Chapter Thirty

"Should we pick something matching?" I ask, meandering through the aisles of formal wear, feeling slightly uncertain. Would that be too bold? Too in your face? I woke up to two letters this morning. The first was a copy of a signed restraining order. The second was an invitation. I take the small card out of my pocket, eyeing the golden swirls that frame my name. Kyle Burke has never looked so elegant. The invitation sparks nerves whenever I look at it—which has been several times today because it's just eye-catching—because I'm not exactly a fancy sort. Chris has money, and once I moved in with him I grew up never wanting for anything, but I've never been the type to go to anything that you could call a ball . Unless I count the freshers ball, but I don't think Mark's family is going to throw a college rager at their manor house.

I eye up Mark, who is talking to a store clerk as he points to an outfit. I follow his arm to a teal-green waistcoat and step to his side. "You like this one?" I ask.

Mark plucks it from the shelf and holds it up in front of me. "It matches your eyes."

I blink and take in the colour of the waistcoat once more. "I guess it does." I glance at him. "Is that a rule for these kinds of dances? Do we need to pick out a black one for you?" I start searching and in only a few seconds a waistcoat catches my eye. It's not black, per-say, rather it's silver on black. Elegant and eye-catching. A lot like Mark.

"What do you think of this one?" I ask, checking his expression to see his take.

Mark leans over my shoulder. "You prefer it? I think you'll look good in whatever you wear. I'll ask if they have one in your size to try." Mark leaves before I can correct him. I watch him walk away and my attention drifts between the teal-green waistcoat and the silver-black one, an idea forming. Matching might be too out there, even if Mark did call me his boyfriend on the phone to Damien the other day. But what if we did something more subtle?

When Mark comes back, I hold out the teal waistcoat in his size. "How about you try this one?" I suggest.

We swap, Mark offering me the silver-black one he retrieved, as he takes the one I held out. He flips up the collar to read the size and raises an eyebrow at me.

"What?"

"You think this is my size?"

"It…" I tilt my head. "Maybe not." Now that he's holding it, the size seems way off. I remember him wearing the biggest shirt I own and it being tight on him. Maybe because he doesn't have the same kind of heavy bulk that Tommy and Eddie do, I tend to forget that Mark is big in his own way. And maybe that remark Bethany made before about how the team used to step in when me and Mark grappled holds a little more weight to it when I consider his size.

Mark checks the rack but ends up going to ask the clerk again for a different size in his one too. I shrug off my jumper, draping it onto the chair next to the mirror and empty out my pockets, setting my phone and the invitation on the chair, so there's nothing bulging as I tuck in the white dress shirt. The vest fits perfectly and I have a moment of total disconnect as I look in the mirror. The moment passes after only a second, and I admit to myself that I look okay. Not like I'm trying too hard or anything, or that I'm out of place.

My gaze catches on the guy sitting behind me, and I startle, whipping around. "What the hell ?" I demand, voice catching so the "hell" comes out faint instead of strong.

Ronan stares at the vest. Stares and stares and stares.

I stare back, too overwhelmed to speak as my heart starts to rabbit. But, mercifully, the feeling doesn't force a shut down on my brain like Ronan triggered only a few days ago. I draw up tall, knowing I am standing straight. Knowing that I look fine. Knowing that I'm not small or little, and Ronan can never do to me what he did before.

"Go away," I say, a strange calm washing over me. "I have a restraining order."

Ronan's piercing eyes climb upward to my face. To my eyes. I don't flinch back or avert my eyes, even as I see the anger sparking within that horrible pale blue. "You're such a fucking princess, you know that?" He stands up tall, and that calm washes right back from where it came.

His voice is quiet, but that tone is so hateful that I'm suddenly afraid. Not because I think he's able to ruin my life, or make me feel like the world is ending because I'm gay and happened to crush on a teacher, but simply because he's big, menacing, and looks at me as if he genuinely wishes I was dead.

"You're the one chasing me around for money," I manage to get out. I don't remark on the princess comment; I don't need to. He's full of shit and always has been. My courage creeps back. He'll be the one in trouble if he tries anything here, not me.

"Jesus—like you need all that money," Ronan hisses, stepping in. "Thirty thousand for September alone? Are you getting thirty thousand every single month? And it's not even yours, is it? It's Chris's money. Chris's policy. You're just a leech, always have been, clinging onto Chris for dear life, gaslighting him into cutting the rest of us out of his life."

"Go ask Chris for money then," I snap. "And he cut you out because you're a piece of shit and always have been—"

"What's the injury, then?" Ronan interrupts me. "The one you get thirty thousand for every month?" His eyes rake over me, seeking. But he doesn't find anything.

"Leave, or I'm calling the—" I yelp as I stumble back, the sudden shove catching me off-guard. I fall back, palm hitting the mirror with a loud smack as I try to catch myself. My feet tangle, so goddamn uncoordinated I could cry, and my body hits the mirror next. It stings, but steadies me. Immediately, I take the weight off my left leg, shivering at the pain that races up my limb at the jolt. I force my gaze upwards to find Ronan staring at my leg.

"Excuse me!" A lady cries out. A blur moves past my vision, and I stumble upright.

"Mark, don't—" I get out, just as Mark barrels into Ronan. The two of them fall into a clothing rack and everything goes flying. Ronan cries out, in surprise or pain I can't tell, and then Mark pins him, knees on Ronan's shoulders. Mark punches down. I hesitate, something so darkly satisfying about the entire scene playing out before me that I don't want to put a stop to it. But I catch a glimpse of a horrified shop worker on the phone; I see the cameras in every corner, and I stumble forward, catching Mark's shoulder. "Mark, come on. Stop." I huff, hauling him back. Mark's arm is cocked for another punch. He resists my efforts to get him off Ronan. My eyes flash down, catching sight of blood pumping out of Ronan's newly realigned nose.

"Jesus," I curse. "Mark, get off him; you're going to get in trouble."

Mark's arm stays up.

"Mark," I tighten my hold on his shoulders. His body is one giant knot of tension. I can't see his eyes. I can't see his expression, but I see the rigid line of his jaw and can practically hear his teeth grinding. At a safe distance, the store clerk is on the phone, clearly talking to the police. "Mark," I murmur. "Please."

For a second, I think Mark is going to ignore me and hit him again. Gradually, though, his arm lowers. Ronan's breathing is laboured, lips parted as he breathes in rough gasps. I don't worry that Ronan might be injured; I worry that Mark will get into trouble for it.

I back up as Mark stands and Ronan, clearly seeing that Mark is barely keeping himself from hitting him again, scrambles away at full speed. I keep my hold on Mark's wrist tight. "There are cameras, Mark. Leave him."

Mark watches Ronan run out of the store, and only once he's out of eyesight does he turn to me. He cups my cheeks and his gaze quickly surveys my entire body. Mark invokes a completely different feeling in me than Ronan had, doing the same thing only moments ago.

"I'm okay," I say. My leg definitively got a jolt, and I may tell Mark that later, but now is definitely not the time. "You need to call Damien. You were on camera hitting him, so you need to…" I trail off as Mark ushers me to sit down, completely ignoring my worries.

"Is there pressure? Do we need to take it off?" Mark finally speaks, crouching in front of me. "Am I okay to touch you? Do I need to get—should I get Chris on the phone?" Stress radiates from Mark's body.

"I'm completely fine," I say. "All I'm worried about is whether or not you are about to get into trouble."

Mark looks up, meeting my eyes.

"Please call your brother," I repeat. I've learned enough about Mark's family to know that Damien is the one who handles the lawyers, like Chris handles all the complicated things in my life.

"Is your leg sore?" Mark asks once more.

I sigh. Mark's eyes are boring into mine; I can't dodge him. "Yes."

His jaw tightens.

Mark doesn't call Damien. He fusses, trying to convince me to take my trousers off in the middle of the store, until I dig his phone out of his pocket myself and call Damien.

"Mark," a deep voice answers. "You've extorted enough out of me for your attendance. No more favours, you've agreed to come and that's that."

"Hi," I say, feeling suddenly shy. I haven't talked to Damien before; I've not met any of Mark's family. "This is Kyle."

"Hello Kyle," Damien doesn't miss a beat before answering. "How are you?" The wry exasperation has totally vanished; his voice is nothing but pleasant.

"I'm good, but Mark just punched my brother in a store with cameras, and the police on the way. He might need you."

"What is the address?"

I tell him.

"I'll send a representative. Thank you for calling. Do you like Bali? I have a holiday coming up and—"

Mark snatches the phone out of my hand. "Enough about Bali, Damien," he scowls, "I told you I'm not going."

"I was asking Kyle—"

Mark hangs up.