HEALING THE SCARS

CHAPTER 20

DYLAN

"I need to speak to my wife," I tell Joey. He nods, understanding the seriousness in my tone, and steps out of the room. I lock the door behind him as he leaves, ensuring our conversation remains private.

Penelope looks up, surprised by my early return. "You're back earlier than I thought you would be," she says, walking to the bed and sitting down with a mixture of calm and tension.

"So, I can't come back whenever I feel like it? Are you afraid I'll find you doing something else with Joey?" I ask, letting a trace of possessiveness seep into my voice. The thought of her with anyone else—even someone as harmless as Joey—irritates me.

She meets my gaze and rolls her eyes. "Nothing happened. He came here to talk to me and see how I was doing. It felt like he came to defend your behavior. You walked in when he was embracing me," she says, her tone defensive yet weary. She stands and starts pacing, frustration evident in her movements.

Suppressing the urge to argue, I walk towards her and extend my arms. She hesitates, her confusion palpable. After a moment, she takes my hand, and I pull her into an embrace. Her body tenses but gradually relaxes against me. She smells faintly of jasmine and vanilla, a soothing yet intoxicating scent that stirs something deep within me.

As I hold her, I feel a dangerous mix of emotions—my fingers itch to explore her skin, to claim her as mine. I decide to test the waters. "May I kiss you?" I ask, my voice low and rough.

She looks up at me with a longing that she can't fully hide. It's all the permission I need. I lean down and press my lips against hers. The kiss starts gently but quickly deepens. Her lips part, and I feel her surrender in the way her body melts into mine. My hand trails down her spine, pulling her closer until there's no space left between us. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, frantic and in sync with my own.

Her arms wrap around my neck, and I lift her effortlessly, savoring the feel of her against me. A soft moan escapes her lips as I nuzzle her neck, my kisses trailing down to the hollow of her throat. My hand rests on her hip, feeling the soft curve of her waist. It's maddening how perfect she is, how every part of her seems designed to torment me. Her hand presses against my chest, not to push me away, but to steady herself against the onslaught of emotions.

I notice the faint marks on her neck—the remnants of our encounter, which I feel terrible about not remembering—a reminder of my possessiveness. I feel a pang of jealousy at the thought of anyone else marking her. It's a twisted sense of satisfaction and guilt. Reluctantly, I pull back, ending the kiss. Our breaths are ragged, and we both stare at each other, trying to regain control.

"I brought you the dinner dress personally," I say, holding out the garment bag. I want her to look flawless for the clients tonight, for herself, maybe that would boost her happiness.

She takes it hesitantly, opening the bag to reveal the dress—a stunning, deep crimson evening gown. The dress is crafted from the finest silk, designed to shimmer under the light. It features a plunging neckline that highlights her delicate collarbones and a fitted bodice that accentuates her curves. The high slit along the leg adds a touch of allure while maintaining an air of elegance. It's both expensive and sexy, just how I like it.

"No, let me wear what I already have. I don't need you to buy me stuff," she says, trying to hand the dress back to me. Her voice is steady, but there's an edge of defiance.

I sigh, my patience wearing thin. "You're going to wear the dress, and that's final." I hand it back to her, my tone firm. I need everything to be perfect tonight, especially with the clients. I know I'm being controlling, but it's necessary.