Marrying The Wounded King: My Ex's Regret

Dallas Cole POV:

"Smile," Antone whispered against the shell of my ear, his breath hot and moist. "You look like you're marching to the gallows."

"I am," I muttered, keeping my gaze fixed on the pavement.

His hand clamped harder around my waist, fingers biting into the delicate silk of the dress he had purchased for me only an hour ago. We were walking down Fifth Avenue, the sun glaring off the shop windows with the harsh, unforgiving intensity of an interrogation lamp.

"Chelsea is watching from the car," he said, his voice dropping to that low, charming pitch that used to make me feel safe. Now, it merely made my skin crawl.

"If you look miserable, she'll think you're still in love with Desmond. And if she thinks that, she might call off the wedding. And if she calls off the wedding, Father will not be pleased with you."

He stopped abruptly and turned me toward him, brushing a stray hair from my forehead with a tenderness that was entirely performative. To anyone passing by, we looked like the picture of young love.

"Do you want to be punished, Dallas?"

"No," I whispered.

"Then kiss me on the cheek."

I hesitated, my stomach churning with nausea.

He squeezed my waist. Hard enough to bruise.

I leaned up on tiptoes and pressed my lips to his jaw. He smelled of expensive cologne masking something rotten-a scent of moral decay.

"Perfect," a voice called out.

I pulled back as if burned. Desmond and Chelsea were stepping out of a black SUV at the curb. Chelsea was beaming, looking like a vision in cream chiffon, while Desmond looked like a thunderhead about to break.

"I told you they were cute together!" Chelsea squealed, linking her arm through Desmond's. She dragged him toward us.

Desmond didn't look at Antone. His dark eyes were locked on the spot where Antone's hand possessed my hip. A muscle in his jaw ticked violently.

"Shopping?" Chelsea asked, eyeing my bags.

"Antone is spoiling me," I lied, the words tasting like ash on my tongue.

"We should go together," Chelsea decided instantly. She looked up at Desmond, batting her lashes. "Babe, you promised to help me pick out the reception dress. Dallas can model the bridesmaid options."

"No," Desmond said sharply.

"Why not?" Chelsea pouted, tilting her head. "Unless... it bothers you?"

She let the question hang in the humid air. It was a trap. If Desmond refused, he admitted he still cared. If he agreed, he had to watch his brother touch me.

Desmond's eyes went flat, devoid of light. He adjusted his cufflinks with precise, jerky movements.

"Fine," he said. "Let's go."

We entered the bridal salon like a funeral procession. The staff fluttered around Chelsea, offering crystal flutes of champagne and hollow compliments. I was directed to a rack of shapeless pastel dresses in the back, banished from the spotlight.

"Actually," Chelsea called out from the velvet podium, stopping the salesgirl. "Put Dallas in the A-line. The white one. I want to see how the fabric moves on a body before I try it."

The salesgirl hesitated, glancing between us. "The bridal gown?"

"Yes," Chelsea said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "She's the same size as me. Roughly."

I looked at Desmond. He was sitting on a tufted leather couch, swirling a glass of scotch, staring into the amber liquid. He didn't stop her.

"Do it," Antone whispered, nudging me toward the dressing room with a sharp prod. "Be a good doll."

Ten minutes later, I stepped out.

The dress was magnificent. Lace sleeves, a plunging back, and a train that pooled around my feet like spilled liquid moonlight. I stood on the pedestal, the overhead lights blinding me.

I looked in the mirror. I looked like a bride.

I just wasn't theirs.

Antone walked up to the pedestal. He wasn't looking at my face, though. He was holding his phone low, angling it so he could snap a photo of my body. I followed his gaze. He wasn't photographing me; he was photographing the dress, imagining Chelsea inside it.

"Beautiful," Antone murmured, his voice thick with a perverse sort of appreciation.

"It is," Chelsea agreed, sipping her champagne. "Although, it might be a bit tight in the hips for her. She has... wider proportions."

Desmond stood abruptly.

The crystal tumbler in his hand didn't just break; it shattered under the crushing force of his grip.

The sound silenced the room instantly. Amber liquid mixed with bright red blood dripped from his hand onto the pristine white carpet.

"Get it off her," Desmond said. His voice was a low, dangerous growl.

"Desmond, you're bleeding!" Chelsea gasped, rushing to him.

He ignored her completely. He walked toward me, stepping heedlessly onto the train of the dress. He looked at Antone, then up at me. His eyes were wild, filled with a terrifying, intoxicating mix of rage and hunger.

"Take it off," he commanded, the order leaving no room for argument. "Now."