of the ruined table with a loud shing. He looked at the broken cutting board.
"The wood is too weak," Damon complained seriously.
Mr. Murry began to sweat profusely. He quickly wiped his forehead with a cloth.
"Perhaps... perhaps we should let the cook handle the sharp knives, My Lord," Murry suggested nervously, gently taking the knife away from Damon’s hand. "Let us try something more delicate. How about preparing the eggs for the pastries?"
Damon agreed. He moved to the next counter. There was a bowl filled with chicken eggs.
"You just need to crack the shell gently against the edge of the bowl, My Lord," Murry instructed, showing him the motion. "And let the egg drop inside."
Damon nodded. He reached into the bowl. His large, calloused hand and picked up an egg.
Damon tried to follow the instructions. He tapped the egg against the bowl. But he was a man who spent his life crushing men’s throats and lifting swords. He did not know how to regulate his physical strength.
He squeezed his fingers just a tiny fraction too hard.
SQUELCH.
The egg exploded inside Damon’s closed fist. The shell shattered into tiny pieces. The slimy yellow yolk and the clear egg white squeezed out between his fingers, dripping messily down his hand and falling onto the floor.
Damon stared down at his messy, sticky hand in disbelief.
"I barely touched it," Damon said, his voice full of confusion.
The head cook covered her face with her hands, wanting to cry. The ingredients were being destroyed.
"Try again, My Lord," Murry encouraged him, forcing a polite smile. "Just be very, very gentle."
Damon wiped his hand on a cloth. He took a slow, deep breath. He picked up a second egg. He treated it like it was made of thin glass. He moved his hand toward the bowl.
But as he tapped it, his thumb pressed too hard.
CRUNCH.
The second egg shattered, covering his knuckles in sticky yellow slime.
Damon’s jaw clenched tightly. An angry frown formed on his face. He felt frustrated. He could conquer entire territories, but he could not deal with a simple chicken egg.
"These eggs are flawed," Damon stated coldly, glaring at the bowl as if it had personally insulted him.
"That is perfectly fine, My Lord!" Murry quickly intervened, sensing the rising danger. "I will crack the eggs! Why don’t you try cooking the meat on the hot stove?"
Damon washed his hands in a bucket of water. He walked over to the stove. A pan was sitting over a crackling, hot fire.
"Just put a piece of butter in the pan to melt it," the cook whispered nervously from a safe distance.
Damon picked up a block of butter. He did not cut a small piece. He simply tossed the entire block into the hot pan.
The hot metal hissed violently. The large amount of butter melted instantly. It boiled and bubbled, and suddenly, a bright orange flame erupted high into the air.
WHOOSH!
The fire flared up dangerously close to the ceiling. Thick gray smoke began to fill the kitchen.
