Chapter Seventeen

I'm ready to crawl back into bed again, but Mark has the sheets stripped when I come out of the bathroom. He plants a kiss on my mouth as he passes me going into the bathroom, and with a resigned sigh, I dress and pull on my prosthetic. I hesitate with my hand on the doorhandle leading to the rest of my apartment. I can smell bacon, and even though the apartment has solid walls, there's no getting around the fact that Chris most likely heard me in bed.

Mark did tell me to be quiet; I just didn't have the presence of mind to do so. Funny how he enforced the other instructions he gave me but didn't seem to mind me not following that particular one.

I sigh. No point in standing here, lingering. I turn the handle and step out. Chris looks up from the kitchen island. He has a laptop open and papers laid out around him. A printer buzzes, humming as it spits out sheets.

"You bought a printer?" I ask. I go straight to the sink to fill a cup of water. I down it and fill another.

"I needed something to scan and send on my passport to the insurance company," Chris informs me. "Sit." He taps the chair next to him as he gets up, and I cross the room to sit there.

Chris opens the oven and pulls out a plate of food. A fully prepared, heaped plate of breakfast foods is set in front of me alongside cutlery. It looks amazing and smells even better.

"Thanks." I forget my embarrassment, and pluck up the cutlery, digging in. It's the biggest appetite I've had since the accident. I guess my little workout with Mark this morning left my body starved for energy. Chris retakes his seat, regarding me thoughtfully but I pretend not to notice. I've always been closer to Chris than anyone else in the family. But aside from telling him I was gay, we haven't ever talked about relationships. Or sex. I've heard all our brothers boasting and talking about it around Chris, and he's never given it much heed.

Although our brothers definitely haven't had sex within earshot of Chris…

The bedroom door opens. Chris's gaze slides to Mark, his expression unreadable. I turn my head to see Mark approach. He's wearing a pair of joggers and a t-shirt that I never wore even before I lost weight because it was too big. It's tight on Mark.

Mark comes to me, planting a kiss on my cheek before going to the other side of the kitchen island. "Want any tea? Coffee?" he asks me.

"Coffee would be nice," I answer.

"How about you, Chris?" Mark asks.

Chris gives Mark the look that has our other brothers called to heel instantly. It's cold, measured, and disapproving. I frown at Chris, not liking that he's giving Mark that look when he had been fine with him yesterday. Mark stares back, and I don't think it's because he's unaware that Chris isn't happy with him; I think it's because he's giving his answer. Reaffirming once more that he isn't going to be cowed into submission.

Mark raises an eyebrow at Chris. "Yes? No?" he prompts.

Chris leans back in his chair. He tilts his head, gaze fixed on Mark. "Coffee."

Mark holds his gaze a few beats longer, then breaks eye contact to set a pot of coffee to brew.

I glance at Chris. "Is there another plate for Mark?" I ask.

Chris looks at me and raises an eyebrow.

I frown at him. Did he really make me a feast and not do anything for Mark, even though he knew he was here? I lower my fork and glance at my plate. Half left. "Mark, are you hungry? I'm finished."

"Kyle," Chris sighs.

I shoot him an irritated look. "What?"

"Finish your breakfast. Mark, there's a plate in the oven for you."

Mark sits opposite me with an equally stacked plate of food. He sets our mugs of coffee in the middle of the counter with milk and sugar, and he digs into the meal with as much enthusiasm as I did. I sip the coffee and continue eating, managing a few more sizeable bites before my stomach is too full. I lean back, cradling the coffee as I digest the food.

Chris eyes my plate and then gives me a pointed stare.

"I ate as much as I can, Chris," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Have you been eating smaller portions since the accident?" Chris asks.

"That wasn't a small portion. Mark isn't even…" I pause. Mark's plate is clear. "I've been eating fine."

Not only does Chris give me a doubtful look, but Mark's expression mirrors the sentiment.

"I've been eating fine," I repeat, giving Chris a meaningful look. "You saw the fridge and the meals, right? I lost weight because I burn more calories compensating for my leg."

I can see in Chris's eyes the rebuff. Yes, so you should be eating more to make up for that . Easy to say, hard to do when I don't have an appetite most days.

"I talked to your recovery specialist," Chris says.

I groan, leaning away from him. "Chris—"

"He was able to schedule you for a meeting today. He said you haven't been to any of your appointments for eight weeks."

"That's because college started. I haven't had time," I reply. It's not an answer that Chris is giving any weight at all. "And I stopped going because it was the same thing every week. How am I getting along with the prosthetic? Is everything going okay? Anything new? And the answer is always, fine, fine, nothing new."

"He said you didn't go in for the proper measurements for the replacement prosthetic."

"They had the mould from the last one."

"They remeasure at 6 months for changes. You were at five months. He said even though he insisted—"

"I get it. I have an appointment later today," I interrupt. "Happy?"

Vexed, I get up and dig out a tub to dump the uneaten food from my plate into. I turn my back on Chris and focus on taking calm breaths. That hadn't been irritation just now; it had been my temper sparking. Appointments meant showing my recovery specialist how I take off my prosthetic. Looking at my stump and discussing it in great detail. I'd almost gotten sick during a few appointments trying to stomach it all. And funny enough, I can't just blindfold myself for those meetings. Because if I show that level of disconnect from my leg and prosthetic then the therapy—which is already not really optional—goes to must-be-enforced. The only reason I was allowed my prosthetic without doing the therapy was because the insurance company made sure of it.

"Hey." Mark presses his hand against my back.

I flinch away. Reflexively, I smack his hand off me. "Don't touch me." There's nothing in my tone but jagged shrapnel.

Mark withdraws, eyes wide in surprise. The surprise gives way to hurt, and then uncertainty. He steps back, palms up. "Hands to myself," he says in a controlled tone.

My jaw is rigid with tension, and it refuses to unclench. Refuses to unwind enough to let me apologise. To say I didn't mean it, that I was just thinking about having to go to the appointment and look at my stump. About being forced to inspect it with the specialist and having to pretend that everything's okay or risk getting forced into more appointments where I'll have to talk about it more and more and more.

"You can leave now," Chris springs. He moves to stand between me and Mark, and I don't have to see his face to know it's a threatening expression etched into his face.

Mark looks between Chris and me, and he sighs, apparently at a loss. He rubs the back of his neck, tension creeping into his shoulders. "Text me later, Kyle. Okay?" Frustration weaves through his words. He's probably expecting me to step in and tell Chris he can't kick Mark out of my apartment. I should do that. And apologise. And I should probably be going to therapy so that I don't do things like take out the fact that I'm down to one leg on Mark.

Chris walks Mark out. I'm so worked up I throw the breakfast—plate and all—into the bin. Chris must have just emptied it out, because the plate falls right to the bottom and shatters. I go to my room before Chris is back, and come up short to see that my bed is sheetless. I'm even more annoyed, but I know if I try to dress the bed now, I'll end up ripping the sheets in frustration.

I climb into the undressed bed, not bothering to take off the prosthetic.