Marrying The Wounded King: My Ex's Regret

Dallas Cole POV

The sharp sting of antiseptic pulled me from the dark.

I was back in the family's private medical wing. My head throbbed in a dull, rhythmic cadence.

"You're awake."

Desmond was sitting in the chair next to the bed. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. His tie was undone, hanging loosely around his neck like a noose.

"Go away," I croaked, my throat dry as sandpaper.

"Who is he?" Desmond asked abruptly.

"What?"

"You said your sin was loving us." His voice dropped, dangerous and low. "But you looked at Antone differently. Did you sleep with him?"

His possessiveness was suffocating, wrapping around my throat like a physical hand. Even now, after selling me, he wanted to know if his toys had been played with by someone else.

"It doesn't matter, Desmond. I'm Mrs. Simmons now. Or I will be in forty-eight hours."

He stood up, looming over the bed, blocking out the harsh overhead light. "If Antone touched you, I will kill him."

"You don't get to be jealous," I whispered, my voice trembling with exhaustion. "You're marrying Chelsea. Go be with your asset."

He clenched his jaw, the muscle feathering beneath the skin, before he turned and stormed out.

I closed my eyes, wishing I could dissolve into the sterile white sheets.

Voices drifted in from the hallway. The door was slightly ajar, carelessly left open in his rage.

"I bought the cream," Antone's voice floated through. "The expensive stuff from Switzerland. For the scar on her forehead where she fell."

"Why bother?" A soldier asked.

"Because Chelsea feels bad for her," Antone replied, his tone light, conversational. "If I play the caring brother, Chelsea thinks I'm sweet. She texted me three times today asking how Dallas is. It's working."

My heart didn't even hurt this time. It just calcified.

The door pushed open a moment later.

Antone walked in, holding a small silver jar. He plastered on a sad smile.

"Hey, kid," he said softly. "I brought you something for the bruise. It's top of the line. No scars."

He held it out like a peace offering. Like love.

I looked at the jar. Then I looked at him.

I could scream. I could expose him. But I was trapped here for two more days. If I fought them, they might hurt me worse. If I fought them, they might cancel the deal and keep me as a prisoner in the basement indefinitely.

I needed to survive.

I took the jar, my fingers brushing against the cold glass.

"Thank you, Antone," I lied. My voice was dead, hollowed out.

"See?" He smiled, patting my hand condescendingly. "We're still family."

"Yeah," I said, gripping the jar until my knuckles turned white. "Family."

I set the cream on the table with a heavy thud.

"I'm not going to use it," I said.

"Why not?"

"Because," I said, fixing my gaze on the ceiling so I wouldn't have to look at his deceitful eyes. "Scars are a lesson. I don't want to forget this one."

I closed my eyes and waited for him to leave, counting the seconds until I could board that plane and burn this entire life to the ground.