200 Harley Street: The Soldier Prince

‘So when can I use my arm?’ Marco asked.

‘The short answer is, you can’t. If you try to use that hand before your tendons have healed fully, the tendons will split apart. And, apart from the fact that I don’t like having to repeat work, a second repair won’t be as effective as the first.’

Marco absorbed this. ‘How long do the tendons take to heal?’

‘A couple of months.’

Marco stared at him in disbelief. ‘No way. You’re kidding.’

‘And that’s only for using your hand for light activities. You drive a motorbike?’

‘Car,’ Marco said.

‘Good. That’ll probably be OK in a couple of months. A motorbike would take a bit longer.’

‘Mountain bike?’

Ethan shook his head. ‘Sports you can do a month after that. And then maybe you can start to do heavy activities, as long as you haven’t had any problems with scar tissue.’

Marco stared at him, horrified. He couldn’t possibly be serious? But Ethan wasn’t smiling. ‘So basically you’re saying I take at least three months off and be a pen-pusher?’ Do a safe job while his men faced all the danger. Be a spoiled prince, leading safely from well behind the lines. That so wasn’t who he was. He sighed. ‘That really doesn’t sit well with me.’

‘Tough. It takes as long as it takes.’ Ethan shrugged. ‘Don’t get that splint wet. You’ll need to bag it completely and tape the bag to your arm if you want a shower or bath. Swimming’s definitely out—and you don’t take that splint off until I tell you or your physiotherapist tells you. Which is probably a month from now, minimum.’

The more Marco heard, the less he liked. ‘No exercise. That’s not good. I’m going to lose muscle mass.’ And fitness. Which would delay his return to the army even longer.

‘No push-ups, no pull-ups, no burpees, no weight training,’ Ethan said.

Oh, great. That was pretty much his workout routine out of the window. And it definitely confirmed that Ethan Hunter had trained in the army.

‘Running? Any form of cardio?’ he asked, trying not to let the desperation show in his voice.

Ethan shook his head. ‘You need to use your arm muscles to hold your arm across your chest with your hand to the opposite shoulder. So you’ll be off balance for running or using an elliptical.’ He shrugged. ‘No fencing, either, Zorro.’

Because with one arm strapped up he wouldn’t be able to balance himself properly. ‘So that’s a no.’ Marco rolled his eyes. ‘I’m going to go insane.’

‘Very probably, Zorro,’ Ethan agreed. ‘No horse-riding, no guitar-playing, no.…’

‘No sex?’

Ethan grinned. ‘Not if you insist on being on top, no.’

‘I think I hate you,’ Marco said.

‘No, you don’t. I fixed your hand. And I’m good at my job.’

‘You’d better be, Clavo,’ Marco said through gritted teeth.

Ethan raised an eyebrow. ‘Clavo?’

‘It’s Spanish for Spike.’ Marco gestured with his free hand. ‘Face. Attitude. The thing you use to cut people open.’

‘Technically, that would be a lancet.’

Marco shrugged. ‘Clavo will do. You’re sure my hand’s fixed?’

‘Yes. Unless you do something stupid, like try to use your hand too early.’

Marco groaned. ‘You’re telling me that I’m going to be stuck here for a whole month?’

‘I didn’t say that. I said you’ll wear the splint for a month. You’ll have physio every single day. Several sessions. I want to make sure there aren’t any contractures to your palm, so you need to do stretches and gentle work. You do what the hand therapist says, when she says it, and nothing else. Got it?’

‘Because, if I don’t, then my hand’s gone for good.’

‘That’s about it.’

So he had no choice. ‘OK. I’ll do what you say. And the hand therapist,’ he added with a grimace.

‘Good. Think yourself lucky it wasn’t a severed thumb, Zorro. I would’ve had to replace it maybe with your big toe, and stick leeches all over you.’

Marco gave Ethan a reluctant smile. ‘Remind me, which century is this again?’

Ethan laughed. ‘I’ll have you know leech saliva is the best anticoagulant ever—it’s a hundred times more effective than heparin.’

‘So I’ve got nothing to do except pace this room?’ And, for the umpteenth time, wish to hell he’d out-thought the enemy. Wish his men hadn’t died. Wish he’d managed to get them all to safety.

‘Like a caged tiger,’ Ethan agreed. He paused. ‘There’s a gym in the basement. It’s really for the staff, but patients can use it.’

‘I thought you just said I couldn’t run or do weights?’

‘You can’t. The treadmill and elliptical are both out of bounds, ditto all the free weights and the machines.’

‘Right.’ Everything he was most likely to use. ‘Which leaves me what, precisely?’

‘The static bike,’ Ethan said. ‘And don’t use your arms.’

That was Marco’s idea of tedious. A proper bike in the mountains, yes, with steep inclines and rough terrain to challenge him; a static bike, even if it had programmes to change the resistance, wouldn’t challenge him at all. ‘Great,’ he said, curling his lip.

‘You can do walking lunges,’ Ethan said. ‘But that’s bodyweight only. Just to be clear, that means not having a bar across your traps, and no using dumb bells, even with your good hand. Got it?’

‘Got it.’ Marco rolled his eyes again. ‘Marvellous.’

‘And you can do squats—again, bodyweight only, with a stability ball against your back.’

‘What? Like a total novice?’ Marco asked in disgust.

‘No, like someone who’s going to have one arm strapped up so his balance is going to be out and he’s not going to be stupid enough to risk damaging his tendons again before they heal. You cross your other arm across your chest like this—’ Ethan demonstrated ‘—and at least this way you can keep your core strong.’

Which was something, Marco supposed. Bodyweight exercises. ‘Floorwork?’ he asked.