Marrying The Wounded King: My Ex's Regret

Dallas Cole POV:

"You're making a scene," Antone said, stepping between us. He put a protective hand on my arm, executing the role of the outraged boyfriend with flawless precision.

"Don't touch her," Desmond snarled.

He shoved Antone. It wasn't a warning push. It was a strike calculated to shatter bone. Antone stumbled back, crashing violently into a rack of veils.

Desmond grabbed my wrist. His bloody hand clamped down, instantly staining the pristine white lace of my sleeve crimson.

"You think this is a game?" he hissed, jerking me off the pedestal. "You think you can play house with him in front of me?"

"You're marrying her!" I screamed back, flinging my free hand toward Chelsea, who stood frozen by the couch. "You chose this!"

"I chose power!" Desmond shouted, shaking me so hard my teeth rattled. "I didn't choose to watch my brother paw at what belongs to me!"

"I don't belong to you!"

I tried to wrench my arm free. I stepped back, forgetting the train of the dress was bunched around my feet.

I tripped.

Desmond lunged to catch me, but his hand slipped on the wet, blood-slicked lace.

I fell backward. The back of my head cracked against the sharp corner of the marble pedestal.

A sickening crack echoed through the room.

Pain exploded behind my eyes-a blinding flash of white light, followed immediately by a suffocating darkness and a throbbing, liquid heat.

I lay on the floor, the room spinning like a carousel off its axis. I felt something warm trickling down the nape of my neck.

"Dallas!" Antone shouted.

"Oh my god," Chelsea shrieked. "My dress! Is the dress ruined?"

The room went dead silent.

I blinked, trying to clear the black spots dancing in my vision. I looked up.

Desmond was standing over me. He looked at his hand, then at me, then at Chelsea. His gaze dropped to the blood blooming like a dark rose on the white silk.

For a split second, the rage vanished. I saw raw terror in his eyes. He took a frantic step toward me.

"Desmond," Chelsea said, her voice sharp as a whip. "The paparazzi are outside. If they see an ambulance..."

Desmond froze mid-step.

The panic in his gaze evaporated, replaced by a glacial void. The mask slammed back into place. The Underboss returned.

He looked at the salesgirl, who was trembling in the corner.

"Wrap the dress," Desmond said, his voice devoid of humanity. "We'll pay for it."

He turned his cold stare to Antone. "Get her up. Clean her up. Make sure she's ready for the yacht party tomorrow."

"She's bleeding, Des," Antone said, though he remained rooted to the spot, paralyzed by his brother's command.

"She has a hard head," Desmond said dismissively. He grabbed Chelsea's hand. "Let's go. We have a dinner reservation."

He walked out. He didn't look back.

I lay on the floor, listening to the bell above the door jingle cheerfully as they left.

I pushed myself up. The world tilted dangerously. I touched the back of my head, and my fingers came away wet and red.

"Miss?" the salesgirl whispered. "Should I... should I call someone?"

"No," I said. My voice sounded distant, like it was coming from the bottom of the ocean.

I stood up, swaying on my feet. I looked at the dress in the mirror. The blood from my head had soaked into the collar. The blood from Desmond's hand was smeared across the sleeve.

It looked like a crime scene.

"Pack it up," I told the girl.

"But... it's ruined."

"No," I said, staring at my macabre reflection. "It's perfect."

I pulled out the black credit card the Morgans had given me for 'essentials.'

"I'm buying it," I said, my reflection grinning back at me through the blood. "I want to wear it to my funeral."