let me light your candle

Tommy sat at the table, cigarette in one hand, the morning paper in the other, half-read and already smudged with ash. He glanced at you once over the rim of his cup, eyes lingering a second longer than necessary, like he was still waiting for you to collapse.

The front door creaked open a few minutes later, and you heard the familiar shuffle of boots and low voices. Arthur’s laugh carried in first, followed by John’s unmistakable muttering and the lighter tap of Ada’s shoes across the floor.

“Morning,” Ada called, walking into the kitchen and pausing when she saw you. “Oh good, you’re up. How’s the head?”

You offered a small smile. “Better. Sorry I missed the dinner you lot had planned last night.”

“No need to apologize,” Polly said as she appeared behind Finn and Esme, her voice gentle but resolute. “You rest when you need to.”

You nodded, but that gnawing guilt nestled just a little deeper beneath your ribs.

Everyone filtered into the kitchen, plates pulled down, chairs scraped along the floor, casual conversation building between bites and sips. For a moment, it almost felt normal.

Then Finn, already halfway through a slice of toast, leaned towards you and frowned. “John said someone knocked your head around pretty bad. Are you alright now?”

You managed a soft smile, trying to keep your tone light. “I’ve had better weeks, Finn.”

Finn gave a small, sheepish grin. “Yeah… well, you still look better than Arthur after the bar fight he had last spring.”

Arthur, mid-sip of tea, snorted. “Oi! What’re you sayin’ about me over there?”

Finn chuckled, shaking his head before muttering, “It’s true. You looked like a mucky boot. Plus he ended up puking in Polly’s roses.” 

“That was one time–” Arthur grumbled. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Polly interrupted, though the corner of her mouth twitched with the faintest amusement. She turned her attention back to you. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation for taking time to heal. Especially not us.” 

You nodded again, but the guilt didn’t ease. Not fully. You could feel it growing roots beneath your ribs.

As the noise returned, mugs clinking, light teasing continuing, Tommy quietly set a plate down in front of you, his hand brushing your shoulder for the briefest moment before he took a seat across from you.

You looked up, catching the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his posture carried more tension than usual.

John leaned forward. “Tom, you set to still head to London tomorrow?”

Tommy didn’t even look up from his tea. “No.”

John blinked. “Thought you said you needed to meet with the solicitor about that deal.”

“I’m not going,” Tommy said flatly, final.

There was a small beat of silence around the table.

Arthur glanced at him. “Tommy…”

“I said I’m not going,” he repeated, voice quieter now, but firmer. “It can wait. Or one of you can go in my place.”

The guilt tightened around your chest like a vice. He hadn’t said it, but you knew. He wasn’t going because of you. You dropped your gaze back to your plate, appetite slipping away entirely.

Across the table, John frowned. “Tommy, we’ve been working on that deal for weeks. If you’re not there–”

Tommy cut in, sharper this time. “You and Arthur can handle it.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “It’s not about whether we can handle it. You’ve been lead on this since the start. They’ll want to see you.”

Tommy leaned back slightly in his chair, his jaw tight, eyes cold and unreadable. “Then they’ll have to learn to deal without me.”

John scoffed under his breath. “Right. And what happens when you keep pushin’ things off? You think that’s not going to cost us?”

Tommy set his tea down with a heavy clink. “What happens when I’m not around someday, aye?” His voice was low but firm, edged with something that cut deeper than the surface tension in the room. “You two need to stop acting like I’m going to hold your hand through every meeting.”

Arthur and John both stilled at that, exchanging a quick glance.

You kept your eyes down, fingers curling slightly around the edge of your plate.

Arthur leaned forward, his forearms braced against the table. “This deal… it’s not just numbers on a bloody page, Tom.”

John nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s the shipping route. That new line through the South docks– if we lock it down now, we control half the imports before anyone else even knows it’s on offer. Weapons, whiskey, opium, whatever the hell we want moved.”

Arthur exhaled sharply. “And if Sabini or Solomons get wind of it first, it’s gone. Slips right out from under us.”

You looked up slowly, watching the tension settle deeper into Tommy’s frame. He didn’t move, but his jaw worked, tight and deliberate.

John added, more quietly now, “It’s not just money. It’s positioning. Power. This deal puts us ahead of every other crew this side of Camden.”

Arthur nodded, tapping his fingers once against the table. “Could make the Blinders untouchable for a long time– if it goes through.”

There was a long silence. You could feel Tommy’s gaze drift your way, just for a second, and the guilt in your chest twisted tighter.

“You lot always balk about having more responsibility. You want to run the business like we talked about,” Tommy added after a beat. “Then run it.”

Ada's gaze flicked between the three of them but she didn’t speak. Even Finn had gone quiet. The clatter of cutlery and soft rustle of chairs filled the silence, but the unease lingered just beneath the surface, along with the guilt still blooming in your chest.

The tension still lingered, heavy in the air like smoke, but Polly, ever the one to smooth sharp edges, lifted her teacup with a pointed glance around the table. “No more talk of business over breakfast. Not today.”

She didn’t raise her voice, but it was final. The kind of tone that settled everyone without question.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Since when do we have rules at breakfast?”

“Since now,” Polly said sharply. “Some of us would like to finish our eggs without hearing about bloody ledgers.”

Ada chuckled. “Amen to that.”

John muttered something under his breath, earning a swat on the arm from Esme.

Then Finn piped up, voice light but earnest, “This is the first time we’ve all had breakfast together in weeks. That’s something, innit?”

Ada grinned and ruffled his hair. “Look at you, getting all sentimental.”

Finn shrugged. “Just sayin’. It’s nice, that’s all.”

That earned a few smiles, a little warmth returning to the room as conversation shifted to less business, and more stories and teasing.

Eventually, the clatter of cutlery slowed, plates emptied, and conversation mellowed into quiet chuckles and soft sighs of contentment. Esme stood to pour more tea. Ada started teasing Arthur about his terrible handwriting. Finn tried to sneak another piece of toast before Polly swatted his hand away with a muttered, “You’ve had four already, love.”

But you stayed mostly quiet, your fork absently nudging crumbs around your plate.

Tommy hadn’t looked at you since the London conversation. Not directly, anyway. But you felt his presence beside you, steady and close, the way you always did.

Eventually, the table cleared, and the others filtered out of the house after saying their goodbyes, leaving only the two of you behind. You stood at the sink, rinsing plates in slow circles, your movements more for something to do than out of necessity. The ache in your head was growing now, along with the heaviness in your chest.

Tommy was still seated at the table, cigarette between his fingers, eyes following the lazy curl of smoke drifting upward. 

“You didn’t eat much,” he said softly.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

A beat passed. The only sound was the soft clink of porcelain and the faint hiss of his cigarette. You wiped your hands on a towel, lingering at the sink a moment longer before finally turning back toward him.

“Tommy, why aren’t you going to London?” you asked quietly.

His eyes didn’t move from the smoke curling toward the ceiling. He took another slow drag before replying, “John or Arthur can go for me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His gaze dropped to you then, steady and unreadable. “It’s not urgent.”

You studied him, arms folding across your chest like a shield. “But John said it was. That it was a deal that needed to be handled in person.”

“It can wait,” he said again, the edge of finality creeping into his voice.

You hesitated, the words sitting sharp behind your teeth. “Is it because of me?”

He didn’t answer right away, but he didn't deny it either. Instead, he just sat there, smoke curling from his fingers, jaw tightening slightly.

You stepped closer, your voice softer now. “Tommy, you don’t have to stay here with me all the time.”

His eyes finally lifted to yours, sharp and unreadable. “I know.”

“Then why are you?” The question came out thinner than you’d meant, wrapped in guilt you hadn’t quite managed to bury. “I’m not asking you to babysit me. I’m not asking you to put everything on hold.”

“You’re not asking,” he agreed, voice quiet. “I’m choosing."

The finality in his voice left no room for argument, no space for guilt to take root again.

So you just nodded, small, almost imperceptible.

“Okay,” you murmured softly. 

Tommy held your gaze a moment longer, then slowly stood. The chair scraped gently against the floor as he moved, shoulders rolling back with a quiet exhale. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and struck a match with one fluid motion. The flame flickered briefly before catching, and he inhaled deeply, the smoke curling through the air in soft ribbons.

Then, without a word, he picked up the folded paper from the table, eyes scanning over the print like nothing had just happened.

You watched him move, watched the shift of his shoulders, the way his fingers curled around the edge of the paper, the quiet steadiness in him that always seemed just out of reach but somehow comforting.

After a moment, your voice broke the silence again. “Can I at least make myself useful and go back to the Garrison soon?”

Tommy’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, unreadable. You pushed on, quieter now. “I can work the bar. Just a few hours to help Harry out.”

His mouth twitched, not in amusement, but something closer to disbelief. Tommy stood slowly, cigarette still between his fingers. The chair scraped quietly against the floor as he stepped toward you, eyes fixed on your face.

“When you can make it through an entire day without going blind or vomiting,” he said dryly, “we’ll talk about it.”

You looked down, lips pressing into a tight line. You nodded again, biting back the sting in your chest. His hand found your shoulder, warm and steady. A moment later, you felt the press of his lips at your temple, soft, grounding, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch.

He didn’t say anything else. Just let his hand drift down your arm briefly before stepping away, footsteps soft as he walked toward the door.

When it clicked shut behind him, the silence wrapped around you again.

…

Three days passed.

You could feel it– the distance growing between you and Tommy. Not because he had changed, but because you had.

It was Campbell’s shadow that lingered, not Tommy’s. But it didn’t matter. Every time Tommy reached for you, every time his hand grazed your waist or his lips found your temple, your body flinched before your mind could catch up. And it wasn’t fair, because he wasn’t the one who hurt you. But the memory lived under your skin like poison, curling in your muscles, coiling behind your ribs.

There were moments when you reached for him first. When you pressed into his arms and, for just a breath, the world stopped spinning. Because somehow, in his arms, you didn’t feel fragmented. Only when he held you did you feel put back together, like your pieces might actually belong somewhere again. Like you weren’t entirely broken.

But only when it was on your terms. Only when your body didn’t feel like a battleground, when your skin didn’t feel like it still belonged to someone else.

And then came the shame, the quiet, creeping shame that made you want to crawl out of your own skin. That made you feel like none of it should be this hard. Like you should’ve healed faster. Like it was your fault that every soft, loving touch still carried a ghost.

That night, back at the house, the fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room. Tommy sat in his armchair, legs stretched out slightly, a stack of papers in his lap, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His eyes skimmed over the documents, brow occasionally furrowing in thought, the silence between you filled only by the scratch of the fire and the rustle of turning pages.

You watched him for a while from your spot on the couch– watched the way his jaw flexed as he read, the way his fingers shifted the pages with that same quiet control he carried in everything he did. The ache behind your ribs hadn’t lessened, not really. 

But your body moved before your mind could talk you out of it. Quietly, without a word, you rose from the couch and padded across the rug toward him.

Tommy looked up, eyes flicking to you, but he didn’t speak, just set his papers aside slightly, already shifting in the chair to make room.

You climbed into his lap carefully, your knees folding on either side of his hips as you settled into him, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

Still, he didn’t ask. Didn’t question it. He just opened his arms and let you in.

One arm curled around your back, anchoring you gently against his chest. The other reached for the papers again, as if this was nothing unusual, as if holding you there, close and steady, was just as natural as reading through business ledgers.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as his warmth wrapped around you. His heartbeat thudded softly beneath your ear, and for the first time all day, your chest eased just enough to breathe.

Tommy’s fingers absently ran along the curve of your spine, slow and comforting, like he didn’t even know he was doing it. Then his hand drifted upward, tracing lightly over your shoulder blades before settling at the base of your skull.

His fingers moved gently there, slow circles worked into the tense muscles at the nape of your neck, easing the tightness you hadn’t even realized you were holding.

After a moment, his voice came low, near your temple. “How’s your head tonight?”

You didn’t answer right away, just let yourself lean a little heavier into him, eyes still closed, letting the rhythm of his touch lull some of the ache from your bones.

“It’s okay,” you murmured eventually. 

His thumb brushed tenderly along the edge of your hairline. “You’re a horrible liar.” 

You sighed. “So you’ve said.”

Tommy’s hand stilled for a moment, then resumed that slow, grounding motion at the base of your skull.

The fire had burned low by the time you drifted off in Tommy’s arms, but at some point during the night, you vaguely remembered the feeling of being lifted– strong arms curling beneath you, the warmth of his chest against yours, the soft rasp of his voice murmuring something you were too far gone to understand. A door creaked open. Sheets shifted. A blanket tucked carefully around your shoulders.

Now, you stirred again to quiet stillness. The bed beside you was empty, the space where he’d been still faintly warm. You sat up slowly, your head heavy but clear. You rubbed your eyes and glanced toward the door, catching the faintest trace of light beneath it. Voices followed, low, hushed, but tense.

You stood, careful not to make the floorboards creak, and padded silently toward the hallway. Down the stairs, flickering firelight spilled from the open door of Tommy’s study.

And then, the voices grew clearer.

“I told you they were skittish,” Arthur was saying, his voice low and tense.

“They didn’t just get skittish,” John shot back. “They pulled out, full stop.”

A pause.

Then Tommy’s voice, sharper, more clipped. “Just tell me what happened.”

“The deal is shot, Tom. The whole fuckin’ thing,” John muttered. “Said they didn’t like that you weren’t there yourself. Didn’t trust it.”

“Thought you were hiding something,” Arthur added darkly. 

You stayed frozen at the bottom of the stairs, barely breathing.

“Word is they’re talking to Sabini,” John said. “Maybe already signed with him.”

A beat of silence. You could picture Tommy now, leaning back in his chair, jaw clenched, that familiar flicker of calculation in his eyes.

And then you heard it, the thing that made your throat tighten and your chest ache.

“Because you weren’t in London,” John muttered. “Because you stayed here.”

You stepped back instinctively, the words hitting like a blow to the chest. It wasn’t said with malice, not really, John’s voice hadn’t carried blame. But the implication rang louder than anything else in the room. The guilt crawled up your spine like something cold and living.

You turned quietly, retreating up the stairs before your presence could be noticed. Each step felt heavier than the last, your head buzzing, chest tightening with the weight of everything unsaid.

By the time you reached the bedroom again, the silence felt different. Not comforting this time, but thick and echoing, like it was pressing in around you.

You sat on the edge of the bed, fingers curling in the bedsheets, eyes unfocused.

You had to get it together.

You couldn’t keep falling apart every time the air got too still, every time your head ached or your heart clenched with a memory. You couldn’t keep leaning on Tommy like he was the only thing holding you upright, not when it was starting to cost him.

He’d already sacrificed too much. And if things kept slipping, if the business continued to suffer, you’d be the reason. You couldn’t stomach that. Not after everything.

Even if your chest still tightened at night. Even if there were moments when the world tilted sideways and it felt like your ribs might crack from the weight of it all.

Even if it meant smiling when your head was pounding. Even if it meant pretending your hands weren’t trembling the moment Campbell’s face flashed behind your eyes. 

You’d just have to hide it better. Be steadier. Stronger. More convincing.

…

The next morning, you woke before the sun had fully risen.

The dull ache in your head had returned– not blinding, but ever-present, pulsing quietly behind your temples like a reminder that your body was still catching up to your bravado. You sat up slowly, blinking away the haze, willing the room to stop its slow tilt. It didn’t. Not entirely. But you braced your palms against the mattress and breathed through it until it passed.

When you made your way downstairs, the scent of tea drifted from the kitchen. Tommy stood at the stove, sleeves rolled, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips as he stirred something in a pan.

You straightened your posture and forced your steps to stay steady.

“Morning,” you said lightly, grabbing a mug from the counter like your limbs didn’t still tremble faintly.

Tommy glanced over his shoulder. “You’re up early.”

You shrugged, taking a sip of coffee, trying not to wince at the way the bitterness sparked behind your eyes. “Figured I’d get a head start. Thought I might stop by the Garrison.”

Tommy’s brow lifted, his stirring slowing just slightly. “You thought you might?”

You nodded, pretending not to notice the weight behind his gaze. “Just for a few hours. Nothing too much. I’ll help Harry with the stockroom or polishing glasses– whatever he needs.”

He said nothing at first. Just turned back to the pan, jaw tight, the silence dragging.

“I feel fine,” you added, softer now, trying to meet his eyes.

Tommy didn’t turn around right away. 

“Do you now?” he said finally, low and clipped.

You held your ground, trying not to shift under the weight of his voice. “I do.”

He turned slowly, setting the spoon down, his eyes narrowing just slightly as they met yours. “You’re still flinching when you stand up too fast. You get quiet when the light’s too bright. And you think I haven’t noticed how your hands shake when you think no one’s looking?”

You swallowed hard, jaw tightening. “I’m not saying I’m at a hundred percent. But good enough to go back."

Tommy studied you, arms folding across his chest now, brow furrowed in that unreadable way that always made your chest tighten. “You pushing yourself to prove something to me isn’t going to help you heal faster.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything to you,” you said, voice steadier now. “I’m just trying to be useful.”

He stared at you for a long beat, cigarette burning low between his fingers. Then finally, he sighed, slow and reluctant.

“One shift,” he said, pointing toward you slightly with the hand holding the cigarette. “A short one. And if you so much as wince or wobble, you come straight home. You don’t argue.”

You nodded quickly, almost too quickly. “Fine.”

Tommy’s mouth twitched, barely a smile. He stepped forward, pressed a kiss to your temple, and muttered against your skin, “You’re bloody stubborn, you know that?”

“Must be catching,” you murmured back, just under your breath.

He gave a faint scoff and turned back to the pan.

...

Your shift had started slow– organizing glasses, taking light orders, helping Harry restock the shelves in the back. At first, it felt manageable. Easy, even. The motions were familiar, your body moving on instinct, muscle memory guiding you through the steps. For a while, you almost felt like yourself again. Like things could go back to normal, if only you tried hard enough.

But somewhere along the way, the hours had slipped by unnoticed. You’d told yourself it was fine. Just one more hour. Then another. And another after that. You hadn’t even realized how long you’d been standing, how much you’d been pushing, until the dull throb behind your eyes started to build into something sharper.

Now your head was pounding– a slow, pulsing ache that bloomed beneath your skull like a storm brewing just out of reach. The lights above the bar felt too bright, the low chatter of the patrons far too loud. Every clatter of glass, every burst of laughter sent a fresh spike of pain radiating through your temples.

Still, you kept moving.

You couldn’t fall apart here. Not in front of everyone. Not when you were trying so damn hard to prove you could handle it.

You smiled politely at the next patron, even though it felt like your skin was stretched too tight across your face. You wiped down the countertop with a damp cloth, even though your fingers trembled slightly against the rag. Your vision blurred at the edges, just enough to make you blink hard and press your lips together to keep from swaying.

Harry glanced over from the end of the bar, eyes narrowing slightly. He’d been watching you more closely than usual all day, though he hadn’t said much. Until now.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked, tone low but gentle, concern evident in his lined features as he approached.

You straightened a little, forcing a breath through your nose and nodding too quickly. “Fine,” you said, a little too brightly. “Just a bit warm in here.”

But even as the words left your mouth, you felt the ache pulsing again– like a warning just beneath your skin.

Harry didn’t look convinced.

In fact, his brow furrowed deeper as he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Thought Tommy said you were only meant to do a few hours,” he said, wiping his hands on a bar towel. “You’ve been on your feet half the bloody day.”

You gave another faint smile, trying to keep it casual. “He worries too much.”

Harry huffed. “Aye, well… in his shoes, I might too. You look pale, love.”

“I’m fine,” you said again– quieter now, more like a prayer than a statement.

But before Harry could push further, the front door creaked open. A rush of cool air filtered in with it.

And there he was.

Tommy's eyes scanned the Garrison with calculated ease before locking onto you behind the bar. His jaw tensed instantly, just a flicker, but you saw it. It felt it like a punch to the ribs.

You stood a little straighter, tried to summon a smile, pretended like everything was fine. You even picked up another glass to polish, just to look busy.

But Tommy didn’t move right away. He just stood there in the doorway, watching you with that unreadable look– like he already knew everything he needed to know before you’d even said a word.

Harry muttered under his breath, almost to himself, “Shit.”

You turned to face Tommy fully, heart thudding as if the pounding in your skull wasn’t already loud enough.

“Hey,” you said, feigning lightness. “Didn’t think you’d come by tonight.”

His eyes flicked to the rag in your hand, then back to your face. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

His voice wasn’t loud. Wasn’t sharp. But it cut through the room like a blade.

You straightened your spine a little more, holding that polite smile like a shield. “Just lost track of time,” you said softly, setting the glass down. “It’s not a big deal.”

Tommy stepped forward now, slow and measured, his eyes never leaving yours. “You were supposed to be here for a few hours.”

“I know.”

“And how long’s it been?”

You hesitated, your eyes darting toward the clock. The answer hung in the air between you. Too long. Long enough for him to be right. Long enough to feel it in every throbbing pulse behind your eyes.

“I’m fine, Tommy,” you said again, quieter this time.

“I’m not asking how you feel,” he said, voice lower now as he came around the bar, closer to you. “I’m telling you your hands are shaking.”

You instinctively curled your fingers tighter around the rag, hiding the tremor. But it was too late, he’d already seen it. He always saw everything.

“I said I’m fine. Let me finish wiping down–”

“No.”

You stiffened. The word landed heavy between you, sharp and final.

You blinked up at him, your jaw tightening. “You don’t get to tell me when I’m done.”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice stayed calm. “We’re not doing this here. Let’s go.”

You shook your head, the frustration swelling in your chest like a rising tide. “Christ, Tommy. I’m not made of glass. You can’t keep dragging me out of rooms like I’m going to fucking collapse every time I breathe too hard.”

Tommy sighed, like this whole thing was a massive inconvenience. “I’m not dragging you anywhere. I’m telling you you’ve done enough for one day.”

“Enough for your standards, you mean.” You stepped back, trying to shove past the heat crawling up your throat.

"Yeah, my standards. Last time I checked, I was the one employing you."

Your jaw flexed. Fuck, you thought. He was right. You hated that he was right. You hated that your body was still betraying you. That every time you tried to prove you could keep going, you ended up like this, shaking, dizzy, broken glass at your feet and tears you couldn’t swallow down fast enough.

"I'm not something fragile that needed protecting all the time."

“Then stop acting like it,” he snapped. 

Your eyes widened, breath catching hard in your chest. 

The words cut deeper than they should have, sharp and unrelenting, worse than the sting of the glass or the pounding in your head.

You turned on your heel before he could say anything else, pushing your way into the back room and slamming the door shut behind you. You needed space– just a second to breathe, to collect yourself, to stop the way your chest was tightening.

You reached for a glass on the shelf, anything to keep your hands busy. Anything to keep from feeling the sting in your eyes.

But your fingers trembled. The ache in your head flared sharp again. And before you could even react, the glass slipped from your grasp.

Crash.

It shattered against the floor, loud and jarring. And that was it.

The tears came before you could stop them– hot, angry, humiliated tears. Not from the glass, not from the pain, but from the frustration, the helplessness, the exhaustion of pretending everything was fine when your body was still screaming otherwise.

You clenched your fists at your sides, trying to blink it all away, trying to hold yourself upright even though your legs suddenly felt too weak.

But then you heard footsteps behind you.

“Are you done proving your point–”

Tommy stopped mid-sentence.

You didn’t have to look at him to feel the shift in his presence, or the way his entire demeanor softened the moment he saw your shoulders shaking, the tears on your cheeks.

“Hey,” he said, voice gentler now, quiet. “Hey.”

You turned away, trying to wipe your face, but he was already there, stepping over the broken glass, reaching for you carefully like he was afraid you’d break just like the pieces on the floor.

“Come here,” he murmured, arms outstretched, steady and warm.

You turned, eyes wet, throat tight, just in time to see his arms start to reach for you.

But you stepped back sharply, shaking your head. “Don’t.”

Tommy stilled.

“I’m so sick of this,” you snapped, voice cracking. “Sick of being treated like I’m some fragile thing that can’t take a deep breath without falling apart.”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t speak. Just stood there, steady, watching you with that infuriating calm.

“I’m trying,” you said, voice rising. “I’m trying to feel normal again, to be normal again. But you don’t get it,” you said, bitter now. “You don’t know what it’s like to wake up and not even recognize your own body anymore. To be afraid of your own mind and what it can do to me.”

Your breath hitched, another tear slipping down your cheek before you could stop it. “I don’t want to be a burden, Tommy.”

He stepped closer again, slower this time. “You’re not.”

You shook your head, hands curling into fists at your sides. “You can say I’m not all you want, but I am, Tommy. You’re giving everything up just to babysit me, and I–” Your voice cracked, raw and exposed. “I heard you.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Heard what?”

You swallowed hard, chest tightening. “The other night. You were talking to Arthur and John… about the London deal.”

Tommy went still.

“I wasn’t trying to listen,” you rushed to add, voice shaking. “I’d woken up, and you weren’t there, and I came downstairs and… I heard John say it. That they pulled out because you weren’t there. Because you stayed here with me.”

Tommy’s expression didn’t change much, just a subtle flicker in his jaw, the smallest shift in his eyes.

You blinked through another wave of tears. “And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. That I cost you something important. That the whole reason it’s falling apart is because I couldn’t keep it together.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting the sting behind your eyes. “What happens when you fall behind on business? When things start slipping? What happens then?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “Since when are you up for giving me business advice?”

You straightened slightly, heart pounding, the tension curling tighter beneath your ribs.

“I’m not giving you business advice,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m just saying… you don’t have to stay with me all the time, Tommy. I’m not expecting you to.”

He looked at you then, and there was something unreadable behind his eyes.

“You think I’m here out of obligation?” His voice was low, steady, but there was a clipped edge beneath it. “You think I stayed because I felt I had to?”

You didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched.

“I think you’ve got a business to run. A family to look after. And you’re putting that on hold.”

His jaw flexed. 

“And I’m just saying maybe you shouldn’t.”

He let out a humorless breath, more a scoff than a laugh, and turned away.

You pushed a little further, the guilt pressing harder. “You stayed in the hospital with me for a week– you must have missed other meetings, other deals.”

He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the profile of his face, his clenched jaw, the flicker in his eyes. “What’s your point?”

You stepped closer. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re falling behind. Christ, I’m not completely helpless– I can take care of myself.”

You held his gaze for a moment longer, your voice quieter now, but no less firm. “I heard the way Arthur and John talked to you.”

You swallowed, eyes dropping briefly to the floor. “I don’t want to be the reason things start to unravel.” You hesitated, your throat tightening. “They think I’m holding you back. And maybe they’re right.”

His expression hardened slightly, not with anger, but something quieter. Something wounded.

“I’m not trying to cause a rift between you and them,” you added. “They’re your family. Your blood. I’m not even–” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “I’m not part of that. Not really.”

You crossed your arms tightly, the tension in your shoulders finally catching up to you, dragging you down with it. Your hands came together in your lap, twisting over one another, trying to wring the nerves from your fingertips.

There was a beat of silence. Tommy’s jaw ticked, his shoulders squaring as he studied you. The muscles in his throat moved as he swallowed, slow and deliberate.

“You think that’s how I see you?” he asked finally, low and quiet, but laced with something that stung more than shouting ever could.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper. 

After a moment, Tommy’s mouth tugged into a crooked, humorless half-smile. “I’ve had lots of women in my bed before,” he said, voice low. 

Your eyes stung before you could stop it, a sharp pressure building behind them as your chest tightened. That ache, deep, quiet, relentless, spread beneath your ribs, heavy and hollow all at once.

“Pretty ones. Clever ones. Ones who only wanted to ride the high while it lasted.” His gaze flicked over you. 

You blinked hard, a tear slipping free despite your best efforts. Your hands curled tightly in your lap as you tried to imagine where the hell he was going with any of this. 

“I’ve had lots of women in my bed before,” Tommy said again, quieter now, like he regretted saying it the first time at all. “But none of them ever made me give a fuck about anything but myself. They were good for a night. That’s it. Never once made me want to change a thing. They were just noise. Something to fill the time.”

His voice lingered in the air, quiet but weighted, hanging between you like smoke.

You didn’t look up, not yet. You couldn’t. Not with your eyes burning and your throat thick with the ache of it. But you felt him move closer. 

The scent of him, smoke and cologne and something warmer, something familiar, wrapped around you like a balm. His shoes stopped in front of yours, and slowly, carefully, he reached out to tilt your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“But you…” he said. “You’re not just noise.”

You met his gaze, finally, and there it was, laid bare in the blue of his eyes. Not just guilt or tenderness. But need. Affection. Something deeper than all of it.

“You’re not just in my life,” he said, voice nearly a whisper. “You’re the only part I give a damn about.”

Your eyes met his again, full of something fragile and raw. “I’m scared that you’ll look at me and regret these choices– because you were too busy worrying about me and my mess.”

Tommy’s expression didn’t waver. His eyes met yours, steady and unreadable. “I thought you were dead, you know?”

The words stopped you cold. He didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t need to. It was low. Heavy. Final. “I’ve seen a lot of things. Done worse. But that…” His jaw locked, throat shifting with the effort to keep it together.

“That’s not something I can just walk away from.” He finally looked at you again, eyes shadowed and tired. “So if I’m skipping meetings, taking time… it’s not because I think you need me. It’s because I don’t want to be away from you right now. Because I need to remind myself that you didn’t die because of me.” 

You didn’t know what to say. The heat in your throat burned, your chest tight with emotion you couldn’t quite name.

Tommy held your gaze, his jaw set now, voice steady and resolute. “John and Arthur can handle the business. That’s what we’ve been building toward. And if they can’t–” he shrugged once, slow and deliberate, “then I’ll deal with it later. Business comes and goes. Deals fall through. We build new ones.”

He stroked the softness of your cheek, enough to make sure you were looking at him. “But I lost you for two whole fucking days. I nearly lost you for good– and I refuse to lose you now,” he added, jaw clenched. “Not because you wanted to prove something. Not because you wanted to work a bloody shift at the Garrison when you should’ve been in bed.”

Tommy’s eyes softened, the edge in his voice giving way to something more fragile, something far more human.

“So, will you please stop arguing and just come home with me?” he asked quietly.

You blinked up at him, breath catching.

“So that I can remind myself that you’re still here. That I didn’t lose you.”

His words settled into your ribs, aching and tender.

You hesitated, eyes flickering toward the shattered glass on the floor behind you. “But… what about the glass? I can't leave that for Harry..”

Tommy let out a rough breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head as he closed the distance between you.

His arms wrapped around your frame, firm and grounding, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other anchoring you against his chest.

“You’re going to be the fucking death of me,” he murmured into your hair, voice rough with affection. “Bloody hell.”

You sank into him, fingers clutching the front of his coat, letting yourself breathe for the first time all day.

“Come on,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Let’s go home.”

<< Previous Chapter

Tommy didn’t speak much as he guided you into the car. He didn’t have to. He just held your hand. From the hospital doors to the car. From the parking lot to the driver’s seat. The entire drive, his fingers wrapped around yours like he couldn’t bear to let go.

You stared out the window, watching the buildings blur past. Familiar roads. Familiar turns. And then, he missed one.

You frowned, blinking slowly, head still fogged with exhaustion. “Tommy… you missed the turn. That was my street.”

He didn’t look at you. His jaw ticked slightly. “You’re not going there.”

You turned toward him more fully, surprised. “What do you mean?”

His grip on the steering wheel tightened just slightly. “You’re staying with me.”

You blinked at him, head still heavy, unsure if you heard him right.

“Tommy…” your voice was soft, uncertain. “I don’t need–” 

“You do.” He cut in gently, but firmly. His eyes stayed on the road, but his hand never left yours.

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words never came. You didn’t have the strength. Not to fight him. Not to pretend you weren’t still rattling apart inside. But, you didn’t want to be a burden. Not to him. Not to anyone.

You hated the thought of needing help, hated the way your body still trembled when you stood, the way your chest seized when the memories crept in.

You didn’t want him to feel like he had to carry you.

“Your place is too far away,” he added after a moment, quieter now. “I want you close, in case you need anything.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just let the words hang in the air, let the silence settle between you.

Then, quietly, you said, “Alright.”

Tommy glanced at you, but didn’t press. He just gave your hand the faintest squeeze and kept driving.

Still, a tightness curled in your stomach. And by the time Tommy pulled the car into the drive, your heart was thudding a little too fast.

He stepped out first, circling around to your side. The moment the door opened, the cool air hit your skin, and you realized just how weak you felt. Tommy reached for you without hesitation, one hand outstretched.

You took it slowly, cautiously, and let him help you ease your legs out of the car. But the second your feet hit the ground, your vision tilted.

A wave of dizziness crashed over you– sharp and disorienting. You sucked in a breath and squeezed your eyes shut, swaying.

“Hey–” Tommy’s voice was instantly at your ear, low and grounding. “Hey, I’ve got you.”

Both his hands closed around yours, steadying you, anchoring you in place.

“Don’t rush. Just breathe.”

You did. In through your nose, out through your mouth. 

“I’m okay,” you mumbled.  But your knees still felt weak, and your head still pulsed with a warning ache.

Without a word, Tommy slipped an arm around your waist, the other hand bracing your shoulder. His touch was firm but careful, guiding you forward one slow step at a time.

“Lean on me,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

You did. You had to. Because your legs didn’t feel like they fully belonged to you yet.

Each step toward the front door felt like a small mountain, and even with Tommy beside you, you felt unsteady, vulnerable, like your body might betray you at any moment. As you and Tommy stepped through the door, the warmth of the house rushed in to meet you, the scent of food, the faint flicker of the fire in the sitting room, the hum of too many voices all in one space.

And then– 

“Welcome home!”

The words rang out all at once, overlapping voices, a burst of warmth and noise that should’ve been comforting… but hit you like a gust of wind.

Arthur was the first to grin and raise a glass, John behind him with a crooked smile, Esme offering a nod from the side. Polly stood quietly near the hearth, arms crossed but eyes soft, and Ada looked over from the kitchen, where the clatter of plates hinted at a meal they’d pulled together just for this.

And then– Finn. He darted toward you with a bright smile, holding something behind his back.

“I made you something,” he said, eyes shining, practically bouncing with excitement.

Before you could ask what, he pulled a small wooden carving from behind his back– a little horse, roughly shaped, clearly made with love and effort.

Your chest tightened. A real smile broke through, soft and genuine.

“Thank you,” you smiled, touched beyond words.

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around your middle, careful but eager, and you leaned into it, one hand coming up to gently tousle his hair.

“I missed you,” he mumbled against your shoulder.

“I missed you too,” you said back.

John stepped in next, giving you a one-armed hug, careful but warm. “Good to see you back, love.”

Arthur followed, his hug a little tighter, but just as thoughtful. “Bout time you came home, Doc,” he said, gruff but kind. “We’ve missed you.”

You smiled through it all, meant it, too, but each movement, each word, made your head throb a little harder. 

The dizziness returned, subtle but creeping, the ache behind your eyes pulsing harder now with the noise, the light, the movement.

Still, you didn’t say anything, you didn’t want to ruin it. Not after everything they’d done to welcome you home.

You swayed slightly, just enough for Tommy to feel it beneath his arm. Immediately, his grip tightened at your waist. 

The house buzzed around you, that familiar Shelby brand of chaos and comfort all tangled together as they caught you up on the last week of events.

John was already making some joke at Arthur’s expense– something about him burning dinner last week when he tried to help Esme in the kitchen.

“Nearly set the whole bloody kitchen on fire,” John snorted, elbowing Arthur, who shoved him back half-heartedly.

“It was one fuckin’ pan!” Arthur barked, but the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Esme rolled her eyes. “One pan, one curtain, and half the rug, you mean.”

Laughter echoed around you.

Finn snickered and puffed his chest out like he’d been in charge the whole time. “I put it out, didn’t I?”

“You threw a cup of tea on it, Finn,” John muttered, shaking his head.

You tried to laugh, tried to keep your smile warm, but your temples were throbbing now, each sound digging a little deeper behind your eyes.

The light overhead was just a little too bright, the voices a little too loud, and the noise a little too much. But you held your ground, smiled softly when Finn leaned against you again, nodded along when Esme asked how the food smelled from the front door, even murmured a soft “smells amazing” though your stomach was already churning slightly from the ache.

Your vision blurred for a split second as another sharp wave of pressure bloomed behind your eyes. You squeezed your hands together, knuckles whitening slightly, trying to breathe through it.

They were laughing again– Polly saying something about Arthur trying to fix a window with the wrong tools, and you tried so hard to focus on it, to stay present, to just be part of the moment.

But your head was screaming now.

It felt like something was pressing down behind your eyes, behind your skull, like every sound was echoing inside your bones. You blinked again, slower this time, heart pounding a little harder.

Eventually, everyone began to shuffle toward the kitchen, pulled by the scent of stew and the comfort of a familiar meal. Chairs scraped against the floor, glasses clinked, and voices rose in warm, overlapping conversation.

Ada appeared at your side, gently brushing your arm. “Come on, sit down before John eats everything.”

Tommy’s hand was still steady at your waist, grounding you with every step. But when Ada gave you a light nudge forward, he finally let go, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary before falling away.

He didn’t say anything, just followed quietly behind you, taking a seat across the table once you were settled between Ada and Esme.

The table filled quickly– Polly making sure everyone had what they needed, Arthur poured drinks, Finn and John argued over who got the bigger spoonful of stew. There was warmth, laughter, comfort in the air.

You tried to keep up. You smiled where it felt appropriate, nodded when someone spoke to you. But the pressure in your skull was growing heavier by the second, every sound sharp and grating, every flicker of candlelight like a spike behind your eyes.

You could feel it building– the kind of ache that would split you open if you let it go much further. So you leaned slightly toward Ada and murmured, “I’ll be right back.”

She gave you a soft nod, unconcerned.

You pushed gently away from the table, doing your best to move casually– like nothing was wrong, like you weren’t unraveling again with every step.

And the moment you were out of view, your hand braced against the hallway wall for balance, the world tilted slightly beneath your feet.

You ducked into the bathroom, closed the door behind you, and gripped the sink with both hands, knuckles white as the pain surged. Your vision blurred. Your head pulsed like it was splitting open, like something pressing outward from the inside of your skull. Every beat of your heart throbbed in your temples, in your jaw, in your teeth. Your breathing came in shallow gasps, your vision swimming with spots even though your eyes were closed tight.

You just needed it to pass. Just a moment– just a breath without pain, without pressure, without the echo of footsteps in dark corridors and Campbell’s voice twisting in your head.

But it didn’t pass.

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, willing the pain to recede. Willing your body to stop trembling, your stomach to stop churning, your skull to stop splitting open. You wanted to be strong. You wanted to go back out there and smile again and pretend that you were fine.

But you weren’t fine.

Not even close.

You lowered your head further toward the sink, swallowing hard as nausea crept up from your stomach again. A cold sweat broke out across your back, and your arms trembled from the effort of holding yourself up.

A faint knock echoed against the bathroom door, barely registering through the pounding in your skull. 

“You alright?”

Tommy’s voice. The low hum of nausea threatened to rise again.

“I’m fine,” you managed to rasp, but the words came out slurred and weak, and not at all convincing, even to your own ears.

There was a pause. Then a sigh. “I’m coming in.”

You didn’t have the strength to protest.

Your eyes were too blurred to see him walk in, your body too wracked with pain to even straighten up. You stayed hunched over the sink, gripping it like a lifeline, head bowed and trembling.

And then you felt his hands– warm, steady, grounding. One came to your back, the other gently curling around your upper arm.

“I’m fine,” you said through clenched teeth, though the words barely made it past your lips.

Tommy didn’t answer right away. He just stood behind you, fingers tightening slightly where they held you, his thumb brushing a slow, deliberate stroke over your arm.

“You’re not.”

His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the sharp edge beneath it– a quiet desperation in the way he clung to calm.

You felt his hand move to your forehead, checking your temperature, then carefully brushing hair back from your damp skin. His palm rested there for a second, as if trying to absorb the pain from your body into his own.

You felt him shift closer, the press of his body behind you a solid barrier against the chaos unraveling inside your head.

“Tell me where it hurts,” he said, his voice low and urgent now. “Tell me what you need.”

But you couldn’t answer.

The pain was climbing higher, sharper, suffocating. A whimper escaped your throat before you could stop it, your fingers slipping on the edge of the sink.

“My head. I can’t–” you gasped, shaking your head weakly. “Tommy, I can’t see–”

Your knees buckled slightly, and he caught you immediately, arms coming around your waist as he held you upright.

“Okay, okay, okay. Let me help you,” Tommy murmured, his voice tight with concern but softer now, coaxing.

You couldn’t argue.

Gently, he shifted one arm beneath your legs, the other steady at your back, and lifted you with ease, holding you close to his chest. Your head dropped against his shoulder, your hands trembling slightly against his coat as he carried you out of the bathroom and up the stairs.

Each step made your head throb, but his grip never faltered– solid, protective, unshakable.

He pushed the bedroom door open with his shoulder and crossed the room in a few strides. He set you down carefully on the edge of bed. You immediately dropped your head to your hands, trying to breathe through the pain, trying not to cry again. Your vision pulsed with every heartbeat, the nausea still coiled tight in your stomach.

Without a word, Tommy turned and moved across the room, pulling the blinds with quiet efficiency. The light vanished in seconds, replaced by a soft, comforting dimness that settled over the room like a blanket.

“Stay here,” he said gently. “I’ll be right back.”

You nodded faintly, but didn’t lift your head.

As soon as the door closed behind him, your composure cracked further. Tears stung at your eyes again, hot and unwelcome, but you blinked them back, forcing them down your throat, swallowing past the lump you didn’t want to feel.

You hated feeling like this. Fragile. Useless. Weak.

The door creaked open a few minutes later. Tommy returned with a glass of water in one hand and a small bottle of pills in the other. He moved without saying a word, sitting gently beside you on the bed, one hand brushing your back before handing you the glass and meds. 

“Here.” His voice was soft. “Take these. They’ll help.”

You did, your fingers clumsy and slow as you swallowed them down, your hands still trembling slightly. You didn’t say anything– not because you didn’t want to, but because if you tried, the tears would spill over.

Tommy must’ve seen it– the way your jaw clenched, the way your throat worked around the ache.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. He just moved closer. 

Then, without a word, he shifted, toeing off his shoes before easing against the headboard. His arm slid behind your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest, the weight of him beside you grounding something fragile inside you. You didn’t resist. You couldn’t. You let yourself fall into the warmth of him, your head resting just beneath his collarbone.

His free arm curled around you, protective and unshakable, holding you like he could will the pain away just by being near. You could feel the soft rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, his heartbeat a steady rhythm you could anchor yourself to.

One hand began to move, gentle, soothing, stroking slow circles along your scalp, easing the tension in your skull. He tucked his chin against your forehead.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

The pain was still there, a dull throb behind your eyes, a heavy ache woven through your body, but it was quieter now. Less sharp. Muted beneath the warmth of his embrace, the steady beat of his heart, the way his fingers never stopped moving, grounding you with every touch.

You breathed in the scent of him, smoke, earth, linen, and let your body relax, inch by inch, into the shape of his.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, voice rough with something soft and aching. “You’re alright.”

And finally, slowly, your breathing began to even out. The weight behind your eyes grew heavier, the edges of the room fading into shadows.

The last thing you felt before sleep pulled you under was the slow press of his lips to your temple.

…

You woke with a gasp.

For a moment, you weren’t in Tommy’s bed– you were back there.

Campbell’s weight pressing you down. His breath against your ear. His hands on your skin. The darkness closing in around you, suffocating.

Your body jolted upright, a strangled sound caught in your throat as your chest heaved. Your hands scrambled for something, anything, to hold onto, to ground yourself. The sheets tangled in your legs, the shadows in the room unfamiliar in your haze of panic.

Your heart pounded so violently it hurt. You could still feel him– still smell him. Your fingers flew to your throat, like you could wipe the memory off your skin. 

But then reality settled in. 

You blinked a few times, letting your eyes adjust to the low light. Tommy’s bedroom was dark now, lit only by the faint glow of the moon slipping through a crack in the curtains. The spot beside you was empty. Cold.

Tommy was gone. You sat up carefully, testing your balance. The dizziness and pain had faded. It was still there– a faint pressure, a dull hum at the base of your skull, but it was nothing like before. Manageable. Bearable.

Your legs ached as you stood, your body moving slow and cautious, but you were steady. Padding toward the door, you noticed the soft flicker of light spilling from downstairs, the low sound of papers shifting, something faint and familiar.

You followed it. Step by step down the hallway, fingers trailing the banister, until you reached the study. Tommy sat at his desk, bathed in the soft amber glow of a desk lamp, sleeves rolled up, a half-burnt cigarette between his fingers. Papers were scattered in front of him, some kind of ledger open, though he didn’t seem to be reading it, just staring, lost in thought.

He heard you before he saw you, the subtle creak of the floorboards, the softness of your footsteps.

His head lifted instantly. “You alright?” he asked, his voice low.

You gave a small, quick nod. “I’m okay.”

He studied you for a moment, eyes scanning your face like he didn’t quite believe it until he saw it himself.

Then, he nodded once, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Good.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him, cigarette still burning between his fingers. His eyes didn’t leave you, as if he needed to keep checking, keep confirming you were really standing there– upright, breathing, whole.

You hovered in the doorway for a second longer, unsure why your heart was beating so fast. Maybe it was the silence. Or the way his gaze softened just slightly when he looked at you.

Then, slowly, you crossed the room.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. Your bare feet padded quietly over the rug, and you made your way to him like you always had, drawn to the place where he was, even when it felt unfamiliar.

Tommy moved his chair back just a little, enough to make room as you neared.

Without asking, without a word exchanged, you settled down on the edge of the desk beside him, knees brushing his thigh.

His eyes flicked down to your legs, then back up to your face– searching, still cautious, like he wasn’t entirely sure if you were okay. 

“Pain’s better?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You nodded. “Yes.”

He nodded slowly in return. His hand drifted lazily toward your knee, fingers curling there gently, not gripping, just holding. Something in the weight of his touch made your breath catch in your chest.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. Just the low crackle of the cigarette. The soft rustle of the pages on the desk. 

You glanced down at his hand on your knee, and then back to his face. “When did everyone go home?” you asked softly, your voice still a little hoarse.

Tommy’s eyes softened slightly. “A bit after you went upstairs.”

You hesitated, chewing lightly on the inside of your cheek. “Were they upset? That I… left early?”

He shook his head. “Not upset. Just concerned.” He gave your knee a gentle squeeze. “I told them not to bombard you. Said we should do dinner next week. Shows how much they bloody listen to me.”

You smiled faintly, though a flicker of guilt still sat behind your ribs.

“Why didn’t you stay in bed?” you asked softly, your voice still rough around the edges but steady enough.

Tommy’s thumb brushed lightly across your skin before he replied, eyes flicking away toward the desk for a moment. “Had a few things to handle,” he said simply. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Tommy leaned back slightly in his chair, exhaling through his nose. “Figured I’d get a few things sorted before everything caught up with me.”

You studied him for a moment, the faint creases in his brow, the weariness beneath his eyes, the way his shoulders still hadn’t fully relaxed.

“Like what?” you asked softly. 

His gaze returned to yours, and for a moment, he hesitated, like he wasn’t sure how much of it you actually wanted to hear. “Letters from Jarvis,” he said eventually. “He’s been pushing back on some of the territory deals. Thought I’d sort it before it became a mess.” His mouth twitched faintly in distaste. “Also had to make sure Moss got paid what he’s owed. Last thing I need is another rat turning on us because he didn’t get his bloody bribe.”

You sat quietly with the weight of his words for a moment, then glanced back toward the desk, toward the scattered papers he clearly hadn’t touched in a while.

“Why did you owe Moss?” you asked gently.

Tommy’s fingers paused against your knee. He didn’t look at you right away, his jaw ticked slightly, his eyes flicking instead toward the cigarette burning between his fingers.

You watched him hesitate, that familiar shift in his expression when he was choosing his words carefully, when there was something he didn’t want to say but knew he couldn’t avoid.

Then your heart sank just a little.

“He knew where I was,” you said. 

Tommy’s eyes finally lifted to yours. He didn’t answer at first, but he didn’t need to. The flicker in his gaze said everything.

You swallowed hard, the pieces clicking into place. 

Tommy exhaled through his nose, low and slow. “He overheard Campbell running his fucking mouth. He didn’t come forward until the second night. Said he needed a deal before he gave me anything.”

“And you agreed to that?”

“I did.” His voice was flat, controlled. 

You forced a shallow breath into your lungs, tucked the feeling deeper, and managed a faint, fleeting smile.

“Well,” you murmured, trying to keep your voice steady, “you can always dock it from my wages once I’m back behind the bar.”

It was meant to be a joke– something light and easy, a way to lift the weight just a little. But Tommy didn’t smile. His expression didn’t shift or soften.

“I’d have given him more,” he said simply, his voice low and firm. “Ten thousand. Twenty. I’d have given everything I had if it meant getting to you faster.”

Your smile faltered. You looked down again, throat tightening, your eyes drifting back down to your hands in your lap. That same heaviness returned, the kind that had crept in and settled beneath your ribs since the moment you woke up in that hospital bed. 

You pressed your palms together, knuckles tight, eyes blinking a little too fast against the sting behind them.

Tommy was watching, of course he was. He saw the shift in your expression, the way your shoulders tensed, the way your mouth pressed into a thin, quiet line.

You forced a shallow breath into your lungs, tucked the feeling deeper, and managed a faint, fleeting smile.

“I should let you get back to work,” you said quietly, rising slowly before he could respond.

Tommy’s eyes flicked up to you, concern tightening his brow. “You don’t have to go.”

“I know.” You smoothed your hands over your arms, suddenly cold. “I just… I think I’m tired.”

You weren’t sure what to do with the weight in your chest. Or with the mix of shame, of guilt, of how much he’d sacrificed, and how helpless you’d felt in return. But worse than that was the part of you that still ached with the memory of believing Campbell’s words, even for a moment, that Tommy didn’t care, that you’d been nothing more than a pawn in his game. You hated that you’d let it in. That you’d doubted him. You weren’t sure how to sit in that feeling and not drown in it.

And maybe a part of you was afraid that if you stayed in the room with him a second longer, it would show. That he’d see all of it: the cracks, the doubt, the way Campbell’s voice still lived in the corners of your mind.

Tommy didn’t stop you as you turned to leave.

But as you reached the doorway, he spoke, low, steady. “I’ll be up in a bit.”

You paused, just briefly, and nodded without turning back.

Then you slipped out of the room, the sound of papers rustling and a match striking behind you as he returned to his work.

Upstairs, the quiet felt heavier. And as you sat down on the edge of the bed, your hands still trembling faintly, you wondered if he could see right through you– If he could tell that no matter how normal you tried to act, how composed your voice sounded downstairs, everything inside you still felt frayed at the edges.

You exhaled slowly, pressing your palms flat against your thighs. But even then– even with clean clothes, a warm bed, and Tommy’s hands having held you so gently earlier– you could still feel it.

The ghost of Campbell’s touch.

The way his fingers had bruised your skin. The way his breath had curled against your ear. The weight of his body, the press of him, the scent of sweat and whiskey still clinging to your memory like smoke that wouldn’t wash out.

You swallowed hard, your throat thick. Your stomach churned.

You pushed up from the bed slowly, your limbs still unsteady, and padded toward the bathroom. The door creaked softly on its hinges as you stepped inside, flicking on the low light above the mirror.

And that’s when you saw it– the version of you that had survived. Barely, by the looks of it. Your reflection stared back, pale and fragile and hollow-eyed, a stranger wearing your face.

You reached for the basin, gripping the edge of the sink as your eyes moved higher, over your collarbone, your throat– 

There it was. The bruising. Faint, but still there. The smudged shadows of fingers that had wrapped around your throat and squeezed. Campbell’s hands.

The air thickened in your lungs, your stomach turned over violently, and a wave of nausea curled through you so fast it knocked your knees loose. You gripped the sink tighter, gasping, the room tilting for a moment.

Your skin remembered. You could still feel it– like phantom fingerprints scorched into your skin. The bruises might fade. The wounds might close. But your body remembered, even in stillness. Especially in stillness. Your eyes slipped closed, and for a moment, you clenched your hands into fists, digging your nails into your palms just to feel something real. Something that belonged to you.

You weren’t in that basement. You weren’t on the floor. He wasn’t here.

But it didn’t matter. The echo of it lived in your body, even now.

You raised your hand slowly, fingers brushing the bruising along your throat, then dragging lower, tracing the line of your collarbones, the way your skin looked frail and unfamiliar beneath the low bathroom light. Your bones felt sharper than they used to.

The circles beneath your eyes were dark and heavy, like bruises born of sleepless nights and too many tears. You looked hollow. Sunken. Like someone who had been lost for a very long time and only just now crawled her way back to the surface. 

You didn’t look like yourself.

And maybe that’s what hurt most of all, that even after surviving him, he’d still managed to take pieces of you. He’d still left his mark, not just in bruises but in the way you saw yourself now, in the way you barely recognized the person staring back at you.

Eventually, you turned off the faucet, took one last glance at your reflection, eyes tired, throat still aching, and shut off the light.

The bedroom was quiet when you stepped back in, dim and still, the weight of the day pressing heavy in the air.

You crawled back into bed, pulling the blanket up and curling toward the side closest to the wall. Your body was exhausted, but your mind refused to settle, thoughts drifting in circles, chasing the shape of shadows that still clung to your skin.

You weren’t sure how much time passed before you heard the door creak open again.

Tommy’s footsteps padded across the floor.

He didn’t speak at first, just moved about quietly, the rustle of fabric, the faint clink of metal as he set something on the bedside table. You could feel his presence behind you, the way the air shifted when he stood by the bed.

Then the mattress dipped gently beneath his weight as he climbed in beside you. 

“You awake?” he asked, his voice low, barely more than a whisper.

You didn’t turn, just hummed faintly in response, eyes still half-lidded against the soft darkness.

A moment later, you felt his hand slide across the bed, finding your waist, palm warm and grounding through the blanket. He pulled you close, careful, slow, until your back was pressed to his chest and his arm wrapped firmly around you. His hand shifted, planting itself over your stomach, firm and steady, like he needed to feel you there, solid and breathing beneath his palm.

And then, gently, he pressed a kiss to the side of your neck– soft and reverent, lips brushing just below your ear, where the bruises had once bloomed.

He held you like you weren't completely broken.

You closed your eyes, breathing in the warmth of him– the press of his chest against your back, the solid weight of his arm across your stomach, the soft heat of his mouth against your neck.

For a moment, you let yourself feel it. Let yourself believe in his safety. 

But it didn’t last.

In the dark behind your closed lids, Campbell’s face surged forward like a wave. The weight of his body. The smell of him. His breath against your ear. His fingers bruising your skin.

You flinched.

The memory cut like a blade through the calm, and your body tensed before you could stop it– shoulders going rigid, a wince tightening across your face as your breath hitched in your throat.

Tommy felt it immediately.

His hand on your stomach stilled. His chest pressed a little closer. “Hey,” he murmured gently, his voice quiet, warm against your skin. “What is it?”

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. You just kept your eyes closed, willing the memory to pass, trying to breathe through it.

Your jaw stayed tight, eyes still closed, and your body remained stiff beneath the weight of his arm.

Tommy’s sigh was soft, not frustrated, not impatient, just heart-worn and knowing. His hand moved slowly, brushing lightly along your neck, fingers ghosting over the spot where the bruises had once bloomed. The spot where Campbell had left a mark that went far deeper than skin.

His touch was featherlight, reverent, but it still sent a fresh wave of emotion swelling in your chest.

And then, quietly, almost like he hated himself for even asking, he spoke. “What did he do to you?”

The question hung between you, heavy and aching. There was no pressure in his voice, no demand. Just quiet devastation. Like he already knew, but needed to hear it, needed to make himself face it. 

Your hands curled tighter into the blanket, breath hitching as your shoulders began to tremble.

Tommy felt it instantly. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arm around you more securely, pulling you close against him, anchoring you with the full weight of his embrace.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, voice low and certain. 

Still, you didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Your throat was too tight, your heart beating too fast. All you could do was curl into him and breathe through the storm behind your eyes.

For a long moment, he was quiet too. And then, softly, in that low, measured voice of his, the one you’d come to recognize as his way of trying to carry the weight for someone else, he began to speak.

“You know… whenever we have a big family dinner like we were gonna have tonight, Polly likes to tell stories.” He paused. “Embarrassing ones, of course. Her favorite is the one where Arthur thought he could jump the canal with a shopping cart.”

You didn’t speak, but he felt you go still. Listening.

“We were maybe thirteen. Arthur got it in his head that if he ran fast enough and hit the hill by the foundry just right, the cart would clear the canal.” A faint scoff of amusement escaped him. “Didn’t even bother with a test run. Just shoved John in it and said, ‘Hold on tight.’”

You gave a small, broken sound. 

“The cart had one wheel bent, the other half-rotted through. But off they went– Arthur sprinting beside it like a madman, John screamin’ bloody murder. They hit the hill, alright.” Tommy chuckled softly. “Cart went airborne for half a second– just long enough for John to think Arthur might’ve actually done it. Then the whole thing tilted, collapsed sideways midair, and dumped him straight into the canal.”

Despite everything– despite the ache, the fear still clawing at your chest, you smiled.

“I had to haul John out of the water with a rope,” Tommy added, shaking his head. “Soaked, bruised, covered in muck– and Arthur, standing on the bank, swearing it had almost worked.”

You leaned a little more into him, the sound of his voice washing over you like comfort, like something soft and safe and far away from everything else.

You couldn’t help the breath of laughter that escaped you.

“Pol made us all eat dinner in silence,” Tommy went on, “Said we had to think about what we’d done.”

You let yourself relax a little more against him, leaning into his chest, letting the story settle into the quiet space between you like a warm blanket. The pain hadn’t gone. The memories hadn’t vanished. But for just a moment, you could breathe.

Tommy’s fingers drifted lazily along your arm, and he kept talking, quiet, low, and steady. “Then there was the time Arthur thought he could make money racing chickens behind the betting shop.”

You blinked, the absurdity of it catching you off guard.

“We didn’t have proper chickens, mind you– just two scrawny ones from next door’s coop. Painted numbers on their backs and everything.” A faint chuckle escaped him. “Didn’t get a single bet before one of them ran into traffic. It spooked one of the horses and nearly caused a cart crash.”

You gave a weak sound, half a breath, half a laugh. Tommy’s arm curled around you tighter.

“Another time, John bet Arthur he could knock the apples off the tree in the back garden by throwing a hammer.”

You blinked slowly against his chest.

“He missed. Hit Arthur square in the forehead. Swelled up like a bloody melon. Ada nearly fainted when she saw all the blood.”

You laughed again. Then, after a moment, you murmured, “You know… I can’t help but notice all these stories involve Arthur and John doing something reckless or stupid.” You shifted slightly against him, your voice softer now. “But never you.”

Tommy’s chest rose slowly behind you. “That’s because I was the one watching the mess unfold,” he said eventually, voice low and wry. “Someone had to pull them out of it.”

You huffed another faint breath of a laugh. “You mean you were the one smart enough not to get caught.”

He gave a small, amused hum, fingers brushing lightly along your arm again. “Yeah, alright. Maybe.” 

Then he went quiet for a second. “Though there was that time I got stuck in a chimney.”

You blinked. “You what?”

“Mm. When I was maybe ten,” he said, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice now. “Arthur dared me to climb down the old bakery chimney near the canal. Said there was a stash of old coin tins from when it used to be a betting shop hidden at the bottom.” 

You turned your head slightly toward him, incredulous. “And you believed him?”

“Didn’t believe him,” he muttered. “Just didn’t want him calling me a coward. So I climbed in. Got halfway down and couldn’t move. Covered in soot, couldn’t breathe right, legs wedged.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “How’d you get out?”

“Arthur tied a rope around a sack of flour and dropped it down to knock me loose. It worked, but nearly knocked me out cold. Cut up my arm on a bit of rusted grate, and thought I’d broken my ankle, too.” He shifted a little behind you, arm tightening. 

You were laughing now, properly laughing, your shoulders shaking. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Tommy’s smile pressed against your shoulder. “That’s what Polly said, too. She nearly had a stroke when she saw me. Covered in flour and soot, limping, bleeding everywhere. Said I looked like a chimney ghost snorting snow. Made me sleep in the barn for two nights ‘til I stopped coughing black.”

You gave a soft laugh, shaking your head faintly. “She deserves a bloody medal for keeping all of you alive.”

Tommy chuckled low against your skin, then added, lower now, just for you. “Suppose it makes sense… with all that chaos, I was bound to fall in love with someone who could patch us all up again.”

Something in your chest cracked open– soft and aching and full.

Your hand slid over his, fingers threading between his where it rested over your stomach. The silence that followed was different now. Not heavy, not awkward. Just full of everything unsaid. 

And somehow… it felt easier now. Easier to let your guard slip. Easier to breathe through the fear, to name it, to admit it, because of him. Because of the way his voice had softened, the way he held you like you were something worth protecting. Because he’d broken the tension with those ridiculous stories, disarmed the storm in your chest without even trying.

You swallowed hard. “I keep thinking it’ll go away,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “That it’ll stop.”

Tommy’s fingers stopped moving. He didn’t speak. He waited.

“But I can still feel it,” you continued, your throat tightening with every word. “His hands… where he touched me. I can still feel it, like it’s burned into my skin.”

His grip around you shifted, like he could hold it for you if you couldn’t.

You blinked hard, eyes stinging again. “He hit me– hard. Again and again. And he kicked me, and choked me until I couldn’t breathe.” Your throat burned. “And he just– he didn’t care. He laughed. He…” You paused, swallowing hard. “He said you wouldn’t come. That you didn’t care.”

Tommy’s fingers curled into yours, not rough, but firm– anchoring you to something solid.

“I wanted to believe he was lying,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “At first I did. But after a while, I didn’t know what was real anymore.”

There was a beat of silence– heavy, pulsing. Then Tommy’s hand moved from your stomach, sliding slowly upward until it rested along your arm, then your shoulder, then your neck.

His fingers brushed softly over your jaw, his touch light and grounding. He couldn’t see your face fully from behind, but he could feel the way your body trembled, could hear the tears in your voice even if you didn’t let them fall.

“He tried to–” You stopped, jaw clenched tight. “If John hadn’t shot him– if you hadn’t gotten there when you did… Campbell would have–”

The words stuck in your throat, sharp and burning. Just saying his name made your skin crawl. Your entire body tensed beneath Tommy’s arm, your breath shuddering in your chest.

“I just… I keep feeling him,” you whispered. “Even now. Like I can’t get him off me.”

Tommy’s breath hitched, just barely, but his hand moved gently, smoothing down your arm, then back again in a slow, calming rhythm. 

His voice came low, rasped close to your ear. “He’s dead. He’ll never fucking touch you again.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes squeezing shut. “I know,” you said, but the tremor in your voice betrayed the truth. That knowing it and believing it weren’t the same. “I’m scared to close my eyes. Everytime I do, I see him.” 

Tommy pressed a kiss to the side of your head. “I’ll stay right here, every bloody night if I have to… until you don’t feel him anymore. Until you only feel me.”

Your throat tightened again, but this time not from fear– just the sheer weight of how safe you felt in that moment, how desperately you wanted to believe him.

You nodded slowly, your hand slipping over his where it still rested on your stomach. Your fingers threaded through his, squeezing softly.

You let your eyes fall closed, focusing on the steady warmth of his body pressed to yours, the weight of his arm keeping you grounded. The ache inside you hadn’t gone. The shadows hadn’t vanished. But here, in his arms, they didn’t feel quite so loud.

And as the quiet settled over the room, and the world outside slipped further away, you let yourself believe that maybe healing was possible.

Maybe you weren’t broken beyond repair.

<< Previous Chapter

Arthur was already out of the car and shouting for help, his voice carrying over the storm of Tommy’s thoughts.

Within moments, nurses and orderlies rushed out, their expressions shifting from concern to alarm the second they saw you.

“She needs a doctor.” Tommy’s voice was low, sharp, commanding, but there was something wavering beneath it, something teetering on the edge of breaking.

A nurse stepped forward. “Sir,” she reached out carefully, gesturing towards the stretcher. 

Tommy didn’t move. He didn’t loosen his grip– couldn’t. His heart pounded in his chest. They wanted him to let you go. To give you up. To trust them– when he had no trust left to give.

“Sir, please. Step back.” The voice was firm, urgent. But the words barely registered.

All Tommy could see was your face– drained of color, bruised, unconscious in his arms. And when the nurses moved in, hands reaching for you, he jerked his shoulder and knocked one away, his elbow nudging another aside as he twisted, keeping you tight against his chest.

The nurses stumbled back, startled. One of them raised their hands cautiously.

“Sir, if you want her to live, you have to let us do our jobs.” 

Tommy grimaced. Because if he let go– if he let them take you, then he had nothing left but hope. And hope wasn’t enough.

Suddenly, someone grabbed his shoulder, hard.

“Tom–” Arthur’s voice was firm, but not unkind. “Let ‘em take her. They’re the only ones who can help her.”

Tommy’s breath hitched, his grip unwavering.

“I left her before– she needs me,” he muttered, his voice barely more than a rasp.

Arthur exhaled sharply, his hands digging into Tommy’s arms. “Right now, she needs a doctor, Tom. You’ll be waitin’ for her soon as they’re done. We all will.”

Tommy’s jaw locked, his chest rising and falling too fast.

“Christ sake– look at her,” Arthur pressed, his own voice cracking slightly. “You can’t fix this, Tom.”

The words cut deep. But they weren’t wrong. And Tommy knew it.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. Then, slowly, he loosened his grip. The second his arms unraveled from around you, the nurses took you, and the moment your body left his hands, it felt like something inside him ripped apart. The air vanished from his lungs. A sharp, visceral pain tore through him. Something he couldn’t name. Something he couldn’t stop. He staggered forward– instinct, refusal. 

But Arthur was there in an instant, shoving him back. “Tommy, let her go. Let her go.” His brother’s voice was low, urgent.

Just then, another car pulled up. The familiar sound of tires skidded against the pavement. Tommy barely registered it, his mind still fixated on your disappearing form. The car door swung open, and John climbed out, his coat still damp from the rain. He took one look at Tommy, his shirt covered in dirt and blood. Then he looked at Arthur and the scene unfolding in front of them. “Jesus Christ.” His breath came sharp. “Is she– ?”

Arthur turned, exhaling hard through his nose. “They’ve got her. She’s inside.”

John’s jaw ticked, his eyes darkening.

And just like that, the waiting began.

…

Hours passed. Tommy wasn’t sure how many. Time felt irrelevant.

The hands of the clock on the hospital wall moved, but the world outside didn’t exist beyond the walls of the waiting room.

He sat unmoving, elbows on his knees, jaw ticked, staring at the floor. His cigarette burned low between his fingers, the smoke curling toward the ceiling, forgotten. 

John and Arthur were still there, though their restless pacing had slowed. Polly had arrived not long after, her face like stone, her presence heavy with unspoken concern. Ada sat beside her, arms crossed, her leg bouncing restlessly.

Esme had shown up at some point, hovering near the back with John, arms folded tightly, expression unreadable.  Conversations flickered between the others, low murmurs filling the space, though none of them spoke directly to Tommy.

“Doctors are taking too fucking long,” John muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

Arthur exhaled sharply, restless, agitated. “Shoulda’ found our own doctor.”

“She was our bloody doctor,” Esme scoffed, arms still folded tightly, expression unreadable. 

The words hung in the air, sharp and cutting. John’s jaw tightened, his shoulders tense. He didn’t look at Esme, but she wasn’t wrong.

Polly, sitting rigidly in her chair, pressed her fingers to her temple. “We wait. That’s all we can do.”

A beat of silence. Then Arthur let out a harsh exhale, pacing again, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck’s sake.”

Esme leaned forward. “Where was she?”

Arthur exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Old textile mill. Near the canal.” His voice was still raw, like saying it out loud made it real all over again.

Polly frowned, crossing one leg over the other. “It’s a fucking miracle we found her at all.”

Arthur nodded slowly. “Stuffed in a basement. No light. No heat. No way out.” He huffed.

Esme shook her head. “Jesus. And Campbell?”

Arthur shrugged. “Where we left him.”

“Six feet under.” John rolled his neck, exhaling. “I’m glad that fucker’s dead. I hope he suffered.”

Arthur scoffed. “It wasn’t nearly enough.”

Esme arched her brow. “Not enough? What more do you want?’”

Arthur shook his head, but his lips twitched. “You didn’t see her, Esme,” he muttered, voice tight. His pacing slowed, and for the first time since they arrived, his anger dimmed, just slightly, not gone, just simmering beneath the surface. “You didn’t see what that bastard did to her.”

Esme’s arms were still folded tightly, but something shifted in her expression. She had seen plenty of violence. Plenty of cruelty. But there was something in Arthur’s tone, in the way his jaw clenched like he was grinding his teeth to dust, that made her pause.

John exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. “Well, at least it’s done. Campbell’s gone.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Still gotta deal with Moss, though.”

Arthur grunted. “Fuckin’ right, we do.”

Esme’s brow lifted. “Moss?”

John nodded. “He was the one who tipped Tommy off.”

Esme scoffed. “And what does he want for that favor?”

John smirked, but there was no real amusement behind it. “Just a nice bag of cash and protection from Campbell’s ghost.”

Arthur huffed, crossing his arms. “Like we needed another bloody deal on our hands.”

Polly, who had been silent, finally spoke. “We’ll deal with it,” she said, her tone flat. 

John leaned back slightly, rubbing his jaw. “Doesn’t change the fact we owe the bastard.” He exhaled sharply.

Arthur grunted. “Right. And what we really need right now is another fucking problem.”

“That’s not what’s important right now,” Polly replied. 

The conversation continued, their voices flickering between grumbling and reluctant acceptance.

But Tommy still hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t even moved. His elbows were still braced against his knees, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white.

Ada noticed before the others. Quietly, she stood and moved to sit beside him– close, but not intrusive. His suit was stiff with dried blood, his hair unruly. His hands looked like they had been clenched into fists for hours.

Ada sighed softly. After a moment, her voice came soft, measured. “Tommy.”

He didn’t look at her– didn’t even acknowledge her.

Ada pressed her lips together, watching him carefully. “You need to eat,” she said quietly. “Change your clothes.”

Nothing.

Ada studied him for a long moment, her voice even softer now. “It’s been eight hours, Tommy.”

Still, he didn’t move. She swallowed, watching the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled against his knees like he was holding himself together with sheer force of will.

“You need rest,” she murmured. “Even if it’s just for a little while.”

For a moment, it seemed like he wouldn’t react at all. But then, he inhaled sharply and held it. Just for a second. Just long enough for her to see it. She saw the way his jaw tensed harder, how the muscles in his throat tightened, and the smallest tremor rippled through his fingers.

And then, without a word, he put his head in his hands, not before Ada caught the faintest glisten in his eyes– gone before anyone else could notice. But she saw it. And she didn’t say anything. She just reached out, placed a gentle, steadying hand on his back, pretending she didn’t feel the way he silently trembled beneath her touch. 

The hours stretched on, slow and suffocating.

Outside, the night bled into morning, the city stirring with the first signs of life, but inside the hospital, time felt frozen.

Tommy hadn’t moved. Ada stayed beside him.

Arthur and John had shifted between pacing and sitting, muttering under their breaths, then falling silent again. Polly had remained still as stone, unreadable, though her fingers occasionally twitched against her knee, betraying her tension. Esme had eventually left, tasked with checking in on Carl and Finn, who’d both been left with the maids. 

The not knowing was unbearable. 

Until finally, a nurse appeared in the doorway, her uniform crisp, her expression calm but focused. Every head in the room snapped up. Tommy was on his feet before she spoke.

“She’s stable.”

A breath, a collective exhale of tension, relief, fear still tangled within it.

“But,” the nurse continued, her gaze flicking between them, “her injuries are severe.”

Tommy’s jaw locked. “How bad?”

The nurse inhaled slowly, glancing at the clipboard in her hands.

“Several broken ribs, extensive bruising, and lacerations across her body.” She paused, looking up. “What we’re really worried about is the head injury. It’s significant, looks like blunt force trauma. There’s swelling. She regained consciousness briefly but was disoriented.”

Tommy’s fingers curled into fists.

“She’ll likely experience lots of confusion, dizziness, headaches, probably some nausea,” the nurse went on. “We’re monitoring her closely for any signs of further complications.”

John exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face.

Arthur rubbed his knuckles together, muttering, “Fucking bastard.”

Polly nodded once, her voice even. “And what now?”

The nurse adjusted her clipboard. “She needs rest. No sudden movement. Limited stress. We’ll keep her under observation for the next twenty-four hours before making any further assessments. But as of right now, I’d say she needs to stay here for at least the next few days.”

Tommy swallowed. “Can we see her?”

The nurse hesitated. “One at a time.”

Ada exhaled through her nose, glancing at Tommy. “Go on, then.”

John nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ll wait.”

Tommy didn’t need to be told twice. Without another word, he moved, his strides purposeful, sharp, following the nurse down the corridor. The hospital smelled of antiseptic and old floors, the harsh fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Each step felt too slow– too far– too much distance between him and you.

Finally, the nurse stopped outside a door, her expression careful as she turned to him.

“She’s resting,” she said, lowering her voice. “She’s in and out, disoriented from the head trauma. But she’s stable.”

Tommy gave a curt nod, his jaw tight. 

She held his gaze for a moment, as if considering whether to say something more. Then, finally, she stepped aside, pushing open the door.

And then, he saw you. Laid against white sheets, looking smaller than you should have been, bruised and broken but breathing. 

The breath left his chest. 

A heavy wrap covered the side of your head, darkened slightly from where the wound had bled through. The rise and fall of your chest was shallow but steady. 

You were alive. 

He barely registered the nurse slipping out of the room, leaving you alone with him.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. He just stood there, staring, as if trying to grasp the reality of how close it had been. How close you had been to never waking up. 

And how, if that had happened, it would have been his fucking fault.

The thought slammed into him with the force of a bullet, knocking the breath from his lungs. Because this, all of this– The blood. The pain. The bruises staining your skin. Every last bit of it was on him. Because he had been the one to drag you into his world. To put you in Campbell’s line of fire. To make you a pawn in a game that should have never involved you.

And if you had died in that basement, if you had taken your last breath alone, in the dark– Tommy wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to live with it.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, his whole body tensed, burning.

Then, slowly, carefully, he took a step forward. The chair beside your bed scraped against the floor as he pulled it closer, the sound sharp in the otherwise silent room. He sat down heavily, his body tired but too wound up to feel it.

For a moment, he just watched you– took you in. He studied the way your face, usually so full of life, was still and sunken, marred by bruising along your cheekbone– deep and dark from where Campbell and his men had struck you.

Your lips were cracked, dried blood at the corner of your mouth. There was discoloration along your throat, faint but there– a reminder that someone had pressed their hands where they never fucking should have been.

His jaw tightened. Slowly, carefully, Tommy reached for your hand and gathered it in his. Your fingers were cold, your knuckles scraped raw, bruising curling along your wrists from the cuffs.

The weight in his chest pressed harder.

He had done this. He had let this happen.

And now, all he could do was sit there, watching you, waiting, praying to whatever cruel God had spared you that you’d wake up.

…

The world swam in and out of darkness.

Shadows bled into light. Light bled into pain.

There was a throbbing sensation, searing pain that split your skull in two. Your head pounded so violently it felt like the walls were closing in– like something inside you was breaking apart.

You tried to breathe, tried to move, but everything was too much. Your body was too heavy. Your skin was too cold. Your stomach lurched.

A strangled gasp tore from your throat as your fingers searched blindly, reaching for something– anything– but all you found was air.

Suddenly, your hand flew to your head, clutching at it, desperate, trying to hold it together. Because it felt like it was splitting open. Like something inside your skull was cracking apart, splitting down the middle, a fault line giving way beneath unbearable pressure.

It was blinding, searing, suffocating. A hammer pounding behind your eyes. A blade carving through the base of your skull, dragging fire down the back of your neck. Every pulse of blood felt wrong, like it was trying to push through shattered bone, through bruised, swollen tissue.

The pressure built with every ragged breath, the world around you spinning so violently it felt like you were being dragged under, drowning in your own body. 

A strangled whimper escaped before you could stop it. You squeezed your fingers tighter against your scalp, as if somehow, somehow, you could stop the way it felt like it was caving in.

It just kept building, climbing, twisting into something unbearable. And then, a wave of nausea crashed into you. 

Violent. Overpowering.

Your stomach lurched so suddenly you barely had time to turn before your body gave in. Before you could even try to take a breath, you heaved and vomited, your body convulsing with the force of it, the sharp motion sending a fresh surge of agony tearing through your skull.

A deep, radiating pain that made you gasp, made your chest seize, made the world tilt even more.

It felt like you were falling.

Until suddenly, you felt a pair of cool hands.

Soft, firm, grounding. They found your temples first, brushing along the edges of your face, soothing, steadying.

And then, a hand cradled the back of your head– like it was holding your skull together for you. The touch was firm but careful, supporting your weight as you felt a forehead press against yours. 

The smell of whiskey and smoke, of earth and something distinct filled your senses.

“I’m right here, love.” A rough, warm murmur, pulling you back from the edge. “I’ve got you. You’re alright.”

Your breath hitched– your chest rising too fast, too sharp, but his grip stayed firm. 

In the distance, other voices flickered in and out.

“She needs something for the pain.”

“Someone get the doctor–”

The words were just background noise, muffled and far away.

But the sound of his voice was close, it was here. And the warm weight of his presence, settled the worst of the panic clawing at your ribs.

The pain was still there, it was fucking unbearable, but the fear? The fear lessened.

His forehead still pressed against yours, his grip firm, anchoring you. 

You whimpered, your fingers weakly gripping at his shirt. You could hear him, but you couldn’t see him. 

“Breathe, love.” His voice was warm, grounding. “Just breathe. That’s it.”

Your body trembled violently beneath his touch, but his hold didn’t waver.

“I know it hurts, sweetheart. I know.”  He pulled you closer, just slightly, just enough. “You’re safe, yeah? I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

His breath was warm against your cheek, his words soft but firm.

You latched onto it all– let his presence consume you. So when the darkness came again, pulling you under yet again– 

All you could hear was Tommy. 

All you could smell was Tommy. 

All you could feel was Tommy. 

And what a wonderful thing to know. 

…

They kept you asleep for two days.

The doctors said the head injury was worse than they thought– that you had swelling in your brain. You’d woken up days before, screaming. Thrashing. Vomiting. Sobbing. 

The moment your eyes had snapped open, panic had ripped through you, wild and uncontrollable.

All he could do was hold you down– cup your face, and murmur that everything would be alright. He had no idea if that was true, or if he was lying through his teeth just to comfort you. But he had never felt more helpless in his entire fucking life.

He couldn’t take away the pain, couldn’t erase what had been done, couldn’t change a fucking thing. And for a man like him– that was worse than anything.

So, he did the only thing he could do: he stayed. 

Because if you woke up again– if you woke up screaming, or crying, or terrified– He’d be there.

After a while, the nurses allowed more than one visitor. Tommy thought it was more for his own sanity than anything else, but he didn’t question it. 

Polly was the first to visit. She entered quietly, her movements soft, deliberate. 

She moved to your bedside, her keen eyes scanning over you, taking in every bruise, every bandage, every sign of the suffering you had endured.

A deep, quiet sigh left her lips. “My poor girl.”

Then, she reached out and took your hand.

Tommy watched from his chair in the corner as Polly held it gently, her thumb brushing over your knuckles, slow and steady. She murmured something, soft words, barely audible. A quiet prayer, maybe. She stayed like that for a while, her other hand patting yours lightly, a mother’s touch, something firm and grounding, even as you remained unconscious.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she released your hand. And then, she turned and walked over to Tommy.

“I know what you’re thinking. I know you’ve been sitting in this room, stewing for the last twenty-four hours. I understand you’re angry, I know you’re hurting. But this was not your fault, Thomas."

Tommy’s jaw tensed immediately. His fingers curled into his palms, but he didn’t say anything.

Polly waited. She wasn’t asking for a response. She was just stating the truth as she saw it. When the silence stretched too long, she sighed.

“Sometimes I think you forget I raised you. I know how you think.” Her gaze flickered toward you. “And I know what’s going through your head without you having to say it.”

Tommy exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head, but Polly wasn’t finished.

“This happened because of Campbell. Because he was a sick, twisted bastard, not because of you.”

Tommy’s stare was dark, glassy with something unreadable.

“You can sit here and blame yourself, waste away in this chair, punish yourself for something that was never in your hands, or you can move on and focus on how you’ll help her when she wakes up.”

His throat tightened.

“Because she’s going to need you, Thomas,” Polly said, her voice softer now.

A beat of silence. Then, Tommy finally spoke.

“I should’ve stopped it.” His voice was hoarse, heavy with exhaustion and something deeper.

Polly shook her head. “You did. You stopped him from killing her.”

Tommy swallowed hard, his fingers twitching against his knees. “I shouldn’t have let her work for me in the first place. I should’ve kept her away.” 

Polly sighed. “I hate that she ended up caught in the middle of this mess. I hate that she ended up hurt. But you and I both know you couldn’t have kept her away, even if you tried.”

She reached over, squeezing his hand once before letting go. 

“She loves you. Just as much as you love her. And she was meant to come into your life, and you were meant for hers.”

Tommy didn’t move. 

Polly tilted her head as she studied him carefully, watching the war raging behind his eyes.. “You need to sleep, Thomas.”

He let out a short breath through his nose. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” she murmured. Polly stood, smoothing down her skirt. “But you can’t keep going forever.”

She let her gaze drift to you one last time before giving Tommy’s shoulder a firm pat.

“I’ll be outside,” she said. “If you need anything.”

And then, she left. The door clicked shut, the quiet settling in around him like a heavy weight.

Tommy inhaled, slow, deep. He dragged a hand down his face before leaning back into the chair, exhaling.

The hours blurred.

Tommy wasn’t sure how long he sat there, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, waiting for some sign that you were coming back to him.

At some point, John and Arthur had come in. Neither of them stayed long. John had hovered at the door at first, arms crossed over his chest, before stepping closer, muttering something like, “You’re tougher than all of us put together, love. You’ll pull through.”

Arthur had been quieter. He’d stood at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets, looking at you for a long moment. Then, with a sharp exhale, he muttered, “We’ll take care of everything, Tom. You just focus on her, yeah?”

Tommy barely responded.

A nod. Maybe. A grunt at best.

Then they left him to it.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when Ada came in next. He only realized she was there when the chair beside him scraped against the floor as she sat down.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to. She was quiet at first, just like Polly had been. Then, finally, “Tommy.”

Nothing.

She sighed. “You know she wouldn’t want this.”

His fingers curled against his knees. “Want what?”

Ada arched her brow. “You, sitting here, wasting away, waiting for her to wake up like that’ll somehow change things. They’re keeping her asleep on purpose. You can afford to slip home for an evening.”

His jaw ticked. “She might not wake up.”

Ada’s gaze softened. “She will.”

Tommy exhaled slowly through his nose, shaking his head.

“I know you, Tommy,” she continued. “And I know you’re blaming yourself.”

His throat felt tight.

“You think if you’d done something different, this wouldn’t have happened.”

He didn’t respond.

“But it did happen,” she said softly. “And you being here, tearing yourself apart over it, isn’t gonna change that.”

Tommy let his head dip, pressing his fingers to his temples, his exhaustion creeping into every inch of his body. Ada watched him carefully, her brows furrowed just slightly.

Then, she sighed. “Tommy, you need to go home.”

His fingers twitched, but he didn’t lift his head. 

“Not forever, you stubborn bastard,” she continued. “Just long enough to change your clothes, maybe sleep for an hour– hell, take a fucking bath.”

Tommy exhaled slowly through his nose, shaking his head.

Ada tilted hers. “You think she wants to wake up to you sitting here looking like a ghost? Smelling like a walking ashtray?”

Still, nothing.

She leaned in, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “Tom, if she wakes up and the first thing she smells is you right now, she’s gonna leave you.”

A small, tired huff of air left Tommy’s nose.  It wasn’t quite a laugh. But it was close enough.

Ada caught it. Her lips twitched. “There it is. That’s the first reaction I’ve gotten out of you in two bloody days.”

Tommy finally lifted his head, rubbing his jaw, shaking his head.

At last, he sighed. “Fine.” 

Ada looked surprised for half a second before she masked it with a smug grin.

“Me and Polly will stay with her the whole time.”

Tommy grumbled something under his breath as he pushed up from the chair.

“She’ll be fine, Tom. Go home.”

He hesitated, casting one last glance at you.

Then, without another word, he turned and left.

…

Consciousness came in slow waves.

It wasn’t violent like before, or a drowning, suffocating pull into agony.

Just… slow.

Your head still ached, a dull, steady throb behind your skull, but it wasn’t blinding, or even unbearable.

And when you blinked against the dim light of the room– you realized that you could see again.

A slow, shaky breath filled your lungs.

The blurry haze that had suffocated you before was gone.

Your vision wasn’t perfect– a little hazy at the edges, the room slightly too bright, but it was there. You exhaled softly, letting your gaze wander, taking in your surroundings.

You weren’t in the basement.

You were somewhere safe.

A hospital, maybe.

The sheets beneath your fingers were soft, clean. The air was cool, crisp, tinged faintly with antiseptic.

A sharp contrast to the damp, suffocating stench of blood and stone that had clung to you for days.

Your gaze shifted slightly. A figure sat in the chair beside your bed, her legs crossed, fingers idly fidgeting with a loose thread at the hem of her sleeve.

Ada’s dark hair was pulled into a loose, messy knot, her brows slightly furrowed in concentration as she twirled the thread between her fingers.

You swallowed, your throat dry, hoarse. The movement caught her attention.

Her head snapped up, eyes locking onto yours. “Holy shit.”

She was on her feet in an instant, moving closer, eyes scanning your face.

Her voice softened. “You’re awake.”

You swallowed again, voice rough when you finally rasped out, “I think so.”

A small, shaky exhale left Ada’s lips. Then, her expression shifted, softer, but still firm. “How are you feeling?”

Ada’s voice was softer now, steady but careful, as if she was trying not to startle you. You swallowed against the dryness in your throat, grimacing slightly.

“Like I got hit by a train.”

Ada huffed out a short breath. “Yeah,” she muttered. “You look it, too.”

You gave a weak, tired smirk. Your body still felt heavy, weak, sore all over. Your ribs ached, deep bruises throbbing beneath the bandages. The dull throb in your head was still there, lingering behind your skull like an echo of something much worse.

Ada shifted beside you, reaching toward the bedside table.

“Here.” She grabbed a glass of water, guiding it toward you.

You tried to lift your arm, but the effort was exhausting. Your muscles trembled, too weak to hold the weight, and before you could drop it, Ada sighed and leaned in, pressing the glass lightly to your lips.

“Alright, alright. Just sip.”

Cool water touched your tongue, soothing the rawness in your throat. You sighed in relief. Ada pulled the glass away, setting it back on the table before looking at you again.

Her arms folded, her brow furrowed slightly. And then, her expression softened.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” she said quietly. “Everyone’s been so worried.”

Your chest tightened. There was something about hearing it– knowing that they had been waiting, that she had been waiting. That you had been missed.

You cleared your throat, voice quiet. “How long?”

She exhaled, leaning back in her chair. “Two days.”

Your stomach dropped as the weight of it settled in.

“Where’s Tommy?”

Ada scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Home, finally. Only because I convinced him that if you woke up to him smelling the way he did, you might leave him.”

Something small, warm flickered in your chest. For the first time in a long time, you managed a weak, tired smile.

Ada grinned. “He should be back soon. You alright if I go get Polly? She’s been waiting, too. Think she might kill me if I don’t go tell her you’re awake.”

You gave a small nod, but the movement made your head swim. Ada noticed immediately, her expression flickering with warning.

“Oi,” she leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Don’t go passing out on us again before I’m back, yeah?”

You huffed a breath, half amused, half exhausted. “I’ll do my best.”

Ada rolled her eyes, shaking her head, but there was relief in the gesture, in the teasing, in the fact that she could even joke with you at all.

She pushed up from the chair. “Alright. I’ll be right back.”

You murmured something incoherent in response, exhaustion tugging at you again, but Ada was already moving toward the door.

As she slipped out, the room fell quiet again.

Your body still ached, your head still throbbed, but you hoped the worst of it had passed.

You were here.

You were safe.

And before you could dwell too much on any of it, the door opened again. And the second Polly’s eyes landed on you, her whole expression softened.

Relief. Pure, unfiltered relief. “Oh, love.”

She hurried to your side, brushing your hair back, resting a hand against your cheek, checking you over like only Polly Gray could.

The second her fingers grazed against your cheek, something inside you uncoiled. Polly had that effect. She didn’t rush, didn’t overwhelm. Just watched you carefully, studying every inch of your face, her eyes sharp, assessing.

“You gave us all a fucking scare, love.”

You swallowed. “Sorry.”

Polly huffed, shaking her head. “Don’t be stupid.” She pulled the chair closer, settling into it like she’d done it a hundred times already.

And knowing Polly, she probably had.

Her fingers lingered against your temple, just barely ghosting over the bandages before she pulled away. “How’s your head?”

You shifted slightly, but the movement made your stomach churn. “It’s alright,” you lied. 

Polly raised a suspicious and knowing brow. 

You sighed. “Hurts like hell.”

Polly nodded like she’d already known the answer before she asked.

“They’re keeping a close eye on you,” she murmured. “You were out for a long time.”

You exhaled softly, closing your eyes for a moment.

“He wouldn’t leave,” she continued. “We had to force him to go home, just for a few hours.”

You swallowed hard. Something thick settled in your chest, pressing against your ribs. Polly must’ve seen it, because her expression softened. 

“Won’t be long now,” she murmured. “He’ll be back soon.”

You nodded again, slower this time, realizing just how much you craved Tommy’s comfort. 

Polly watched you carefully. She could see it, the way your shoulders tensed, the way you blinked a little too fast, the way your fingers curled weakly into the blanket.

She sighed, leaning forward slightly. “He just about tore the whole fucking town apart looking for you, love.”

Polly’s voice was soft, but there was weight behind it.

“Campbell was dead the second Tommy realized you were missing. He just didn’t know it yet.”

You swallowed, your throat tight.

Polly tilted her head, studying your face. “I know he doesn’t always show it,” she murmured. “Not the way you might want him to. But Thomas Shelby doesn’t tear the city apart for just anyone.”

Your fingers twitched. Polly reached over, patting your arm gently.

“He cares for you. More than you know.”

Your chest tightened as the guilt settled deep. Because for two days in that basement– you had let yourself wonder if Tommy had cared at all. You had let Campbell’s words sink their claws into you.

Before you could respond, the door was swinging open. 

Polly glanced over her shoulder. Then, she turned back to you, her expression unreadable.

“I’ll give you two a minute.” 

And with that, she stood, stepping aside for Tommy to step into the room.

Polly gave him a small nod as she passed.

Then, she was gone.

Your fingers curled into the blanket, grip weak but trembling. You wanted to say something. But before you could,  Tommy moved.

Slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

Then, all at once, like he couldn’t stop himself. He pulled the chair up right beside your bed. He sat down, leaned forward, his elbows bracing against his knees, and finally his eyes met yours.

And you saw everything: the rage. The exhaustion. The guilt. The relief.

Tommy’s eyes didn’t leave yours. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, his hand absently rubbing at the edge of his jaw as he studied you.

Then, finally– his voice low, careful, steady. “How’s the pain?”

You swallowed, throat raw. “I’m fine.” Your voice came out hoarse, weak, unconvincing.

Tommy’s eyes didn’t move from yours. “Don’t lie.”

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t sharp. It was quiet. Steady. A simple truth.

Your breath caught, fingers curling into the blanket. “It hurts.”

Tommy nodded once. “Where?”

You hesitated, your chest feeling like it was caving in. “Everywhere.”

A slow, sharp exhale pushed through his nose. His jaw ticked, just slightly, his fingers tapping against his knee. “Your head?” 

You gave a weak nod, trying to fight the tears burning behind your eyes. Tommy’s gaze flickered up toward the wrap along your temple, his expression darkening. His hand twitched, like he wanted to touch, to check, to fix it. But he didn’t.

“Your ribs?”

Another nod.

“They’ll keep you here another night. Maybe longer.” His voice was still calm, but there was something tighter underneath it now. “You need to rest. Let the doctors–”

You never heard the rest of his sentence. Because somewhere, deep in your chest, something cracked. Your ribs ached with the effort to breathe through it, to stay in control, to keep from falling apart. But the walls were crumbling.

The pressure, the exhaustion, the sheer weight of everything you had endured– it all caved in at once. Your shoulders tensed, then slowly, slowly, they collapsed altogether. Your spine curled, your body folding in on itself, like you could somehow physically contain everything building inside you. But you couldn’t. 

A sharp breath hitched in your throat, and then, the first tear spilled over. Once it started, you couldn’t stop it. 

The dam broke.

A shudder wracked through you, and then another. You clenched your jaw, tried to hold back the sob, but it clawed its way free, raw and broken. Your hands shook violently, curling into the fabric of the blanket, clinging to something, anything.

Before you could even process it– before you could think, before you could be embarrassed, before you could try to pull yourself together– his hand was on your face. Warm, steady, thumb brushing away a tear as fast as it fell. His other hand wrapped gently around yours, his fingers curling tight, grounding you. You squeezed your eyes shut, but that didn’t stop the tears.

Every emotion you had buried, every moment of fear, every second spent in the dark, waiting for death– it all tore out of you at once.

You barely registered Tommy sliding onto the bed beside you, his shoes still on the ground, his arm slipping around your waist.

But when he pulled you close, when he tucked you against his chest, holding you tight, you moved without thinking. Your body curled into him, seeking warmth, seeking comfort, seeking the only thing that had ever made you feel safe.

His arms wrapped around you fully now, one hand cradling the back of your head, his fingers stroking slow, steady circles along your hip.

Tommy never moved– never loosened his grip. Not once.

He just held you.

And when the cries finally faded into weak, hiccuping breaths, when the exhaustion became heavier than the grief, you finally spoke.

Voice trembling, barely above a breath. “I was scared, Tommy.”

Tommy’s fingers froze. His grip on you tightened, just slightly. Then, he let out a quiet exhale. “I know, love. I know.”

You could still feel the ache in your ribs, the pulsing throb in your skull, the lingering, invisible grip of Campbell’s hands on your skin– But you also felt the warmth of Tommy’s body against yours. You felt the weight of his arms, solid, steady, unmoving and the soft, rhythmic push and pull of his breath against your temple.

You exhaled, slow and shaky, the last remnants of tension uncoiling from your muscles.

And finally, you let your eyes flutter shut. 

…

Darkness.

Heavy, suffocating, endless.

You couldn’t move.

Couldn’t scream.

The weight of him was crushing, smothering, pinning you down.

Campbell’s breath was hot against your ear.

His voice– low, taunting, cruel. "I like it when you struggle."

You fought, thrashing, clawing, screaming–

You woke up screaming.

Your body jerked upright, ribs screaming in protest, lungs gasping for air. The room around you was dark. Too dark. Panic seized your chest.

No. No, no, no–

Blackness.

A sob ripped through you, shaking, broken. 

Your breathing grew sharp, too quick, too shallow, and then, the pain hit.

White-hot, blinding.

Your head pounded, unbearable, relentless, splitting open like a hammer against bone.

You let out a strangled gasp, hands flying to your head, gripping, clutching, desperate to hold yourself together. 

Everything spun.

Your stomach lurched violently.

You thought you might vomit, your chest heaving, body trembling, and then– 

Hands.

Warm, firm hands gripping your wrists.

“Hey, hey, hey–” a familiar voice rang out. You kept your eyes shut, clenched tight.

“It’s not real,” you cried.

But his grip was steady, strong. It felt real.

He was pulling your hands away from your head, prying your fingers loose.

“Look at me.” His voice was low, urgent.

You shook your head, whimpering.

“Open your eyes, love.”

A firm hand cradled your face. Thumbs skimming over your cheeks, grounding you.

Your breath hitched.

“You’re safe. Open your eyes.”

Finally, you did– 

And there he was. Tommy. 

His stormy, blue eyes were edged with worry and rimmed with exhaustion.

You let out a weak, shuddering sob. Your body trembled. “Tommy–”

Your voice broke. More tears streamed down your face.

“It hurts–”

Your hands weakly grasped at his arms, grounding yourself in the solid weight of him. He nodded quickly, his hands never leaving your skin.

“I know.” His voice was softer now, urgent but gentle. “I know, love. You’re alright. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

The room was spinning. The pounding in your head grew worse.

More voices– somewhere distant.

A nurse, maybe. “She needs more pain medication,” she said.

You barely registered the pinch of the needle above the pulsating sensation in your skull. 

Suddenly, Tommy was climbing into the bed beside you. He pulled you against his chest again, the same way you’d been laying when you first fell asleep. You cradled your head against him.

His fingers threaded into your hair, slow, gentle, rubbing soothing circles at your temple. 

“Shh,” he cooed. “The meds will kick in soon. Breathe.”

Your body melted into him, trembling, exhausted. 

“Don’t leave,” you whispered weakly, voice barely above a whisper. “Please– stay.”

Tommy’s hand never stopped moving, never stopped grounding you. His grip on you tightened, firm and unshakable.

“I’m right here, love,” he murmured. “Not going anywhere. I got you.” 

His voice was low, steady, certain. It wasn’t a promise, nor a reassurance. 

It was a fact.

Your breath hitched, but the sobs had faded. The pounding in your head was still there, but his touch softened the edges of it, dulled it into something manageable.

The warmth of him, the unwavering, solid presence of him, was enough to pull you back from the edge. Your fingers curled weakly into his shirt, gripping it like an anchor.

His lips pressed against your hair, just briefly, just enough. And slowly, finally, the tension in your body began to ease.

You exhaled.

And when your body began to surrender to exhaustion, when your eyes fluttered shut again, there was no more doubt.

You weren’t in the basement anymore.

You weren’t alone.

You weren’t lost.

Tommy was holding you. And he wasn’t letting go.

<< Previous Chapter

You tried to push the thought away– tried to hold onto something, anything. But the longer you sat in the dark, the more your grip began to slip.

The exhaustion was too deep now, sinking into your bones. Your head lulled slightly to the side, the weight of it too much to hold up.

The bruises, the cuts, the ache deep in your ribs– it all blended together. Pain had been a constant companion for days now, so much so that it felt like a part of you. Like breathing. Like blinking.

You could barely tell where one wound ended and another began.

Your thoughts blurred. Memories twisted. The shadows in the corners of the room moved if you looked at them too long. The cold stone beneath you began to feel softer, warmer. Your lashes fluttered, too heavy.

If you just closed your eyes for a moment…

Just a moment.

The dark wasn’t so bad.

It was quiet here. It pressed down on you, seeping into your skin, curling around your ribs like a vice. The air was thick– too thick. Damp. Heavy with something bitter, metallic.

Smoke?

Your vision was swimming, the blurred edges of the room warping into something else entirely. Dirt. Packed thick beneath your fingernails. Filling your nose, your mouth. The damp walls of the cellar blurred, shifted– it became stone. Then it became the earth.

Somewhere, in the distance, you heard the muffled crack of an explosion. The ground beneath you shuddered, and for a moment, your breath hitched as panic clawed up your throat. 

No, not here. Not again.

Your fingers twitched against your restraints, but the movement only sent a sharp, splintering pain up your arms. You barely registered it. Your mind was already slipping further, dragging you back.

Back to the war.

Back to the moment everything collapsed.

The tunnel shook violently, a deep, shuddering roar of earth breaking apart. Someone screamed, sharp, panicked, before it was swallowed by the dust.

You were thrown against the dirt wall, your ears ringing so loud the world became muffled. Your lungs burned, choking on the thick air, dust coating the inside of your throat.

Move. Get up. Get to them.

Your body responded before your mind caught up, your hands blindly searching through the darkness, the only source of light now a dim, flickering lantern hanging from a bent nail in the wooden beams overhead.

Men were buried.

Buried alive.

You could hear the groans, the coughing, the desperate scraping of fingers against dirt. But one voice cut through it all.

Sharp. Ragged.

“Get the fuck off me–”

Your stomach lurched as you stumbled toward the sound.

And then you saw him.

You didn’t know it at the time, but Thomas Shelby laid, pinned beneath a collapsed beam, his face half-covered in blood and dirt. His breaths were ragged, sharp, labored. 

A different kind of panic surged through you.

You dropped to your knees, hands immediately pressing against his shoulder, assessing the damage. “You’re alright,” you murmured, voice hoarse. “Just hold still.”

Tommy let out a rough, breathless laugh. “Not sure I’d call this alright, love,” he had said. 

Your fingers trembled as they ghosted over his side, pressing against the warmth of blood soaking through his uniform. You forced yourself to focus.

The tunnel was still shifting, the wooden supports creaking under the pressure, dirt spilling from the cracks above. You didn’t have time.

A sharp snap jolted through the air– another support beam groaning, giving way.

You grabbed the front of Tommy’s uniform and shook him. “We have to move. Now.”

He gritted his teeth, trying to push himself up, but the pain hit him fast. His body tensed, his jaw locking, his breath coming too sharp.

Your hands pressed against his ribs, trying to still him. "You're bleeding."

He let out a low huff, the ghost of a smirk curling at the edge of his lips despite the blood smeared there. “Well, you’re the nurse.”

The tunnel groaned again.

Your heart hammered. You didn’t think. You just moved. Hooking your hands under his arm, you heaved, ignoring the burning in your muscles, the way the earth beneath you shook as more dirt rained down.

Tommy let out a strangled groan, his body half-collapsing against you as you pulled him free.

And then, a deafening crack. The lantern snapped from its post, shattering against the ground. The sounds of earth groaning, collapsing. The shouts of men, frantic and panicked. The crushing weight of dirt swallowing everything whole. And the tunnel went dark. 

Suddenly, you felt a sharp, stinging slap across your cheek. 

Your breath hitched, your body tensing on instinct, but your limbs were too weak to react. The pain in your ribs burned, sharp and unrelenting, as your vision swam back into the dimly lit room. Not in France. 

Campbell loomed above you, his lips curling into something cold. “Still with me?” he murmured, tilting his head.

You blinked slowly, your mind still half-stuck somewhere else, the sound of collapsing dirt still echoing in your ears.

Campbell hummed, brushing his fingers against his coat. “Thought I lost you there for a moment.”

Your stomach churned. Because for a brief second, you wished he had. 

Your body felt like it was failing. Not just from the beatings, not just from the bruises blooming beneath your skin like storm clouds. Something deeper. Hot. Burning.

Every breath hurt. A dull, twisting agony settled in your ribs, making it harder and harder to fill your lungs. Campbell was still speaking, still taunting, but his voice was distant, warped like sound traveling through water.

Your head lolled slightly against the back of the chair, your vision flickering at the edges.

A fever. Possibly an infection. 

Campbell sighed, stepping closer, his shadow stretching across the dimly lit room. “Oh, dear,” he murmured, feigning concern. “You don’t look well.”

You forced yourself to swallow, but even that made your throat ache.

He crouched slightly, examining you like an animal on display. “You can feel it, can’t you?” His voice dipped lower. “The way your body is starting to shut down?”

Your stomach twisted, nausea rolling in sharp waves. You clenched your jaw. You wouldn’t answer him.

Campbell hummed, as if your silence only amused him further. “I have to say, you lasted longer than I expected. I’ll give you that.” He straightened, adjusting his coat. 

Campbell let out a soft tsk. “And here I thought we had more time together.” He leaned down, his voice dropping into something mockingly gentle. 

A sharp wave of dizziness crashed over you. The room tilted. Your ribs screamed in protest as your body lurched, a strangled sound escaping your throat as you gasped for air. 

Campbell smirked. “Oh, my dear,” he sighed, shaking his head. “That doesn’t sound good at all.”

He tapped two fingers against your bruised cheek, his touch mocking, cruel. “What do you think? A few more hours? Another day? What will give out first?” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with delight. “Your body or your mind?”

Campbell sighed, as if bored. “Not much left in you now, is there?” His fingers drifted to your pulse point, pressing just enough to feel the weak, rapid flutter beneath your skin. “I wonder how much longer this little heart of yours will keep going before it just–”

Suddenly, a sharp thud echoed from outside the door, causing Campbell to still. 

His head tilted slightly toward the sound. Another noise. A shuffle of boots. A low murmur.

Campbell exhaled through his nose, straightening his coat as he stepped away from you. His eyes flickered toward his men– two of them, positioned near the walls.

One of them, a burly man with a scar splitting his lip, turned toward the door, brows furrowing. “You expecting someone, sir?”

Campbell shook his head. “No. Go look.”

The two men near the wall exchanged a look before nodding, moving toward the door with practiced caution.

The cold air rushed in as one of them cracked the door open, peering into the dimly lit corridor beyond. You could hear the faint shuffle of movement outside, something just out of reach, something not quite right. They slipped through the door, their shadows stretching long against the floor. 

A long, tense silence followed. But it was quickly interrupted by a gunshot– sharp, violent, deafening.

Your sluggish, fevered mind barely processed it before another one followed.

Then another. Closer this time. Shouts erupted from the corridor– panicked, frantic, then cut short.

Campbell’s entire posture stiffened. His gaze flicked toward the door, then to you, calculation spinning behind his eyes. 

Then, he moved.

Before you could react, before your battered body could even try to resist, his hand fisted in the collar of your shirt and yanked you forward. 

A sharp, searing pain exploded in your ribs, your legs buckling under the weight of your own body as Campbell hauled you out of the chair. 

A sharp, metallic click rang in your ears, the sound of a revolver being cocked. And then, the cold, unmistakable press of steel against your ribs.

He barely let you find your footing before dragging you toward the back entrance.

“Change of plans,” he muttered, voice tight with something dark. “Walk,” he ordered, his grip tightening, the barrel of the gun digging harder into your side.

Your boots scraped against the floor, legs barely cooperating as he kept moving, his grip unyielding, brutal.

Your vision swam, the fever weighing you down like molten iron, but you understood.

He wasn’t going to let you be found. 

He was taking you with him.

The hallway was long and dimly lit, the flickering light from an overhead bulb casting warped shadows against the damp, crumbling walls.

Campbell dragged you forward, his grip iron-tight, fingers digging painfully into your upper arm as he pulled you through the corridor. Your legs barely cooperated, heavy and sluggish beneath you, the fever turning your body into something unresponsive, something weak.

You stumbled, your boots scuffing against the floor again. He let out a sharp snarl of frustration.

“Keep up,” he snapped, jerking you forward so hard your vision blurred.

You tried– tried to force your feet to move faster, tried to keep pace, but your body wasn’t working the way it should, your ribs screaming with every step.

You tripped again, your knees nearly buckling. Campbell let out a curse and yanked you forward.

“Useless,” he hissed. “Absolutely fucking useless.”

Before you could brace for it, he shoved open the back door, the damp night air crashing into you like a wave of ice.

The alley beyond the mill was narrow and dark, the air thick with the smell of wet brick and sewage. The second your boots hit the pavement, your legs gave out. Your body collapsed to the ground, hitting the cold stone with a dull thud. You barely had time to breathe before Campbell’s rage erupted.

“Get up!” he bellowed, his voice sharp, enraged, echoing off the alley walls.

You tried to push yourself up, but your arms trembled violently beneath you, the fever and exhaustion dragging you down.

A shadow loomed over you. Then, a hand fisting in the back of your shirt. He yanked you up with brutal force, your body jerking limply in his grip. The sudden motion sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you, the fever making your vision swim.

And then– a blinding, shattering pain as Campbell slammed your entire body against the back alley wall. Before you could brace yourself, your head snapped whipped to the side, colliding with stone. 

A sharp crack echoed in the side of your skull, white-hot agony splintering through your mind. Your body seized, the impact sending a violent shockwave through you. For a moment, everything flickered. The world blurred, warped, then tilted sideways. 

Your ears rang. The taste of copper flooded your mouth. Somewhere in the distance, Campbell was saying something. Laughing. Mocking. But you couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even tell if you were still upright or if you’d already started to collapse.

A slow, creeping warmth trickled down your temple, thick and wet– blood. 

Campbell was on top of you before you could even react, his weight pressing you down into the pavement. The fear was worse than the pain. 

“Ah,” Campbell murmured, his breath hot against your face, his hand pinning your shoulder down hard. “So this is how you want to play it?”

Your chest rose and fell too fast, panic clawing at your throat. And your head– God, there was a brutal, relentless pounding throbbed at the base of your skull, each pulse like a hammer driving nails into your brain.  

The nausea curled hot and sour in your stomach, your vision tilting, shifting, like the ground itself was unstable beneath you. 

He let out a low, breathy chuckle, shifting his weight deliberately against you. 

“You always were stubborn,” he murmured, voice mockingly soft as he pressed you further into the ground.

Then, his other hand moved. Lower. Fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt.

And then– a sharp, violent tear. The sound ripped through the night, a shock of cold air hitting your skin as the fabric split beneath his grasp. You struggled, grasping at the ground, your body desperately trying to fight back, but he was too strong.

His knees caged you in, his weight an immovable force. The smell of whiskey and sweat and gunpowder filled your nose. 

And then– you felt him. Hard. Pressing against you. 

Your lungs seized. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

No.

A wave of sickening nausea rolled through you, worse than the fever, worse than the pain. It was raw, visceral, a deep, twisting horror in your gut. Panic exploded in your chest, clawing at your ribs, making your breath come in short, desperate gasps.

You thrashed– screamed. But exhaustion and sickness kept you pinned.

Campbell just laughed. His weight shifted, his hips pressing harder against you, grinding down just enough for you to feel the shape of him through his trousers.

Your stomach turned.

“Oh, love,” he murmured, his fingers dragging slowly, deliberately over exposed skin. “You should’ve learned by now, I like it when you struggle.”

A choked sob caught in your throat. “Get off of me!” you screamed, with everything you had left. 

Campbell leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Fight all you want,” he murmured, grinding his hips against yours again, pressing you further into the ground. “No one is coming for you.”

Your body betrayed you, freezing, seizing up. Your heartbeat hammered against your ribs, a wild, erratic drumbeat of terror and helplessness, but you couldn't move. Your vision blurred, spots of darkness creeping into the edges.

You wished for it.

For death.

For an end.

Because this– this was worse. Because this was the moment that would break you.

And if Tommy really wasn’t coming, if no one was coming– 

You didn’t want to survive it.

As Campbell’s hands pressed harder, as his hot breath ghosted against your throat, as he ground his body against yours– for the first time since the war, you prayed.

Not for rescue.

Not for mercy.

For the darkness to take you before he could.

But fate had other plans.

Because the gunshot rang out before the darkness could take you– A brutal, deafening crack ripped through the night.

Campbell’s entire body jerked violently.

Blood splattered warm across your face.

The force of the bullet sent him reeling, his body twisting as he collapsed onto the ground beside you, his weight finally off you.

You sucked in a ragged breath, chest heaving, trying to scramble away, but your body barely cooperated. Your ribs screamed in protest, your vision swam, and you barely managed to drag yourself back a few inches, your torn clothes hanging off your trembling frame.

Your breath was still coming too fast, too shallow, panic coiling tight in your gut.

John Shelby stood at the edge of the alley, gun still raised, his chest rising and falling sharply. 

“I got him!” he yelled back toward the street, voice urgent, shaken. “I fucking got him!”

Then, John’s eyes landed on you, and his expression shifted into a look of pure horror.

Before you could react, Campbell let out a wet, guttural wheeze. He was still alive. He lay on his back beside you, blood pooling beneath him, his lips parting as he sputtered, a faint, broken chuckle escaping through the pain.

Your body shook, too weak to move further, too weak to do anything but stare. Your head throbbed violently, the relentless pounding deep in your skull making it hard to think, hard to breathe. Warmth trickled down your face, sticky and thick, pooling at your brow, slipping into your lashes. Blood.

Yours. His.

You couldn’t tell whose was whose at this point. But it blurred your vision, staining everything red, the world twisting in and out of focus.

Campbell gurgled beside you, sputtering, his own life spilling out onto the ground.

And then– you vaguely heard another pair of footsteps. Your vision swam as you tried to process what was happening.

But Tommy moved past you without a word, his boots splashing through Campbell’s blood. And then– he was on him. Tommy dropped to his knees, straddling Campbell’s chest, and the first punch landed hard. 

A sickening crack. Then another. And another.

Campbell’s head jerked violently with every hit, his body already too weak to resist, but Tommy didn’t stop.

His knuckles split, blood smearing across his skin, but the pain didn’t register. Only rage. Only vengeance.

Punch after brutal punch, his body moving with sheer force, years of fury and hatred pouring into every single blow. Campbell coughed, his chest rattling, but the laughter was gone now.

Tommy didn’t stop– he didn’t hear the voices shouting behind him.

Just like you didn’t hear John moving toward you. Not until you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder. 

The instant his touch met your skin, you flinched violently, every nerve in your body igniting with panic.

“Get off me!”

Your voice was wrecked, hoarse, barely more than a raw, desperate gasp. 

Instinct overruled recognition. It didn’t matter who it was. Didn’t matter that the danger was gone.

All your body knew was fear.

John immediately pulled back, his hands up, his face twisted with something between concern and horror. 

“Hey, hey, it’s just me,” he said quickly, voice low, soothing. “It’s just me, yeah?”

But your body wouldn’t stop trembling. “J-John?” you whispered.  

He nodded slowly, causing your breath to hitch. It was a sharp, ragged sound. John stared at you– helpless. Because even though he was right there, even though you were safe now, you sure as hell didn’t feel safe.

Before you could apologize for shouting at him, Arthur was rushing over, breath coming heavy, taking in the scene before him in one sharp glance.

Tommy was still on top of Campbell, still swinging, his knuckles covered in blood, Campbell’s and his own.

Arthur didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the back of Tommy’s coat and hauled him off.

“Enough, Tom. He’s gone!” Arthur barked, his grip tight, unyielding. “It’s done! It’s fucking done!”

Tommy struggled, still burning with rage, his body coiled so tight he was shaking.

And then, through the chaos, he heard you just as you let out a choked, broken sob.

The sound cut through him like a blade. His body stilled. And for the first time since he entered the alley, he turned. 

The second Tommy saw you, bleeding, trembling, gasping for breath, everything else ceased to exist. 

He rushed to you, dropping to his knees so fast the gravel scraped against his boots.

You were barely sitting up, your arms shaking under your own weight, your ripped clothes hanging loose. Your chest heaved, every breath sounding like a struggle, your eyes wide, unfocused. And your head– a relentless, pounding ache throbbed behind your eyes, radiating from the gash at your temple, the warmth of fresh blood slipping down the side of your face.

The pain was blinding, suffocating, like your skull was splitting open with every ragged breath you took. 

The world tilted, the edges blurring, but then– Tommy’s hands found your face, cradling it gently, his thumbs skimming over your bruised, bloodied skin, his own fingers shaking.

“Hey, hey, hey,” his voice was low, urgent, breaking at the edges. “Where are you hurt?”

You just stared at him. Mouth parted. Silent. You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t form words. Couldn’t breathe through the wreckage of everything that had just happened.

Your body shook violently.

Tommy’s brows furrowed, panicked.

His hands swept lower, skimming down your arms, across your ribs. His eyes scanned you, sharp, assessing, taking in every injury, every wound, every fucking thing Campbell had done.

And then– his gaze caught on the blood trailing down the side of your face.

His jaw tightened. Gently, carefully, he reached up, his fingers threading into your hair. You barely reacted, too exhausted, too lost in the haze of pain and fever.

Tommy’s fingers found the gash hidden beneath your hairline, and when he brushed against it, you winced.

His breath came sharp, uneven. “Shit,” he murmured, his thumb ghosting over the wound, careful not to press too hard.

The blood was still fresh, still warm, mixing with the dried streaks smeared across your skin– his blood, your blood, Campbell’s blood.

He swallowed hard, his grip gentler now, soothing.

His voice softened, just slightly. “Love,” he murmured, so quiet, like he was afraid you’d break apart completely. “I need you to tell me where it hurts.”

Your lips trembled. You tried, tried so hard, but the words wouldn’t come. A choked, ragged croak escaped your lips instead. And then, you sobbed. Not loud. Not even fully. Just a small, broken sound, barely more than a breath.

And Tommy felt something inside him snap. Your sob barely left your lips before he was moving again. Carefully and deliberately, his arms slid beneath you, one under your knees, the other around your back, securing you against his chest. The second he lifted you, a sharp, searing pain tore through your ribs, and you let out a broken cry.

Tommy’s hold tightened instinctively. “I know,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your hair, his breath shaky, uneven. “I know. I’ve got you.”

You barely registered anything else– not the cold night air, not the distant sound of voices, not the way your torn clothes left you far too exposed.

Only him and his warmth, his heartbeat against your ear– the scent of gunpowder and whiskey and home. He tucked you closer, pressing your cheek to his collarbone, his jaw resting lightly against your temple. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice low, steady, even as his own hands trembled. “Let’s get you out of here.”

His grip never wavered as he turned toward his brothers. “Arthur, get the car around.”

Arthur nodded without hesitation, already moving, disappearing down the alley. 

Tommy’s gaze snapped to John. “Get rid of the body.”

John’s face was still stricken, pale, but he gave a curt nod. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

And just like that, it was done.

Tommy didn’t wait. Didn’t look back. Didn’t hesitate. He just walked. Carrying you out of the alley, away from the wreckage, away from everything Campbell had done to you.

For the first time in two days, you were leaving hell behind.

The car skidded to a stop in the road, the tires grinding against the wet cobblestone as Arthur threw it into park.

Tommy shifted your weight in his arms and carefully maneuvered you inside the cab, one hand bracing the back of your head as he lowered you onto the seat. The second your back hit the worn leather, a sharp burn tore through your ribs.

You let out a weak, pained whimper, your fingers gripping at nothing. 

Tommy grimaced. “I know, love,” he murmured, tucking his coat around you, his hands gentle despite the war still raging behind his eyes. “I know it hurts.”

His voice was soft, quiet, but his hands were steady as he pulled the car door shut beside you and settled in.

Arthur didn’t ask questions. He just pressed his foot to the gas, and the car lurched forward, pulling you both away from the alley, away from the blood, away from Campbell.

The city lights blurred past the window, but you could barely focus.

Everything hurt.

A relentless, burning pain curling under your ribs, along your bruised skin, up into your aching skull. Tommy’s hand found yours, his fingers wrapping around your weak grip.

His voice was low, firm. “I need you to stay awake, yeah?”

You blinked slowly, sluggishly. The fever was still there, your body aching, and the familiar pull of unconsciousness was beckoning, dragging you under.

Your head throbbed. The relentless pounding pulsated behind your eyes, radiating from the gash hidden beneath your hair. Everything felt heavy.

Your skull, your limbs, your chest, it was all too much.

The world tilted, the sounds around you muffled, distant, like you were already slipping away.

But then– Tommy’s fingers tightened. “Stay with me,” he said again, his voice rough with something he wasn’t ready to name.

You swallowed, tried to focus on him and breathe through the pain. But every inhale set your ribs on fire. Every bump in the road made your skull feel like it would explode. 

Tommy’s jaw clenched. “Tell me what’s hurting.”

Your lips parted, but it took a moment to force the words out.

“Head,” you murmured. 

His grip on your hand tightened slightly. You took another shallow breath.

“Ribs,” you rasped.

Tommy’s expression darkened. His throat worked as he swallowed. “What else?”

You were slipping, exhaustion weighing you down.

“Can’t–” Your breath hitched. “Can’t breathe deep.”

Tommy’s stomach twisted. He exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to steady himself. Trying to stay in control.

You blinked sluggishly, the movement slow, wrong. The world was fading at the edges. Shapes weren’t holding. Shadows bled into one another.

And then, the realization hit.

A choked, panicked breath left your lips, your fingers grasping weakly at his coat.

“Tommy–” your voice was small, fractured.

His hand tightened around yours. “I’m right here.”

You swallowed, struggling to get the words out.

“I–” Your voice shook. “I can’t see.”

Tommy stilled.

The words hung between you, heavy, suffocating. Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, your breath quicker now, uneven.

“I–” your fingers curled into his shirt, desperate. “It’s– it’s dark, I can’t–”

“Shh.” His hands framed your face, his thumbs brushing over your temples. “It’s alright, love. You’re alright.”

But he was shaken. You could feel it in the way his hands trembled just slightly against your skin.

Tommy’s grip on you tightened. Not hard. Not painful. Anchoring.

But it didn’t matter– because you were slipping.

Your chest tightened, panic crawling up your throat like ivy.

“Tommy,” you whispered, voice fragile, breaking. “I’m scared–”

Tommy reacted instantly. His hands left your face and slammed against the front seat.

“Arthur. Drive faster.”

Arthur, still gripping the wheel, snapped his head toward the rear view mirror.

“Tom–”

“Drive the fucking car, Arthur!”

The urgency in Tommy’s voice was razor-sharp, slicing through whatever hesitation lingered in the air.

Arthur gritted his teeth, pressing his foot down hard.

The car lurched forward, tires grinding against wet cobblestone as they sped through the streets of Birmingham.

“Where the fuck am I going?” he asked.

Tommy barely looked at him.

His gaze was locked on you, on your pale face, on the blood that hadn’t stopped dripping from your temple.

His jaw clenched. “The bloody hospital.”

“Tom–” He hesitated, throwing a quick glance his way before shifting his focus back to the road. “You just killed a bloody police officer… You really think that’s a good idea?”

Tommy’s head snapped up.

His eyes were burning.

“I don’t give a fuck if it’s a good idea.” His voice was low, dangerous, barely contained. “She needs a hospital.”

Arthur muttered a curse under his breath, but he didn’t argue.

He just drove.

Tommy held you tighter, his grip firm but careful, like he thought you might slip through his fingers if he wasn’t careful enough.

His touch was the only thing grounding you. His voice, low and steady, was just a murmur at the edge of your consciousness. You couldn’t make out the words anymore.

The pounding in your skull was pulling you under. The world was tilting, slipping.

Your eyes fluttered, your breath hitching as a deep, creeping tiredness settled into your bones.

And then– his touch. Tommy’s thumb brushed against your temple, rubbing soft, soothing circles into your skin.

A quiet comfort. A silent promise.

You focused on it– on the rhythmic motion, on the warmth of his touch, until the darkness swallowed you whole.

 << Previous Chapter

The only sound was the low hum of tension until the door creaked open, and Johnny Dogs stepped inside.

“I got somethin’,” he announced, shaking off his coat, water dripping from the ends of it. The rain outside had picked up, turning the streets into a slick, black river.

Tommy’s head snapped up. “Go on.”

Johnny took a moment, rolling his shoulders like he was getting comfortable before he spoke. “That lead from Patrick Jarvis? Someone else confirmed it.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Word’s spreadin’ round the right circles. Campbell’s got a place somewhere near the old factories. A few men have seen movement– coppers that don’t look like coppers, comin’ and goin’ from one of the buildings late at night.”

Arthur pushed off the desk, his body already itching to move. “That’s it, then. We go.”

Johnny shook his head. “Not yet. We don’t know exactly which place it is. There’s a few in that area, and if we charge into the wrong one, we’ll lose our shot.” He exhaled sharply, glancing at Tommy. “But we’re close. Tommy. Real close.”

A fresh wave of tension rolled through the room.

Tommy inhaled slowly, pressing his fingers against his temple. Not close enough.

John ran a hand over his face. “We don’t have fucking time, Tom.”

“I know,” Tommy snapped, the frustration bleeding into his voice before he could stop it. 

Polly, still by the window, sighed through her nose, measured and calm in a way that only made Tommy’s skin crawl. “Then use your fucking head,” she said sharply. “Charging in blind is exactly what Campbell wants.”

Arthur scoffed. “We’re supposed to just sit here, then? Have a drink while we wait for the bastard to put a bullet in her head?”

Polly’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp as a blade. “If Campbell wanted her dead, she’d already be dead.”

Arthur clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring. “So what, Pol? We just hope for the best?”

John, still fidgeting, exhaled sharply. “We’ll keep eyes on it, Tommy.”

Tommy stayed silent, his fingers twitching near the desk, eyes unfocused as he thought.

Polly’s gaze didn’t waver. “If he finds out we’re close, Campbell will move her.”

A muscle in Tommy’s jaw ticked.

Arthur swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “So what the fuck are we supposed to do, then?”

Tommy lifted his cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. Thinking. Calculating.

Then, suddenly, the phone rang.

The shrill sound cut through the silence like a blade.

Everyone froze.

Tommy’s stomach turned.

He already knew who it was.

Polly’s gaze snapped to him, her expression sharp. “Don’t answer it.”

Tommy ignored her.

He strode toward the desk, snatched up the receiver, and pressed it to his ear.

A pause.

Then, “Ah,” came the smooth, smug voice on the other end. “Mr. Shelby.”

Campbell. Tommy’s fingers tightened around the receiver, knuckles white. For a second, he didn’t speak, his breath slow, controlled. Waiting.

Then, Campbell chuckled. “Not even a hello? Where are your manners?”

Tommy’s voice was low, lethal. “Say what you’re going to say.”

Campbell hummed, as if enjoying himself. “You know, I wasn’t sure how long she’d last.”

The words curled in Tommy’s gut like a slow-burning flame, spreading, filling his lungs with heat and rage.

Campbell sighed, almost amused. “But I have to say, she’s tougher than I expected. Even when she cried for you.”

Tommy stilled.

Campbell hummed. “Not out loud, of course. Not at first. But oh, Thomas–” He chuckled. “There’s something about breaking someone piece by piece, isn’t there? The way they try so hard to be brave. The way they tell themselves someone’s coming to save them, when you know it’s not true.”

Something inside Tommy snapped.

His grip on the phone turned iron-tight, his entire body rigid as a sickening, seething kind of rage spread through his veins.

Campbell was bragging.

Fucking bragging.

“She’s bruised. Bleeding, too, of course,” Campbell continued, tone light, as if discussing the weather. “And her breathing, well, it’s a little uneven– probably from the broken ribs. But she’s holding on. For now.”

Tommy inhaled slowly, deeply, forcing the fire down.

Campbell continued deliberately. “She doesn’t say much anymore. Can barely hold her head up. Though,” he clicked his tongue. “I must admit, I expected more screaming.” A beat. “Maybe I’ll just have to push harder.”

Tommy finally spoke. His voice was cold. Deadly. “I greatly look forward to the moment I put a bullet in your fucking skull,” he murmured. 

Campbell laughed.

“Oh, Thomas,” he sighed. “How I enjoy our chats.”

Then, the line went dead.

Tommy slammed the receiver down so hard the desk rattled. His breath came sharp, his rage barely contained, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “We have to fucking go–”

John pushed off the wall. “Right fucking now, Tommy.”

Polly’s voice was steady, cutting through the heat. “Go where? We still don’t know where she is!”

Tommy was breathing hard, his mind working through the haze of anger, past the urge to grab a gun and just start burning through the city until he found you.

Arthur stopped pacing, turning back toward Tommy. “Then we find out– now. He’s gonna fuckin’ kill her, Tom.” His voice was sharp, barely contained, a mirror of Tommy’s own fury.

John crossed his arms, jaw clenched. “We get more men out there, we’ve got a fucking lead. We can’t sit on this.”

Tommy’s fingers twitched at his sides, jaw locked tight. He wanted to move. Wanted to run, burn through every fucking building in Birmingham until he found you.

But Polly was right. If he went in blind, he’d be doing exactly what Campbell wanted.

“Campbell wants me to suffer,” Tommy reminded them. “He’s not going to kill her yet. Because then his fun would be over.”

The words tasted like poison in his mouth, but he forced them out, forced himself to stay level.

Arthur muttered a curse under his breath, fists clenching at his sides. “So what? We just sit around here, waiting til Campbell decides to grow a fuckin’ heart and let her go?”

Tommy exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “No.” His gaze snapped to Johnny Dogs. “I want more men on the ground. Quietly.”

Johnny’s brows furrowed, but he nodded. “How many?”

Tommy thought fast. “Enough to cover every road leading out of the quarter. If Campbell gets even the slightest sense we’re coming, he’ll move her. And if that happens, we won’t get another fucking chance.” His eyes darkened. “Make sure no one’s seen. We go in clean.”

Johnny held his gaze for a moment, then gave a firm nod. “I’ll make it happen.” 

Arthur cracked his knuckles. “So, we gonna rock-paper-scissors for who gets to kill the fucker?”

“No.” Tommy’s voice was quieter now, but deadly. He turned to Johnny. “If they see anything– anything– they do not engage. They don’t move. They report back to me. This fucker is mine. Understood?”

Johnny’s expression tightened. “Yeah, I got it.”

With that, he slipped out the door, disappearing into the night.

…

Pain blurred the edges of everything.

Your body felt like one solid ache, a deep, pulsing agony that ran beneath your skin, through your ribs, down to the very marrow of your bones. Your wrists burned where the cuffs bit into your skin, your head heavy, every breath shallow and sharp.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed– hours, days? It didn’t matter.

You barely registered the sound of the door creaking open. You didn’t register the heavy footsteps crossing the room. 

But the sharp, stinging slap across your cheek tore you from the haze.

Your head snapped to the side, white-hot pain exploding across your face. A strangled gasp ripped from your throat, your vision blurring before swimming back into focus.

Campbell’s smug, self-satisfied face loomed in front of you.

“There she is,” he mused, mocking delight dripping from his voice. “Thought I’d lost you there for a moment.”

You swallowed thickly, your lip splitting further from the impact, fresh blood warm against your tongue. You refused to give him a reaction.

Campbell sighed, pacing a slow circle around the chair. “I thought you’d want to know… I’ve just had a lovely chat with your little boyfriend.”

Your fingers twitched.

He grinned at your silence. “It’s such a shame,” he mused. “He really didn’t seem all that concerned with your whereabouts.”

The words slithered into your skull, venomous and deliberate.

“He didn’t bargain,” Campbell continued, voice light, casual, as if sharing idle gossip. “Didn’t try to make a deal with me.” He let out a soft chuckle. “No concern. No desperation.” He tilted his head. 

A sharp pulse of nausea rolled through your gut. 

Campbell crouched in front of you, dropping to your eye level, watching. Your hands curled into fists, fingernails biting into your palms.

“Uh oh,” Campbell’s brows lifted, his smirk deepening. “Did I strike a nerve?”

You kept your breathing steady, forcing your expression blank.

Campbell clicked his tongue. “He’s spent his whole life crawling out of the mud, stepping over anyone in his way. And you?” He exhaled, his breath warm against your bloodied skin. “You’re just another casualty.”

Your stomach twisted. Because you knew what Campbell was doing. He was planting doubt. He wanted you to feel alone. 

Isolated.

Forgotten.

He wanted you to break.

Your breath came slow and steady, even as your ribs screamed in protest.

Suddenly, Campbell reached out, his fingers ghosted over your cheek, tracing the raw, swollen skin where he’d struck you moments before.

A sickening wave of revulsion crawled up your spine, but you stayed still. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.

His touch was light, deliberate, mocking– like he was savoring the moment, like he was testing just how much he could make your skin crawl before you broke. His thumb dragged across your cheekbone, slow and uninvited, his breath too close, too warm, too fucking smug as he leaned in, voice low and cruel. 

“Tell me, darling,” he murmured. “When he’s standing over your grave, how long do you think he’ll grieve before moving on?” 

The words slid beneath your skin like a blade, cold and cruel. You had sworn that you wouldn’t let him get to you. But you were exhausted. In pain. Alone. And despite every effort to hold it back, a single tear slipped down your cheek.

Campbell saw it immediately. His lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile, his thumb swiping across your cheek to catch the tear, as if savoring it. 

“You poor thing,” he murmured, like a man offering pity rather than punishment. 

His thumb trailed lower, lingering at the corner of your mouth, where blood had dried, cracked, and split again from his slap. “Perhaps he’ll send a man to lay flowers,” Campbell mused, his voice coated in false sympathy. “Or perhaps, by then, he’ll have found someone new to warm his bed.”

You clenched your jaw, hating yourself for the crack in your composure, hating that he’d seen it– that he was winning.

Campbell sighed dramatically, pulling back just enough to tilt his head, examining you like a man admiring his handiwork.

You swallowed, forcing down the lump in your throat, blinking rapidly to keep any more tears from falling.

But Campbell just smirked. “I must admit,” he mused, stepping back slightly, just enough to give you space to breathe– but not enough to let you feel safe. “I expected more fight.”

His gaze flickered over you, slow and deliberate. “But here you are, crying already. Over Thomas Shelby, nonetheless.”

Campbell watched you, his smirk widening, as if he were enjoying this– watching you swallow back the anger, the revulsion, the fear. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand again.

You braced yourself, but he didn’t strike.

Instead, his fingers brushed softly against your cheek a second time, barely a whisper of contact, the touch mockingly gentle.

Your stomach twisted.

“You always were such a pretty little thing,” he mused, almost to himself. 

His fingers trailed lower, down the curve of your jaw, his nails grazing your skin.

Don’t react. Don’t flinch.

But your body betrayed you– your breath hitched, your shoulders tensing just slightly.

Campbell noticed again. His smirk deepened, his fingers dragging lower, down the column of your throat. A slow, lazy path. Like he had all the time in the world. You forced yourself to stay still, forced yourself to breathe evenly, even as every inch of your skin screamed to shrink away from his touch.

Campbell hummed, tilting his head as if he were studying you, testing, seeing how far he could push before you broke.

His fingers dipped just below your collarbone.

Your chest tightened.

You focused on keeping still, not giving him what he wanted, but the nausea clawing up your throat made it harder with every passing second.

You could feel his gaze on you, watching, waiting for you to crack– for you to shrink away.

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Uncomfortable, are we?”

You forced your expression to stay blank, biting down on your tongue so hard you tasted blood.

Your skin burned where his touch had been, not from pain, but from the sickening weight of it. 

“I have to say I thought about it," he continued, drawing out the words slowly, as if savoring them. "I thought about how it might be, if I took you for myself back then. Before I knew Thomas Shelby had ruined you.”

A wave of nausea rolled through you so violently you almost gagged.

He smiled like he had already won. “Pity,” he murmured, “wasting all that loyalty on someone who’ll never return it.”

Campbell let the silence stretch between you, his smirk widening as if he could feel the unease settling into your bones.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” he eventually continued, adjusting his coat as if nothing had happened. “By the time Tommy finds you, if he even bothers to look, there won’t be much left worth saving.”

He gave you one last, lingering look, and then, finally, turned toward the door.

“Get some rest, darling,” he called over his shoulder. “You’ll need it.”

Then the door clicked shut behind him.

The moment his presence was gone, the weight of everything crashed into you all at once.

Your body trembled. Your chest caved.

And before you could stop it, before you could swallow it down and force yourself to be strong, a ragged, broken sob tore free from your throat.

It hurt.

Everything hurt.

Your ribs, your face, your wrists, your lungs, every part of you ached, burned, screamed. But it wasn’t just the pain. It was everything else– the violation. The helplessness. The way Campbell had touched you like you were his to break, his to ruin, like you were nothing more than a pawn in his sick little game.

You gasped out another sob, sharp and ugly, your whole body curling in on itself as much as the cuffs would allow.

Tears streamed down your face, hot and relentless, soaking the raw, stinging skin where he had struck you.

No matter how hard you tried, the sobs kept coming, wrecking you, tearing through your chest like a wound that refused to close.

For the first time since he had taken you, the sheer weight of it all settled like iron chains around your throat.

What if Campbell was telling the truth? What if Tommy wasn’t looking for you? What if you never left this fucking room? 

The thoughts came like a flood, drowning you, pulling you under. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to shut them out, trying to force them away. But it wasn’t working. Your breath came in sharp, shaking gasps, your ribs burning with the effort.

You bit down hard on your lip, trying to silence yourself, trying to hold yourself together, but the sobs kept ripping through you. The room felt smaller now, the walls pressing in, the darkness closing around you.

You had never felt so alone.

…

The office was silent, but inside Tommy’s head, it was fucking chaos.

He stood behind his desk, hands braced against the wood, his head hanging low. His fingers dug into the edge, as if that could somehow crush the thoughts in his own head before they consumed him completely.

He exhaled slowly, shaking.

This was his fault.

Every part of this was his fucking fault.

He should have kept you out of it– should have never offered you a job at the Garrison. He should have never let you get this deep in his world– should have sent you far away from Birmingham the second he realized Campbell had set his sights on you.

Instead, he’d let himself believe, for just a moment, that he could have something. That you could be safe. That he could protect you.

And now…

Now you were alone with that fucking bastard, enduring God only knows what. 

Tommy growled under his breath, fingers tightening. The pressure in his chest was unbearable, a weight so suffocating it felt like it might crack his ribs open from the inside.

His foot nudged the waste basket in front of his desk, and before he could stop himself, he kicked it.

Hard.

The bin went flying across the room, its contents scattering across the floor before toppling over, crashing against the side of the wall.

The sound barely registered.

He was already pacing.

His pulse thundered in his ears, his movements sharp, restless, fucking useless.

He should be out there, hunting Campbell down, burning his entire fucking operation to the ground, tearing apart every building in the city until he found you.

But instead, he was here.

Waiting. Thinking. Doing absolutely fucking nothing. 

And he hated it.

Tommy ran a hand down his face, his breath coming sharp, uneven. He stopped pacing long enough to brace his hands against the desk again, his knuckles white from the force.

Campbell had called him for a reason.

To get inside his fucking head.

To make him feel helpless.

To remind him that no matter how many moves he made, no matter how careful he was, no matter how much control he thought he had– 

He could still lose.

Tommy’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

Hours passed with no word. 

Tommy sat at his desk, head still in his hands, the weight of his own thoughts pressing harder than anything else. He had paced until his legs ached, smoked until the room was thick with it, but nothing, nothing, had dulled the relentless pressure in his ribs.

The sudden knock on the door was sharp, urgent.

Tommy’s head snapped up just as John pushed inside, still damp from the rain, his face set in something tense. Serious.

“Someone’s outside,” John said, voice clipped. “Says he wants to talk to you.”

Tommy sat back, rubbing his fingers over his jaw, his thoughts snapping into sharp focus. “Who?”

John shook his head. “No idea. Bloke spoke to me through the cracked window like he was a fuckin’ spy, I couldn’t see him. He wouldn’t say who he was.”

That made something in Tommy’s gut tighten.

“Could be a setup,” John muttered, watching Tommy carefully. 

Tommy exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. “Or it could be the fucking lead we need.”

John shifted on his feet, restless. “What d’you wanna do?”

Tommy stood, grabbing his coat. “Bring him in.”

John hesitated for half a second. “I tried that. Said he wants to speak outside. In private.”

That made Tommy pause.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

A meeting outside, in private– it didn’t sit right.

If this was a setup, if this was Campbell pulling the strings again, he wasn’t about to walk into it blindly.

John let out a slow breath. “You want me and Arthur to follow?”

Tommy thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No.” His voice was low, measured. “Stay inside. Keep your eyes on the place. If I don’t come back, you’ll know where to start looking.”

John let out a humorless chuckle. “Not funny, Tom.”

Tommy ignored him.

With one last glance between his brothers, he turned and strode toward the door.

The cold air hit him instantly, sharp and damp from the lingering rain. The black motor idled near the curb, its engine humming low beneath the drizzle.

Tommy didn’t hesitate.

He strode toward it, yanked open the back door, and slid inside.

The door shut with a heavy click.

Inside, the air was thick with tobacco smoke and the scent of damp wool.

Tommy didn’t look at the driver. Didn’t look at the man sitting beside him.

He already knew.

Moss.

The corrupt bastard was hunched slightly, his face barely illuminated by the dim glow of a streetlamp filtering through the window. His fingers tapped lightly against his knee, his cigarette smoldering between them.

Tommy leaned back, his voice flat, cold. “What do you know?”

Moss exhaled, the smoke curling from his lips. “I know where she is.”

Tommy stilled. The words hit like a hammer.

He forced his expression to remain blank. “Where.”

Moss chuckled under his breath. “You know better than that, Shelby.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched. “What do you want?”

“Two things.” Moss flicked his cigarette ash out the cracked window before turning to face Tommy properly. “Cash. And assurance.”

Tommy inhaled slowly through his nose. “Assurance for what?”

Moss gave him a look. “Campbell.”

Tommy didn’t blink.

Moss sighed. “He’s had me under his boot for months– made my life a livin’ hell. I want him gone. And if I tell you what I know, I want your word that you’ll make sure that happens.” 

Moss shifted in his seat, the dim glow of a street lamp flickering through the car window, highlighting the tired lines of his face. He tilted his head slightly. "He’s got it out for both of us." He let out a quiet chuckle. "But you always find a way to wriggle out, don’t you?"

Tommy finally spoke, his voice flat, unreadable. “So, let me get this straight.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearm against his knee. “You want me to put a bullet in him… so you can walk away clean.”

Moss shrugged again, but there was tension in it now. “Call it whatever you want.”

Tommy let the words settle, rolling them over in his mind.

The bastard was desperate. That much was obvious. But it wasn’t just about desperation– it was fear.

Moss knew Campbell was getting reckless. 

Tommy’s jaw flexed. “You think I need any motivation to kill the bastard?”

Moss smirked, just slightly. “No.” He inhaled slowly through his nose. “I just want to make sure you do it first.”

Tommy exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face before resting his forearm on his knee, his sharp gaze locked onto Moss. 

“How much?”

Moss tilted his head. “What?”

Tommy’s fingers twitched. “The fucking money. How much do you want?”

Moss hummed, pretending to think, but Tommy could see it– the greed flickering beneath the fear. He wasn’t just a desperate man trying to survive; he was a man trying to get whatever he could before running.

“Five thousand,” Moss said finally.

Tommy scoffed, shaking his head. “You must think I’m a fucking idiot.”

Moss’s smirk faltered slightly, but he held his ground. “It’s a fair price.”

Tommy’s eyes darkened. “Two.”

Moss let out a humorless chuckle. “You really think you’re in much of a position to be negotiating here? I’m not taking two, Shelby.”

Tommy hummed, dragging a cigarette from his coat pocket, rolling it between his fingers before striking a match. “What I think,” he muttered, lighting the end, letting the smoke curl slow through the cramped air, “is that you’re just another rat trying to climb out of a sinking ship.”

Moss exhaled sharply, shifting in his seat. “Three, then.”

Tommy took a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling smoke

A beat passed.

Then another.

Finally, he gave a sharp nod. “Three.”

Moss relaxed slightly, but only just.

Tommy tapped the ash off his cigarette, his eyes unreadable. “You’ll get your fucking money. Now tell me where she is.” 

Moss didn’t hesitate. He pulled a folded slip of paper from his coat pocket and handed it over.

“Basement of an old textile mill,” he muttered. “Near the canal. Off the books. No station. No records.”

Tommy took it, fingers tight around it.

Moss exhaled. “Better go quick, Shelby. I overheard Campbell talking today. I don’t think he’s been very kind to her, if you know what I mean.”

The air in the car shifted.

Tommy inhaled slowly through his nose, the only outward sign that he’d registered the words.

Inside, though, the fire was raging. He knew what Campbell was like. Knew how he worked. Every second he was here, every second he let this sniveling rat talk, was another second you were alone with that bastard.

Moss must have noticed the change in his expression because his amusement faltered.

Tommy leaned in, his voice quiet, lethal.

“If I find out you’ve fucked me on this, Moss,” he murmured, “I’ll carve out that smug fucking tongue and nail it to my desk. Do you understand?”

Moss swallowed hard, nodding quickly.

Tommy held his gaze a second longer, then pushed the car door open, stepping out into the cold. The rain hit his skin, slicing through his coat, but he barely felt it. His mind was already moving. Already calculating. 

He strode back toward the betting shop, his breath sharp, controlled.

For the first time in days, Tommy felt a semblance of peace. Because by the end of the night, Campbell wouldn’t live to see the fucking sunrise.

 << Previous Chapter

A door groaned open, and the sound of damp, heavy air replaced the staleness of the sack. The sharp scent of earth and old stone crept in, curling into your lungs as you were hauled forward, dragged down a short flight of stairs. Your boots scuffed against the rough floor beneath you, concrete, maybe brick, but you had no time to focus before a hand grabbed the back of the sack and ripped it off.

The sudden exposure stung your eyes, the dim light still too much after the smothering dark. You blinked rapidly, your vision adjusting, breath tight in your throat.

A cellar. Or something like it.

The walls were damp, rough stone covered in patches of grime. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly from the movement in the room, casting long, flickering shadows. The air smelled of mold, iron, and something faintly metallic– blood.

Your hands were still cuffed in front of you, wrists aching from where the metal had bitten into your skin.

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to look up.

But rough hands seized your shoulders before you had the chance to take in your surroundings.

You barely had time to react before they shoved you down, your body hitting the hard wood of a chair with a dull thud. The impact jarred your already-bound wrists, a sharp sting shooting through your arms. Your breathing hitched as your shoulders were forced back against the rigid frame, the weight of unseen figures pressing down on you, keeping you still.

There were two men. Silent. Dressed in plain, dark coats. They weren’t Campbell’s officers– not in uniform, at least, but the way they moved, methodical and controlled, made it clear they were more than hired muscle.

One of them adjusted the cuffs at your wrists, tightening them slightly before stepping back. The other hovered just behind you, standing too close, the heat of his presence pressing against the back of your neck.

Your jaw clenched. You refused to let them see even a flicker of fear.

Footsteps echoed from the far end of the room.

Slow. Unhurried.

Then, a voice. Smooth. Composed. Amused.

“Comfortable?”

The breath left your lungs in a slow, measured exhale.

You knew that voice.

Your stomach twisted.

You forced yourself to breathe evenly, to school your expression into something unreadable as his footsteps grew closer. The men flanking you didn’t move, standing like statues, their presence a silent reminder that you weren’t going anywhere.

Campbell didn’t speak again right away.

Instead, he dragged a chair across the floor, the wood scraping against the stone with an agonizing, deliberate screech. He placed it directly in front of you before lowering himself onto it, slow and composed, until he was at eye level.

Close enough that you could see the cold amusement in his gaze.

He studied you for a moment, tilting his head slightly, as if you were some puzzle he’d already figured out but wanted to take his time savoring.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked finally. 

His voice was calm, almost conversational, like he was asking if you wanted tea instead of why you were cuffed to a chair in a basement that stank of blood and damp stone.

You kept your expression blank. You weren’t stupid enough to think anything you said could help you now.

So you stayed silent.

Campbell let the quiet stretch, watching you with a thin, knowing smirk. He leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers tapping once against his knee before folding together in his lap.

“You were always careful,” he mused. “Careful enough that it almost worked.” He exhaled sharply, as if amused by the thought. “But I knew, in the end, that you weren’t as clever as you thought.”

Your jaw tightened, but still, you didn’t speak.

Campbell watched you, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement at your silence. He tilted his head slightly, studying you as if you were some specimen pinned beneath glass, something to be dissected at his leisure.

“Nothing to say?” he mused. “No sharp little retort?” His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Ah, I suppose this is rather difficult for you, isn’t it?”

You stared at him, unblinking.

He chuckled under his breath, leaning forward slightly. “Do you know how I figured it out?”

Still, you said nothing.

Campbell exhaled, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Come now, you must be curious. After all, you played the part so well. You smiled at me, nodded at all the right times, even feigned disinterest when you were supposed to.” He tapped a finger against his knee. “I’m sure the Shelby’s were proud.”

Something flickered in your chest– anger, nausea, a deep, rolling sense of unease– but you didn’t let it show.

He smirked. “But for all your skill, for all your care… there were cracks.”

He sat back slightly, dragging out the moment like a cat playing with a wounded mouse.

“The problem with liars,” he said smoothly, “is that eventually, they get comfortable. And when they get comfortable, they slip.”

The words hung between you.

Then, finally, he exhaled, his smirk deepening. “And you slipped.”

Your jaw locked, but you didn’t react.

Campbell hummed as if he could see the tension in your spine anyway.

“You knew too much.”

Your stomach clenched.

Campbell smiled, pleased. “The information you fed me was just accurate enough to be believable, but the timing– oh, that was the real mistake, wasn’t it?” He leaned forward again, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur. “You always knew just a little too soon.”

He let that settle, as if waiting to see if you’d speak. When you didn’t, he continued, voice smooth, confident.

“But of course, I needed to be certain.” His smile widened. “And after today, I was.”

Your heart pounded against your ribs, but you kept your expression cold.

Campbell’s smirk turned razor-sharp.

“The moment I saw the Blinders head for the north entrance at the Derby,” he said, voice thick with satisfaction, “I knew you were feeding them everything I told you.”

A sharp prickle crawled up your spine, but you remained still. 

He exhaled, sitting back slightly. “I should have realized it sooner,” he murmured. “You weren’t just another woman caught in the orbit of the Peaky Blinders, desperate for something bigger than yourself. No, you were invested.” He tilted his head. “You care.”

He said it like an insult. Like a weakness.

The men around you remained still, silent, watching the exchange with impassive eyes. You could feel them there, looming just out of sight, waiting for Campbell’s orders, waiting to act.

Campbell’s amusement dulled slightly, his gaze sharpening as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I knew you were feeding information to him, but what I couldn’t quite understand was why.” His voice dipped lower, quieter. “Was it survival? Leverage?” A pause. Then, slower and crueler, “Or was it love?”

A fresh wave of heat surged through your chest– anger, nausea, something you couldn’t quite name– but you swallowed it down, keeping your expression locked in place.

Campbell’s smirk returned, cruel and knowing.

“That’s the worst part, isn’t it?” he murmured. “It’s not him sitting in this chair.” He let the silence stretch, let the weight of his words sink in. “It’s you.”

Campbell studied you, his smirk thinning into something almost resembling pity. “Here you sit, waiting for him. Clinging to the idea that he’ll come for you. That he’ll save you.” His lips pressed together, as if the very notion amused him.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Tell me,” he mused, tilting his head slightly. “Do you think you’re the first woman to fall for Thomas Shelby?”

You didn’t answer.

Campbell’s smirk widened. “You think you’re special? You think you mean more than the rest?” He leaned in, voice dropping lower, quieter. Cruel. “You’re just another piece on his board. A move made in the moment.” His eyes gleamed. “And when the game changes, when the stakes shift, you’ll be just as disposable as the ones before you.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

“That’s all anyone is to Thomas Shelby,” Campbell continued, voice smooth as silk. “A tool. A pawn. A means to an end.”

He paused, his gaze flickering over you, watching for cracks.

“Do you think he’s really capable of caring for anyone?” His smirk turned razor-sharp. “Or do you think he just enjoys the illusion of it?”

You swallowed, fighting against the bitter coil of doubt tightening in your chest.

Because you knew Tommy.

You knew him.

Didn’t you?

Campbell exhaled, settling back into his chair, the faintest glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “He’s not coming for you,” he murmured. “No one is.”

The words settled like ice in your ribs.

Then, without warning, he nodded toward one of the men standing behind you.

Boots scuffed against the stone floor. A shadow shifted.

And then suddenly, a fist was crashing into your abdomen, pain exploding across your ribs.

Campbell leaned back, satisfied. “Let’s see how much that loyalty of yours is worth.”

…

Tommy stood in the back room of The Garrison, shoulders tight, hands braced against the wooden table as the voices around him buzzed like static. The room was thick with smoke and tension, the air stifling despite the open window.

Arthur paced near the fireplace, his jaw clenched, fingers twitching with restless energy. “We can make a deal,” he muttered, thinking aloud. “There’s got to be something Campbell wants, eh? A trade, money, weapons, names– fuckin’ anything–”

“No.” Tommy’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

Arthur stopped, looking at him. “What d’you mean, no?”

Tommy straightened, exhaling sharply, his fingers digging into the table’s edge. His eyes were cold, dark with something deeper than anger, something close to fury.

“There’s no fucking deal to be made,” he said, voice tight. “He doesn’t want money. He doesn’t want names. He doesn’t even want power.” His jaw clenched. “He just wants her.”

Arthur frowned. “But why–”

“Because it’s not about her,” Tommy snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. “It’s about me.”

The room went silent. Arthur’s throat bobbed, his fists clenching at his sides.

Tommy dragged a hand down his face, forcing himself to breathe through the rage threatening to split him in half. “This isn’t a fucking negotiation,” he said, lower now, more lethal. “He took her because he knows I care about her, and he wants to watch me lose.”

A thick silence hung in the room.

“So what do we do, then?” John asked, his voice quieter than usual. “Just sit here?”

Polly, standing by the sideboard, exhaled through her nose. “We think,” she said. “Before we make a mistake we can’t fix.”

Tommy shook his head, pacing now, fingers twitching toward the cigarette case in his pocket before he stopped himself. “We don’t have time for thinking, Pol.”

“We do if we don’t want her dead,” Ada cut in, her voice sharper than before.

Tommy’s eyes snapped to her, something wild flickering in his gaze.

Ada held firm, arms crossed. “You storm in blind, you give Campbell exactly what he wants.”

Tommy’s breath came heavy, sharp, barely restrained.

Polly stepped forward, her voice calmer, steadier. “If he wanted her dead, she would be already.”

Tommy swallowed hard, forcing himself to listen, to hold on to something other than the red-hot rage clawing at his ribs.

But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough because you weren’t here.

And every second you weren’t here, meant you were alone with Campbell. He was winning. 

And Tommy Shelby didn’t fucking lose.

He turned abruptly, gripping the back of a chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. “We need to find out where the fuck he’s keeping her.”

Tommy’s voice was tight, barely controlled, every syllable laced with something volatile. The chair under his grip groaned from the pressure of his fingers, his whole body wound so tightly he felt like he might snap apart.

John shifted, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “We’ve got men looking.”

“Not fast enough,” Tommy bit out.

Arthur, still pacing, exhaled sharply. “Alright, alright. Think– Campbell wouldn’t take her far, not yet. He’s a smug bastard. He’ll want you to feel this. Want you to worry.”

“It’d have to be somewhere private,” Ada added. 

Tommy dragged a hand down his face, inhaling deeply through his nose, forcing his mind to work.

But nothing was fucking coming.

His thoughts, usually sharp, precise, and methodical, were clouded– drowned under the weight of rage, of helplessness, of the sickening image of you alone with him.

Polly was watching him, her arms crossed, face unreadable. “Think, Tommy.”

“I am thinking,” he snapped, voice rough, ragged around the edges.

Polly didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as blink. “Then think harder.”

Tommy let out a harsh breath, turning away, pressing his fingers to his temple like he could physically force his mind into order.

Campbell wouldn’t have taken you somewhere obvious. Not a police station, not somewhere with too many eyes.

He thought of the Derby, of Campbell’s men stationed where they weren’t supposed to be, of the way the whole plan had felt like walking into a trap. Because it had been a trap– just not for him.

His fingers curled into a fist.

Arthur was pacing again. “We need more fucking eyes on this. Someone’s seen something.”

“We’ve already got men checking,” John reminded him. “It’s not like Campbell paraded her through the streets.”

Ada exhaled sharply. “If we don’t figure it out soon, we will be looking for a fucking body.”

The words hit the room like a hammer.

Arthur stopped pacing. John’s jaw locked.

Tommy’s grip on the chair tightened, a sharp, creaking groan cutting through the silence.

Ada didn’t take the words back. Didn’t soften them.

Because they were true. And they all fucking knew it.

…

Your lip was bleeding.

A slow, warm trickle of copper slid down your chin, pooling at the corner of your mouth. You swallowed thickly, forcing down the metallic taste, blinking past the stinging blur in your vision.

Your ribs ached– something had cracked when they hit you last, though you weren’t sure how bad. The pain throbbed in dull waves, but you forced your breathing to stay even. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of struggling.

The room was quiet now.

Campbell sat in front of you, watching.

He looked comfortable, like a man with all the time in the world. His fingers tapped idly against his knee, his expression one of mild amusement, as if you were nothing more than a curiosity, something to observe.

You hated that look.

Hated that he was waiting– waiting for you to break.

So you forced yourself to sit up straighter, ignoring the fire burning through your ribs. You exhaled through your nose, blood drying at the corner of your mouth as you finally spoke.

“What do you want from me?” Your voice was hoarse, but steady.

Campbell's lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk– more like a sneer, laced with pure, unfiltered contempt.

“Oh, dear girl.” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “You still think this is about you?”

Your fingers twitched against the cuffs, metal biting into swollen wrists.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “There’s nothing you can offer me,” he murmured, voice smooth, patronizing. “No bargain you can make. No deal you can strike.” His head tilted. “You’re not here to negotiate your way out of this.”

A slow, sickening realization slithered through you.

There was no angle. No game to play.

You swallowed, keeping your face unreadable, unwilling to give him a reaction.

His eyes flickered with something pleased, because he knew you understood now.

He sat back, sighing like this was all terribly boring for him. “I told you before, didn’t I?” His voice dipped lower, softer. “This isn’t about you.”

Your chest tightened, but you refused to speak.

His smirk widened.

“It’s about him.”

Campbell stood slowly, rolling his shoulders, smoothing out his coat. He didn’t need to say anything else. The meaning was already clear.

This wasn’t about information. Or revenge. Or even proving a point.

This was about Campbell wanting Tommy to suffer.

A sickening wave of dread settled in your ribs, colder than the pain, colder than the blood drying on your skin.

Campbell exhaled slowly, shaking his head, as if the weight of it all was such a burden. “Do you know what he’s put me through?” he asked, his voice dipping into something sharp, bitter.

You said nothing.

He scoffed, rubbing his fingers together as he took a slow step forward. “The disrespect. The humiliation.” His eyes flickered with something darker, something controlled but barely restrained. “Thomas Shelby thinks himself untouchable. Thinks he can manipulate, betray, walk away– and yet, every time, he lands on his feet.” His jaw tightened for just a fraction of a second before smoothing out again.

He gestured vaguely, as if discussing something trivial. “The War Office trusted me with him, you know. Trusted me to bring him in line.” He exhaled sharply, his lips curling in distaste. “And what did I get in return? Lies. Deceit. An embarrassment I’ve yet to recover from.” His voice dripped with disdain. “And you– you were just another little game he played right under my nose.”

Campbell hummed, studying your silence.

Then, quieter, colder– “You really think he loves you?”

The words sent an ice-cold dagger straight into your chest.

His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “You think you matter to him?” He leaned in slightly, just enough to let his voice drop to a whisper. “Or do you think, when the time comes, he’ll leave you behind– just like all the others?”

Your breath stayed even, but something inside you curled in on itself, twisting, tightening.

Campbell let the silence stretch, let the weight of his words sink in. Then, satisfied, he straightened, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket as he turned away.

“No matter,” he mused, as if the answer was already written in stone. “By the time he finds you, there won’t be anything left to save.”

The words landed like a final nail in the coffin.

Campbell took a step toward the door, straightening his coat, adjusting the cuffs with slow, practiced ease. His satisfaction was palpable, radiating from him like heat off burning coals. Then, without a glance back, he gave a small, deliberate nod.

Boots shifted on the stone floor.

A fresh wave of tension coiled in your gut just a second before the first blow landed.

A fist, hard and unrelenting, drove into your already broken ribs, sending a sharp, splintering pain through your chest. Your body jerked against the restraints, breath catching as the chair scraped against the floor with the force of it.

You barely had a second to register the pain before another hit, this time to your jaw, snapping your head sideways. A fresh burst of copper flooded your tongue, warm and metallic, and you swallowed it down, forcing yourself not to make a sound.

Campbell paused at the door, listening.

Waiting.

The guards struck again.

A fist to your side. A sharp, stinging crack across your face. The dull throb in your ribs erupted into something deeper, something jagged.

Your vision blurred at the edges, but you clenched your teeth, willing yourself to stay upright, to keep your head high.

Don’t give him the satisfaction.

You wouldn’t beg.

You wouldn’t break.

Another strike, a brutal one, landed against your stomach, knocking the wind from your lungs, and this time, you coughed violently, blood dripping from your lip onto the stone floor beneath you.

Campbell exhaled softly, finally turning his head to glance over his shoulder.

His expression remained unreadable. Then, after a moment, he smirked.

“That’s enough,” he said lazily, as if he were commenting on the weather.

The guards stepped back immediately.

Your body slumped forward slightly, breath ragged, but you forced yourself upright again, swallowing the pain, forcing your vision to clear.

You deliberately met Campbell’s gaze before spitting blood on the floor. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering you. 

“You’re stubborn,” he mused. 

You didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Campbell sighed, as if mildly inconvenienced, before turning fully toward the door. “No food. No water,” he instructed over his shoulder. “We’ll see how sharp that mouth of hers is by morning.”

The door shut behind him with a heavy click.

Darkness swallowed the room once more.

…

Tommy didn’t knock.

He shoved the door open with force, stepping into the dimly lit backroom of a betting shop in Birmingham. The air inside was thick with the scent of whiskey and old tobacco, the kind of place where business was conducted in murmurs and favors were bought with blood.

Arthur and John followed close behind, their presence like a storm rolling in– loud, heavy, and promising destruction.

Sitting at a cluttered desk, startled mid-drink, was Patrick Jarvis.

The MP had his fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey, his face flushed from drink and comfort, the smug expression he usually wore slipping as he registered who had just walked in.

“For fuck’s sake–” Jarvis barely had time to straighten before John kicked the door shut behind them with a little too much enthusiasm.

“Cozy little setup you’ve got here,” John remarked, scanning the room. “Must be nice, sitting around drinkin’ while the rest of us are out dealin’ with your boss’s fuckin’ mess.”

Tommy didn’t stop moving.

Before the bastard could stand, Arthur was on him, gripping his coat and slamming him back into his seat. The chair rocked, a startled grunt escaping his throat.

“Christ, is this how you lot do business now?” Jarvis spat, adjusting his cuffs as Arthur shoved him back again.

“Business?” Arthur scoffed, gripping his lapels tighter. “You think this is business?” He leaned in, voice low and dark. “Business is what we do to people we actually intend to let walk out.”

John grinned. “Yeah. This is more of a… casual visit.”

Tommy pulled a cigarette from his pocket, striking a match with slow, deliberate ease. “Where is she?”

Jarvis blinked, playing at confusion. “Who?”

John scoffed, stepping forward and slamming a fist against the desk, making the whiskey glass jump. “Don’t be fucking stupid.”

Arthur leaned in, his grip tightening. “She was taken, and we know Campbell didn’t just make her disappear on his own.” His voice was sharp, lethal. “But you– you hear things, don’t you, Patrick?”

Jarvis forced a chuckle, trying to regain his footing. “Look, lads–”

Tommy exhaled a slow stream of smoke, cutting him off. “Campbell trusts you.” His voice was level, but something lethal pulsed beneath it. “Enough to keep you close. Enough to let you hear things that aren’t meant for just anyone.”

Jarvis licked his lips. “I don’t know fuck all about–”

Tommy moved before he could finish.

In one sharp motion, he yanked his gun from his holster and slammed the barrel down onto Jarvis’s hand, pinning it to the desk with brutal force.

Jarvis let out a strangled shout, jerking, his free hand grabbing at Tommy’s wrist.

“Where the fuck is she?”

Blood drained from the MP’s face, his composure cracking. His fingers twitched under the weight of the gun.

Arthur, still gripping his collar, sneered. “Think real fucking hard if you wanna keep that hand.”

John huffed, crossing his arms. “Christ, if you’re gonna make a mess, at least do it on the other side of the table.” He gestured vaguely. “We just got these coats cleaned.”

Jarvis’s breath came faster, his face slick with sweat. “I– fuck, I heard something, alright?” His voice shook, laced with desperation. “Campbell’s got a place. Not a station, not official. Somewhere quiet. Underground.” He swallowed hard. “A place no one’s meant to come back from.”

Tommy’s grip on the gun didn’t ease.

John leaned in slightly. “Where?”

Jarvis shook his head quickly. “I–I don’t know exactly.” His words tumbled out, rushed.

Tommy pressed the gun down harder.

Jarvis squealed. “I heard talk! It’s in the old industrial quarter, somewhere off the books. A basement.” His throat bobbed. “They say it was used in the war for–” He cut himself off, pressing his lips together.

Tommy’s eyes darkened. “For what?”

Jarvis hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “Interrogation.”

The word sent a sharp pulse of rage through Tommy’s spine.

Arthur tensed. “So it’s a fucking torture room, then?”

Jarvis opened his mouth, then closed it again, his silence confirmation enough.

Slowly, too slowly, Tommy lifted the gun from Jarvis’s hand. The MP sucked in a ragged breath, flexing his fingers, his entire body sagging.

Tommy flicked his cigarette onto the desk, the ember dying as it landed in a shallow pool of whiskey. “If you’re lying,” he said quietly, “I’ll come kill you myself.”

Jarvis nodded quickly, his face pale. “I’m not. I swear.”

Tommy didn’t spare him another glance. Instead, he turned on his heel, already moving toward the door.

Arthur released Jarvis with a shove before following, John right behind them.

As they stepped into the night, the rain cooling the heat of their rage, Tommy’s mind was already spinning.

A basement.

A place no one was meant to come back from.

That meant time wasn’t on their side.

Arthur blew out a breath. “A torture room. That’s just fuckin’ great.”

John shook his head, adjusting his coat. “Any idea where it is?”

Tommy wasn’t listening. His fingers twitched at his sides, his jaw locked so tight it ached.

Campbell was never going to fucking breathe again.

…

Pain had a way of making time stretch.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there, your body slumped forward in the chair, wrists still cuffed, every shallow breath sending sharp, pulsing aches through your ribs. It was the kind of pain that settled deep, wrapping around your bones, making every movement feel wrong.

Your lip was split, the dried blood cracking as you swallowed. Your jaw throbbed. Your stomach twisted with a dull, relentless ache from where they’d struck you last.

You focused on breathing– in, out, in, out– but even that came jagged, uneven.

The dim light in the room flickered. The bulb above you buzzed, casting shadows against the damp stone walls, the heavy air thick with the scent of blood, sweat, and damp earth.

You wanted to shift, to ease the pressure where the chair dug into your back, but even the thought of moving made your muscles scream in protest.

You’d stitched up wounds, set broken bones, seen men endure far worse than this.

But it was different when the agony was your own, crawling beneath your skin, making your breaths feel stolen instead of given.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to straighten even as fire tore through your ribs. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you crumple, wouldn’t let Campbell walk back in here and find you slumped over like some broken thing.

He wanted you weakened. Wanted you afraid.

You exhaled slowly, tasting copper.

Your fingers curled against your cuffs, nails biting into your palm as another sharp pulse of pain laced through your ribs. Your body protested, but you held on.

Tommy would come.

You knew he would.

But then, in the silence, the words Campbell had left you with slithered back in.

"Do you really think he loves you?"

"You think you matter to him?"

The pain in your ribs tightened, spreading lower, twisting into something that had nothing to do with bruises or broken bones.

Because Campbell was a bastard, but he wasn’t stupid.

Tommy did use people. He saw the board ten steps ahead, made his moves with precision, sacrificed what needed to be sacrificed to win.

Had you been one of those moves? A means to an end?

Campbell wanted you to doubt him. That’s why he’d said it. That’s why he’d looked you in the eye and planted the seed, knowing that once the question was asked, you wouldn’t be able to unhear it.

You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms.

No.

Campbell was trying to break you– trying to make you second-guess everything, trying to make you weak before he walked back through that door and finished the job.

And you would not let him win.

Tommy would come for you. Because you knew him. Because you knew.

And when he did, when you saw him again, Campbell would be the one left bleeding.

You leaned your head back against the chair, exhaling shakily, letting the anger settle in your chest.

Pain could be endured. Doubt could be silenced.

All you had to do was hold on.

<< Previous Chapter

Tommy walked at an unhurried pace, his hands in his pockets, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd with the careful ease of a man who knew he was being watched. To anyone else, he looked like just another well-dressed man enjoying the races, perhaps a bookmaker, perhaps a gambler. 

The two of you weaved through the throng of spectators, the rhythmic sound of hooves striking the track in the distance mixing with the laughter of men already deep in their cups. A vendor called out, offering whiskey from a cart lined with crystal tumblers, and Tommy barely glanced at it before steering you toward the viewing stands.

"See that man in the grey suit?" Tommy asked under his breath.

You nodded slightly, eyes following his gaze. A man in his fifties stood near the betting stalls, adjusting the cuffs of his expensive coat, his gaze occasionally flicking to the track but never truly lingering there. He had the air of someone who belonged– not because he was born into this world, but because he had learned how to play in it.

Tommy exhaled a slow breath through his nose, a flicker of something amused in his expression. “That’s Richard Ellis. Used to be a bookmaker in Small Heath. Ran bets out of a pub that had a rat problem the size of fucking dogs.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “That bad?”

Tommy nodded. “Arthur made a deal with him once– he’d handle the rats if Ellis cut us in on the bets. Didn’t tell him how he’d handle them.” A smirk played at the corner of his lips as he took a slow drag of his cigarette. “So Arthur lets a crate of cats loose in the pub one night. Place was chaos. Ellis nearly had a heart attack when he came downstairs and saw a dozen of ‘em fighting over a dead rat in the middle of the floor.”

You bit your lip to stifle your laughter. “That can’t be true.”

Tommy glanced at you, eyes glittering. “It is. Man couldn’t step foot in his own pub for a week.”

He flicked the ash from his cigarette, watching Ellis from a distance. “He still won’t look me in the eye.”

“I wonder why.” You grinned, shaking your head before glancing toward the massive clock near the entrance. Fifteen minutes to five.

As you walked past the line of vendors and stalls, something caught your eye– a small, makeshift tent set apart from the others, its fabric dark, its entrance marked by old, faded ribbons.

A woman sat behind a low wooden table, a deck of cards spread in front of her. Not for tricks or betting, but for fortune-telling.

Tommy noticed your hesitation. “You want to have a go?”

You smirked. “Didn’t take you for a superstitious man, Tommy.”

“I’m not,” he said, pulling out his cigarette case. “But you? You like answers.”

It was half a challenge, half an invitation. With a raised brow, you stepped forward, settling into the chair across from the woman. Tommy remained standing, arms crossed, watching with the quiet amusement he always carried in moments like these.

The woman studied you, her dark eyes sharp beneath her headscarf. “You wish to know your future, drabarni?”

You hesitated. You didn’t believe in things like this. But something about the way she was looking at you made your stomach turn.

She gestured to your hand. “Let me see.”

You extended your palm, fingers slightly curled. Her own were warm and calloused as she traced the lines of your skin, her expression unreadable.

Tommy shifted slightly beside you, exhaling smoke as he watched.

The woman’s eyes darkened. “As the blood moon rises, something will fall,” she murmured.

You frowned. “What?”

She didn’t look up. “The sky will turn red. Debts will be paid.”

The woman’s thumb traced the lifeline on your palm, her expression unreadable. “The blood never washes clean.”

Your stomach tightened.

Her fingers ghosting over the lines of your palm once more. “When the sky turns red, so will the hands of the men who take more than fate was willing to give.”

Tommy scoffed beside you, the sound low and unimpressed, but his silence stretched a fraction too long. The woman turned her gaze to him, as if she could see straight through the cool mask he wore.

“Even the sharpest player forgets that the house always collects in the end,” she said softly.

Tommy flicked the end of his cigarette, the ember glowing briefly before it hit the dirt. “And yet, the house still takes my bets,” he muttered.

The woman’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “For now.”

A gust of wind swept through the tent, rattling the fabric, shifting the candlelight into flickering, restless shadows.

Tommy reached into his pocket, tossing a few coins onto the table before resting a firm hand against your back. “Come on,” he murmured, guiding you away.

You followed, but the woman’s words clung to you like smoke. 

“Bunch of shit. Superstition and stories that cost a bloody shilling,” Tommy muttered, his tone flat as he steered you back into the shifting crowd.

You nodded, but the words didn’t sit right. The woman’s voice lingered in your ears, curling around your thoughts like smoke from an untended fire.

Tommy’s hand stayed firm at your back, his touch grounding, steady. But there was tension there too, coiled tight beneath his skin, tucked beneath the carefully composed mask he always wore.

“You don’t believe in that sort of thing, do you?” you asked, glancing up at him.

He scoffed, barely sparing you a glance. “I believe in what I can see. What I can hold.” He exhaled, flicking open his cigarette case. “And what I can take.”

You swallowed, pushing away the unease settling low in your stomach.

The Derby continued around you, untouched by the conversation that had just occurred. The smell of whiskey and cigar smoke curled through the air, blending with the sharp scent of fresh-cut grass and warm earth. Laughter echoed from the betting stalls, a sharp contrast to the way your chest felt tight, uneasy.

Tommy shifted beside you, the subtle roll of his shoulders, the way his posture straightened just slightly. It was almost imperceptible, but you knew him well enough by now to recognize the moment he moved from casual amusement to calculated control.

His gaze flicked across the crowd, and then, just once, he nodded.

To anyone else, it was meaningless. A glance. A habit. But you saw who he was nodding at.

Isiah, standing near the outer stalls, leaned against a post, idly flicking a match between his fingers. Further down, Johnny Dogs lingered by the betting house entrance, pretending to examine the odds board, waiting. They had been there all along, scattered among the crowd, blending in.

And now, they were moving to the north entrance to create a diversion. 

“Let’s go place a bet, shall we?” he said, voice light, as if the pieces of this carefully laid plan weren’t shifting into motion beneath your feet.

You gave a small nod, letting him guide you through the bustling throng of gamblers and high society. The chatter of race-day excitement swirled around you, but your focus remained razor-sharp, scanning the faces, looking for any sign of Campbell’s men.

Nothing yet.

Tommy was calm. Too calm. He moved through the crowd like a man who already knew the outcome, his gaze flicking to the large betting board as though he actually intended to place a wager. But you knew the truth– he was waiting.

The scent hit you first. Smoke. It was faint, but undeniable.

Your pulse quickened. The fire had started.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, confused voices rising as men turned toward the betting house.

Then came the first shout. “Oi! Fire!”

Heads snapped toward the source of the commotion, and suddenly, the murmurs turned into shouts. You caught a glimpse of thick, dark smoke curling out from the side of the building, the flicker of flames licking at the edges of a window.

It worked.

The betting house was no longer a viable meeting place.

Tommy exhaled, a slow, measured breath, before steering you toward a quieter stretch of the stands. His grip on your waist was firm but unhurried, as if he was just another man guiding his companion through the shifting crowd.

A group of men emerged from the betting house, stepping away from the thickening smoke.

One, in particular, carried an aura of authority above the rest. He had dark, slicked-back hair and a sharp suit. A presence that made people instinctively move out of his way.

His gaze flicked through the crowd before landing on Tommy.

And then– on you.

The way he looked at you was nothing like the way men usually did. It wasn’t leering, wasn’t curious. It was slow, calculated. Measuring.

A smirk pulled at his lips.

Tommy must have felt the shift in you, because his grip at your waist became just a fraction firmer. Then the gaze slid from you to him, and the smirk sharpened into something colder.

“Well, well,” the man drawled, adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket. “Fancy running into you here, Shelby.”

Tommy didn’t miss a beat. “It’s a race course, Sabini. Where else would I be?”

Sabini.  

He let a slow exhale through his nose, almost like a laugh, though there was no humor in his eyes.

“The betting house seems to be having some… trouble,” he mused, tilting his head slightly toward the smoke still rising behind him. His tone was casual, but the weight behind it was heavy. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with you, would it?”

Tommy barely flicked a glance toward the burning building. “You think I’d set fire to the one place we all came here to do business?” He gave an exaggerated shake of his head, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I’m insulted, Sabini.”

Sabini hummed, his dark eyes studying Tommy, then, briefly, flicking back to you.

“And who do we have here?”

His gaze dragged over you, not with the leering interest of most men in his world, but with something far more unsettling– curiosity.

You refused to shift under his scrutiny, keeping your expression carefully neutral, just as Tommy had taught you. But your pulse hammered, your fingers twitching at your sides.

Tommy, ever composed, took a slow drag from his cigarette before flicking the ashes to the ground. “No one you need to concern yourself with.”

Sabini smirked at that, eyes never leaving yours. “Is that right?”

You didn’t flinch, but the weight of his stare made your skin prickle. He was watching you too closely, assessing.

Tommy exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his voice light. “Let’s not pretend you give a fuck who I bring to the races, Sabini.”

Sabini’s smirk lingered for a moment before he clicked his tongue, finally breaking his gaze from you and shifting back to Tommy. “Fair enough,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. “Doesn’t make much difference to me. She’s pretty, though.”

Sabini sighed, glancing over his shoulder at the burning betting house. The flames weren’t raging, but smoke still curled from the upper windows, and the growing crowd of onlookers meant that business here was well and truly finished.

“Well,” he mused, turning back, “since we’ve lost our accommodations, shall we find somewhere else?”

Tommy didn’t hesitate. “Lead the way.”

Sabini studied him for a second longer, as if trying to gauge whether Tommy had expected this change of plans. Then he turned sharply on his heel, his men falling into step beside him as he walked toward the far end of the stands.

Tommy stayed put, letting a beat pass before exhaling through his nose and turning to you.

“Alright, you remember?” he breathed. 

“The stables,” you said. 

He gave a curt nod. “Thirty minutes. Stay where people can see you.”

His eyes held yours, steady and unyielding, as if willing you to understand the weight behind his words. He had planned for this. Had accounted for Sabini’s unpredictability, for the shifting board beneath his feet. But there was still risk– there was always risk.

You inhaled sharply and nodded. “Alright.”

For a moment, he lingered, his hand brushing the side of your waist before pulling away. Then, with a final glance, he turned and walked after Sabini, disappearing into the crowd.

The moment he was gone, the noise of the Derby seemed sharper, louder.

The hum of conversation swelled, the cheers from the track struck too high, and the calls of bookies rang in your ears like a warning bell. The weight of Tommy’s presence had always been something you could feel, a quiet force at your side, solid and steady. Without him, the absence hit you all at once.

You felt exposed– vulnerable in a way you hadn’t expected.

A cheer erupted from the track as the next race was called, the excitement rolling through the stands in waves. It was all so normal. So mundane. As if, just beyond this scene of wealth and leisure, the undercurrent of something dangerous wasn’t about to unfold.

You exhaled, steadying yourself. Keep moving. Keep blending in.

There was no need to rush to the stables yet. Tommy had given you thirty minutes. If you arrived too early, it would only draw attention.

So you wandered.

The weight of his absence still sat heavy in your chest as you slipped between groups of wealthy patrons, their laughter too bright, their conversations shallow. A passing waiter offered champagne from a silver tray, and you took a glass without thinking, letting the stem rest between your fingers as you drifted toward the edge of the grandstand.

Below, the track stretched out in the golden afternoon light, the next set of horses being led out by their handlers.

You focused on the rhythm of it– the way the thoroughbreds moved, their coats gleaming under the sun, their riders adjusting their reins, the hum of gamblers muttering about odds.

It was a strange, dissonant feeling, being here in the middle of it all, pretending like you were just another face in the crowd.

For a while, you let yourself play the part.

You leaned against the railing, eyes flicking lazily over the field. You took a slow sip of the champagne, letting the bubbles linger on your tongue. You even let yourself get caught up in the energy of the race for a moment, watching as the gates snapped open, the horses breaking into a powerful sprint down the track.

But then something nagged at you. At first, it was just a feeling. A vague unease curling in your chest, easily dismissed as nerves. But then your gaze drifted, pulled instinctively toward the officers standing guard, undistracted and unbothered, it hit you.

The north entrance.

That was where Tommy’s men were supposed to create a diversion– something loud enough to force Campbell’s men to shift, to keep their eyes off Tommy. A fight, a scuffle, anything.

But there was nothing.

No raised voices. No sudden movement. No sign of a disruption. 

Your stomach twisted.

The uniformed officers stationed around still stood where they had been when you first arrived, their postures easy, their focus unbroken. 

Your fingers tensed around the champagne glass.

There could be an explanation. Maybe Tommy had adjusted the plan. Maybe the fight had been handled quietly, out of sight. 

You swallowed, trying to shake the unease slithering through your veins, but it clung to you, sinking deep into your bones. The Derby continued around you, the hum of conversation and the roar of the crowd washing over you like a tide, but suddenly, it all felt unbearably distant.

You didn’t want to be here anymore.

You didn’t want to be surrounded by these people, these faceless men in fine suits, laughing over their whiskey, oblivious to the way the world could turn sharp and cruel beneath them.

You wanted Tommy.

The thought startled you, how strong the ache for his presence had become. You had been without him for less than fifteen minutes, but in that time, something had shifted, and now all you wanted was the weight of his eyes on you, the quiet steadiness of his voice.

He made you feel safe, in a way you’d grown to depend on.

The thought alone made your pulse quicken– not with fear, but with something close to longing.

You forced yourself to breathe, to think.

Waiting around wasn’t going to make the feeling go away. The minutes stretched, slow and unbearable, each one making your skin prickle with the certainty that something was watching you, even if you couldn’t see it.

You needed to move.

Decision made, you set your untouched glass of champagne down on the nearest table and turned, slipping easily into the shifting bodies of the crowd.

The stables were quieter.

Safer.

And Tommy would be there soon.

You weaved through the grandstand, careful not to rush, but your pace was quicker than before, your movements more deliberate. 

Every step closer to the far end of the Derby grounds eased a fraction of the weight in your chest, though the unease still pulsed beneath your skin.

By the time you reached the stables, the noise of the crowd had dulled to a low hum in the distance, swallowed by the vast stretch of open space between here and the main stands. The scent of hay, damp earth, and leather settled thick in the air, a stark contrast to the perfume and whiskey lingering on your coat from the crowded grandstand.

You slowed your pace, glancing around.

It was quiet.

A few stable hands moved about their work, tending to the horses, brushing them down, adjusting saddles. They paid you no mind, too focused on their own business, and for once, you were grateful for it.

You stepped further in, the wooden beams of the stable casting long shadows in the fading afternoon light.

The silence felt different here. 

You exhaled slowly and leaned against one of the empty stalls, letting the tension slip from your shoulders.

The minutes passed with little urgency, stretching long and slow, but this time, it didn’t bother you. After the noise, after the endless hum of people, the quiet felt welcome. The horses shifted in their stalls, their movements rhythmic, soothing. You focused on the sound of their breathing, the occasional rustle of hay, the soft clink of metal as one of the stable hands adjusted a bridle.

Tommy would be here soon.

You exhaled, letting yourself lean further into the stall door, fingers absently tracing the worn grain of the wood.

But then a voice, low and taunting, cut through the silence behind you.

“Waiting for someone?”

Your breath caught. Before you could move, before you could think, before you could do anything at all– something cold and unyielding pressed against the small of your back.

A gun.

Your body went rigid.

“Don’t scream,” Campbell murmured, his voice dripping with quiet amusement. “Or you’ll be dead before the sound leaves your throat.”

He was standing too close, his voice curling against your ear like a whisper of death itself. His gun pressed harder into your spine, just enough to make his point clear.

“Walk,” he ordered.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, carrying you forward as he directed you, step by step, out of the stables. The warmth of safety you had felt moments ago vanished, replaced by the cold sweat prickling at the base of your neck.

Each step felt heavier than the last, your breath tight in your chest as Campbell steered you toward the far end of the Derby grounds. The festive hum of the crowd still carried on in the distance– oblivious, detached from the reality closing in around you.

You saw a familiar shape in the sea of bodies.

John.

He stood near the vendor stalls, talking to someone, his hat tipped low against the sun.

Hope surged in your chest, desperate and sharp.

Your pulse roared in your ears as your eyes locked onto him. See me. Please, John. 

Your fingers twitched at your sides, your body screaming for you to do something– to call out, to move, to catch his attention before it was too late. For a second, John shifted, glancing to the side– toward you.

Your breath caught. 

But then he turned back again, oblivious. 

You bit down hard on your panic, forcing yourself to keep moving. By the time you reached the parking lot, any remnants of safety were gone.

Campbell shoved a pair of handcuffs into your grasp. “Put them on,” he ordered.

Your hands trembled as the cold metal slid over your wrists, locking with a sharp click.

The truck door creaked open, and before you could react, Campbell grabbed you by the arm and hauled you inside.

The door slammed shut behind him. The truck lurched forward. And then, you were moving.

Your last glimpse of the Derby grounds was through the narrow gap in the back window– the crowd, the shifting blur of faces, and somewhere in it, Tommy, unaware.

Campbell leaned back against the wall of the truck, watching you with quiet amusement, his gun resting against his knee.

“Now,” he said, voice smooth, easy. “Let’s have a little chat.”

The road stretched ahead, leading you further and further away.

And for the first time since Tommy left your side, you knew– 

You were well and truly all alone.

…

Tommy sat across from Sabini in the dimly lit room, his expression unreadable as the conversation between them unfolded. 

Sabini was posturing, throwing out veiled threats wrapped in pleasantries, testing the edges of Tommy’s patience. But Tommy had played this game too many times before. He knew when to push and when to let a man talk himself into a corner.

Sabini smirked, swirling the drink in his hand as his dark eyes dragged over Tommy’s face.

“I have to say, Shelby,” he drawled, tilting his head. “Your face has healed up nicely since the last time we saw each other. Looks almost… respectable again.”

Tommy didn’t blink.

Sabini chuckled, tapping a finger against his glass. “Though, I think I preferred it the other way. Suited you better.”

Tommy exhaled slowly, rolling his unlit cigarette between his fingers, his jaw tight. His face was fine now– the bruises faded, the split lip long healed– but the memory of being beaten into the concrete by Sabini’s men still burned fresh.

Along with the way you had stitched him back up again. 

He kept his voice even. “It’ll take more than a few Italians to keep me down, Sabini.”

Sabini’s smirk widened. “Oh, I know. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

There was a sudden shift in the air, a subtle undercurrent beneath the usual tension, and Tommy couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Then, the door creaked open. One of Tommy’s men slipped inside, moving quickly to his side, leaning down to whisper in his ear.

“The north entrance,” the man murmured. “Guards were never there.”

Tommy’s fingers tightened slightly around the glass in front of him.

Not there?

That wasn’t possible.

He kept his expression steady, barely a flicker of reaction, but he felt it– the cold realization sliding into his gut.

The north entrance was supposed to be where Campbell’s men were stationed. Where Tommy had sent his own men to create a distraction.

But they hadn’t been there.

Which meant– 

His pulse quickened, but he didn’t move. Didn’t let Sabini see the shift.

But Sabini saw something.

A smirk curled at the corners of his mouth as he leaned back in his chair, swirling the drink in his hand.

“Problem, Shelby?” he mused, voice smooth. “You look… distracted.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched.

Sabini knew. Maybe not everything, maybe not the details, but he knew enough.

The meeting was over.

Tommy pushed back his chair and stood, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket with practiced ease.

Sabini watched him with quiet amusement, his smirk widening just slightly. “Leaving so soon? And here I thought we were just getting comfortable.”

Tommy barely spared him a glance. “I don’t get comfortable, Sabini.”

With that, he turned and strode out, his pace brisk, controlled.

But as soon as he stepped outside, the composure cracked.

His strides lengthened as he moved through the shifting crowd, the noise of the Derby grating against his ears, an unwelcome backdrop to the sudden weight settling in his chest. His pulse was steady, but his breathing sharpened, his body already anticipating something wrong.

Beside him, one of his men kept pace, his expression tight with unease. He had been the one to whisper in Tommy’s ear about the north entrance.

“What do you want me to do, Tom?” The man– Liam, asked, voice low.

“Find Arthur and John,” Tommy said without looking at him, his voice clipped, firm. “Bring them to me.”

The north entrance had been a bluff– their own distraction. 

But for what?

Liam nodded once and peeled off, disappearing into the throng of well-dressed patrons, leaving Tommy to push forward alone.

The weight in his gut grew heavier with every step. You would be at the stables. You had to be by now, it had nearly been thirty minutes… just like you said. 

But when he arrived, the place was quiet. Too quiet. The scent of hay and leather lingered, the horses shifting in their stalls, but she wasn’t there.

He waited.

Five minutes.

Then ten.

His hands curled into fists as he paced, his mind whirring. Maybe you had gotten spooked. Maybe you had wandered a little further. But the longer he stood there, the deeper the feeling of dread sank into his chest.

Tommy turned sharply on his heel, heading back into the main crowd.

He checked the vendors first, scanning the faces, his movements controlled but urgent. He stopped at the whiskey stall, the betting booths, his jaw tightening each time he came up empty.

His hand twitched at his side.

He turned away sharply, moving toward the betting booths. He scanned the men crowding the odds board, their eyes fixed on the shifting numbers, rolling cigars between their fingers as they whispered to each other about favorites and long shots.

Not there, either.

His jaw tightened.

He wove further through the throng, past vendors shouting out prices for hot meat pies and whiskey, past wealthy men in tailored suits and women in silks who paid him no mind.

Then he spotted a vendor selling cheap trinkets– a small stand with silver cigarette cases and pocket watches laid out in neat rows.

His pulse kicked up.

He knew you had a habit of idly running your fingers over things when you were waiting– coins on a counter, the rim of a glass, the buttons of your coat. Maybe you would have lingered there, just for a moment, just long enough for someone to remember.

He stepped forward.

“You seen a woman here?” he asked the vendor, keeping his voice level. “About this tall– Green dress?”

The man barely looked up as he adjusted one of the cases. “Plenty of women come through.”

Tommy’s fingers curled against his palm. “You’d remember this one.”

The vendor hesitated, brow furrowing slightly. “I dunno, mate. Sorry.”

Tommy exhaled sharply, nodding once before turning away, pushing further into the crowd.

His stride lengthened, the careful control in his posture thinning. The murmurs of the crowd blurred together, the distant sound of the next race being called barely registering.

He stopped near a bar, scanning the people lined up along the counter.

Then, “Oi. Are you Thomas Shelby?”

Tommy turned, muscles tensed, sharp eyes locking onto the man who had spoken.

He was older, dressed in a Derby official’s waistcoat, his expression bored, indifferent. Like he was delivering nothing more than a routine message.

“There’s a phone call for you,” the man said.

Tommy’s blood ran cold.

The older man turned without waiting for a response, leading Tommy away from the main thoroughfare of the Derby grounds. The noise of the crowd dulled as they stepped around the back of the vendor stalls, weaving through a narrow passage between two betting booths.

Tommy’s pulse pounded against his ribs, but his expression remained unreadable, his body moving with purpose. He kept his hands in his pockets, fingers brushing against the metal of his cigarette case, grounding himself in the feel of something solid.

The man led him to a small, makeshift office tucked between the grandstand and the betting houses. A single telephone sat on a desk, the receiver resting off the hook, the cord stretched taut.

It was waiting. Tommy stepped forward, ignoring the man behind him as he reached for the receiver and lifted it to his ear.

He didn’t speak.

Not at first.

A long silence stretched between him and whoever was on the other end of the line.

Then there was a voice. Smooth. Measured. Amused.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched.

Campbell.

The sound of his voice sent a slow, simmering rage through Tommy’s veins, steady and lethal.

Campbell sighed, a mockery of disappointment. “She was quite cooperative, you know. Didn’t put up a fight. Kind of a shame– I was hoping for more excitement.”

Tommy’s stomach twisted. His breath stayed steady, but something dark flickered behind his eyes. He had heard enough men like Campbell speak to recognize the game being played.

“Where is she?” Tommy asked, his voice like a blade– sharp, cutting, controlled.

Campbell hummed. “Safe. For now.”

Tommy’s jaw ticked. “If you lay a finger on her–”

“Now, now,” Campbell interrupted smoothly. “Let’s not make threats, Tommy. We both know this is bigger than you and me.”

Tommy’s free hand twitched at his side. “You tell me where she is, or I’ll tear this whole fucking place apart– I’ll kill every last one of your fucking men–”

Campbell chuckled again, the sound slithering through the line.

“Oh, I do believe you would try.” A beat of silence. “But do you really think I’d leave her at the Derby, Tommy? Do you take me for a complete fool?”

Tommy’s grip on the receiver turned to iron. “What do you want?”

Campbell exhaled, slow and deliberate, like a man savoring the moment. “So self-centered, Mr. Shelby,” he mused. “I don’t want anything from you.”

Tommy’s fingers curled tighter around the receiver, his knuckles going white. “Then why the fuck are we having this conversation?”

A soft, satisfied chuckle. “Because I want you to know that this isn’t about business. This isn’t about deals, or leverage, or power.” A pause. Then, low and sharp, “This is personal.”

Tommy’s breath stayed even, but a dangerous quiet settled over him.

“I should have known sooner,” Campbell continued, his voice coated in bitter amusement. “She was always in the right place at the right time, wasn’t she? Always knew just enough to keep you one step ahead. And yet, she smiled that pretty smile at me, and played her part so well. I was growing rather fond of her company, too, you know?”

Tommy’s jaw tightened, rage simmering just beneath his skin.

Campbell’s voice darkened. “You made a fool of me, Shelby. And she helped you do it.”

The room was suffocating, the Derby’s distant roar a dull, meaningless hum in the background. The anger flooding his veins was ice-cold– focused, lethal.

Tommy exhaled through his nose, keeping his voice level. “You need a win, don’t you?” He let the words settle, calculating his next move. “You’ve been after the IRA for how long? The fucking crown breathin’ down your neck? You think if you bring them to heel, you’ll climb your way back up?”

Another pause.

Tommy pressed harder.

“I have names,” he continued, voice sharp now. “Contacts. Locations. Weapons routes. And I know exactly how your government wants them handled.”

Silence.

Tommy swallowed back the bitterness in his throat, knowing exactly what kind of ground he was treading. He’d worked with the IRA before. Made enemies. Made allies. He still had contacts, and Campbell knew it. He didn’t give a fuck about the government’s game, didn’t give a fuck about their wars– he only cared about you.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” Tommy said, voice like steel.

The line crackled. Then, finally, he heard a soft, thoughtful hum.

“You are a resourceful man, Tommy,” Campbell murmured. “I’ll give you that.”

Tommy’s pulse hammered in his throat, but his voice stayed even. “I can give you what you need.” 

Campbell’s voice returned, measured, unreadable. “I’ve got to say, I do enjoy watching you squirm.”

A fresh wave of rage clawed its way up Tommy’s throat, but he swallowed it back, forcing himself to wait for the next words. 

“You still don’t understand, do you?” His voice was smooth, almost pitiful. “I don’t want anything from you, Tommy.”

Tommy’s grip tightened on the receiver, his pulse roaring in his ears.

Campbell exhaled, slow and deliberate. “This isn’t about information. It’s about power. About control.”

A cold realization settled in Tommy’s gut, but he refused to acknowledge it. Not yet.

Campbell chuckled, the sound slithering through the line. “You’ve spent years convincing yourself that you’re untouchable. That no matter what happens, no matter who comes for you, you’ll always be one step ahead.” A pause. “But you’re not, are you?”

Tommy swallowed, his breath steady, but his mind was already moving, already searching for the angle, the leverage– anything he could use to change the outcome.

“I want you to feel it, Tommy,” Campbell continued, voice sharp now, cutting straight to the bone. “The way I felt it, every time you made a fool of me. I want you to understand what it is to be helpless.”

Tommy’s fingers curled against the desk, white-knuckled.

“I want you to know,” Campbell said, his tone almost gentle, “that I can take something you care about… and I can hurt it–”

Tommy forced his breath to be measured, controlled. “What have you done?”

“Nothing. Yet.” A smirk laced Campbell’s tone. “But I do intend to take my time. You see, I just want you to see that you can’t stop this. Not everything is under your control, Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

Campbell exhaled, pleased. “I wonder, Tommy… how long before she begs me to stop?”

The words slithered through the receiver like a blade pressed to skin, slow and deliberate.

Campbell let the silence stretch, savoring it. Then, lower, softer– crueler, he asked, “How long before she screams your name– before she realizes you can’t save her?”

Without warning, the line went dead.

Tommy stood there, frozen, the dial tone humming like a funeral bell in his ear.

Then– Crack!

His fist slammed into the wooden desk, rattling the phone, sending the ink bottle tumbling over the edge.

His breath came heavy now, sharp and measured as he forced himself back into control.

Campbell had made a mistake.

A big fucking mistake.

Tommy turned, his hands already moving, reaching into his coat for a cigarette as he stormed toward the door. He shoved it open with force, stepping into the fading afternoon light. The air outside felt sharp against his skin, but it did nothing to cool the fire burning in his chest.

Arthur, John, and the rest of the boys were already there, waiting just beyond the vendor stalls.

John spotted him first, his sharp gaze flicking over Tommy’s face, reading the tension in his shoulders. “What the fuck is going on?”

Arthur stepped forward next, his expression dark, nostrils flaring. “Tom, what was that? We saw the bloke bring you back here–” His voice cut off as he caught the look in Tommy’s eyes.

The others fell quiet, waiting.

Tommy exhaled sharply, smoke curling into the air.

“We have to get out of here,” he said finally, his voice clipped, urgent.

John frowned. “What? Why?”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Tommy– where’s the Doc?”

The words landed like a gunshot.

Tommy inhaled slowly, then exhaled through his nose as he looked up. When he spoke, his voice was low, steady, lethal. “Campbell has her.”

“Fuck.” John’s face twisted in fury, his hands immediately curling into fists.

Arthur took a step closer, his breath coming sharper now. “What do you mean, Campbell has her? How the fuck did that happen?”

Tommy clenched his jaw, his patience thin. “He’s been one step ahead of us this entire fucking time. He knew she was spying for me.” He flicked his cigarette to the ground, grinding it under his boot. “He knew. The whole time, he fucking knew.”

The weight of his words settled over them like a cold fog.

John swore under his breath. Johnny Dogs shifted, his jaw tight. The others exchanged glances, waiting for the next move.

Arthur exhaled harshly, rolling his shoulders back. “Right,” he said, his voice a touch calmer now– dangerously so. “So what the fuck do we do now?”

Tommy straightened, adjusting his coat.

“We find her.”

He turned, already moving, already calculating.

“And we kill that bastard before he even knows we’re coming.”

The boys didn’t hesitate.

They followed.

Because no one took from Thomas Shelby and walked away unscathed. 

<< Previous Chapter

Tommy was protective, too. Something you weren’t entirely used to. No one had ever really looked out for you like that before– at least, not in a way that felt unshakable, immovable. You had spent so long relying on yourself, keeping your guard up, making sure you never needed anyone. But Tommy made it difficult to ignore the quiet certainty in the way he protected you, like it wasn’t even a choice for him, just something he did without thinking. It was a strange thing, feeling safe not because you had built your own walls, but because someone else had placed themselves between you and the world.

The day before, at the Garrison, a man had started running his mouth while you were behind the bar.

You hadn’t thought much of it at first. Men like that existed everywhere– drunk, careless, throwing their weight around like the world owed them something. You had learned to ignore it, to brush off the slurred remarks and the entitled demands.

But then he’d leaned in, resting an elbow on the bar, eyes raking over you like you were something to be appraised.

"What are they doing keeping such a pretty thing like you behind the bar?" he drawled, his breath thick with whiskey. "How far would a good tip get me, aye?"

Your stomach twisted, but you kept your expression neutral, focused on polishing the glass in your hand. You’d dealt with worse. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Before you could even decide on how to respond, a shadow loomed over the bar.

It happened fast. One second, the man was smirking at you like he thought he was clever. The next, Tommy’s hand was fisting the front of his jacket, yanking him back with enough force to make the whole room go silent.

The man barely had time to stammer out a protest before Tommy spoke, his voice low, calm, but carrying the kind of weight that made the hairs on your arms stand up.

"Get out."

The man’s bravado faltered. He swallowed, shaking his head quickly. "Just having a laugh–"

Tommy yanked him closer, his voice dropping even lower. "I don’t give a shit. You don’t get to talk to her. You don’t even get to look at her. Understand?"

The man nodded hurriedly, his face paling.

Tommy let go, shoving him back a step. "Now fuck off."

You’d barely had time to process it before Tommy was turning back to you, brushing his fingers against your wrist like nothing had happened. “Can you grab me a couple bottles to bring back?” 

It should have unsettled you. Maybe, in a different life, it would have. But instead, all you’d felt was a strange, steady warmth curling low in your chest. Because despite everything, despite the dangers and the warnings, you knew one thing for certain. With Tommy, you felt safe.

“Irish or Scottish?” you asked.

Tommy glanced at you, something unreadable flickering in his sharp blue eyes. Then, just as smoothly as he had handled the situation before, he replied, “Both.”

He went back to his meeting with the bottles, slipping seamlessly into conversation with Arthur and the others like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just made a man nearly piss himself with a look. 

And for a while, you let yourself believe that was it. That it was just Tommy being Tommy– calculating, quick, always knowing when to step in and when to walk away.

But then, one night, Tommy changed things with one sentence. "The Derby’s coming up,” he said, watching you closely. 

“The what?” you asked, turning to face him.

Tommy huffed a quiet breath, shaking his head slightly, like he’d forgotten for a moment that not everyone lived and breathed the business the way he did.

“The Epsom Derby. Horse racing. Biggest in the country,” he clarified, flicking his cigarette against the tray again. “It’s where the money is. And the people with the money.”

You frowned slightly, tilting your head. “And what’s your interest in it?”

Tommy’s lips twitched faintly, something unreadable flickering behind his sharp blue eyes. “Shelbys have always had an interest in racing.”

You let out a slow breath, watching the way his posture steadied, but something more calculating laid just beneath the surface.

“You mean betting,” you corrected.

Tommy smirked slightly. “That too.”

You shook your head, exhaling. “Shouldn’t you be laying low right now? Given everything that’s going on…”

Tommy’s smirk didn’t waver, but something flickered behind his eyes, something sharper, darker. He exhaled slowly.

“Laying low doesn’t get you control.”

His voice was calm, steady, but there was an edge to it, something buried beneath the surface.

You tilted your head slightly. “Control over what?”

Tommy took another drag, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make you wonder if he was going to answer at all. Then, finally, he spoke.

“Sabini thinks he runs the tracks.” His voice was lower now, rougher. “Thinks he runs all of London, for that matter. But this?” He exhaled smoke, gaze flickering up to meet yours. “This is how we take some of that back.”

You swallowed, watching him carefully. Sabini. You hadn’t heard Tommy say his name out loud since the attack. Since his men had left him broken and bleeding, barely conscious, barely breathing.

And now? Now Tommy was going straight for him.

“So that’s what this is,” you murmured, realization settling in. “This isn’t just about money. This is about– what? Getting even?”

Tommy huffed a quiet breath, tilting his head slightly. “It’s about reminding them who I am.”

You weren’t sure if the chill that ran through you was from the way he said it, so calm, so certain, or the fact that you knew, without a doubt, that he would do everything in his power to succeed.

Still, you couldn’t ignore the risk. “Sabini’s men nearly killed you, Tommy.”

“Nearly.” He flicked his cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. “But they didn’t.”

You exhaled, watching the way his fingers twitched against the table, the way his jaw tightened just slightly. 

“Do you not remember what that was like?” you asked, unable to help the emotion creeping into your voice. “Because I do, Tommy. You were beaten within an inch of your life– they… they broke your bones– your lungs nearly collapsed," you forced out, your voice quieter now, but no less urgent. 

The memory was burned into your mind, no matter how hard you tried to push it away– the way he had looked lying on that bed, unconscious, his face barely recognizable beneath the swelling and bruises and blood. The way his breathing had been shallow, uneven, each one a struggle. The way you had pressed your hands to his ribs.

And now, he was just walking right back into the fire.

Tommy exhaled slowly, but there was something measured in the way he did it, something restrained. He studied you for a moment, the flickering candlelight casting shadows over his face. "I remember."

You shook your head, frustration curling in your chest. "Then why are you so willing to put yourself back in that position?"

Tommy tapped his cigarette against the ashtray, his movements deliberate. "Because the only way to make sure it doesn’t happen again is to make them afraid of trying."

His voice was calm, controlled, but you could hear the steel behind it, the quiet promise of something ruthless, something inevitable.

You swallowed, gripping the edge of the bar. "What if they do try again?"

Tommy’s lips twitched slightly. “They won’t. I’ve got a plan.”

Your stomach twisted. He said it like it was that simple. Maybe to him, it was. But to you, all you could see was what would happen if he was wrong. Sabini could have a trap waiting– men waiting to ambush Tommy. What if you found yourself kneeling beside him again, pressing your hands to another wound, trying to stop the inevitable?

"Tommy–"

His fingers twitched against the bar again. It was the only sign of hesitation, the only tell in his otherwise unreadable expression.

"You don’t have to worry about me," he murmured, voice lower now.

“I do, though, Tommy.”

A muscle in his jaw tightened. He looked away, just for a second, like he was weighing his next words, considering how much to say. When his eyes met yours again, there was something different in them.

"I know what I’m doing."

“I know you do, Tommy. I’m not saying you don’t. I’m just saying…” your voice hitched. “I’m just saying I don’t ever want to see you hurt like that again. Once was enough... Twice was too much. But three times would be unbearable.”

For a moment, Tommy didn’t say anything.

His cigarette burned low between his fingers, the ember flickering dimly in the space between you. His gaze was unreadable, steady, like he was measuring the weight of your words, considering what they meant.

Then, slowly, he exhaled. "You won’t."

You let out a breath, shaking your head. "You don’t know that."

His jaw flexed, his grip tightening around his cigarette. "I do."

He said it like his word should have been enough. But it wasn’t. Because you had been there the last time. You had seen him bloody and broken, barely holding on, and the thought of going through that again, of kneeling at his side with his life slipping through your fingers, made something twist deep in your chest.

And Tommy knew it.

He glanced away for a beat, like he was weighing his next words carefully. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher.

"I need to do this."

You swallowed, your throat tight. "Why?"

Tommy’s eyes flickered, like he wasn’t sure how much to say. Then, finally, he leaned forward, resting his forearms against the table, his cigarette dangling between his fingers.

"Because they think they can take things from me."

You studied him, the way his hands stayed still, the quiet certainty in his voice. 

"Sabini. Campbell. Every man who thinks they can take what’s mine and get away with it. That’s what this is about." He exhaled slowly, his gaze sharp. "It’s not just business. It’s control. It’s power."

Still, you had to ask. "So, what’s the plan?”

Tommy’s gaze flickered toward the dimly lit room before settling back on you. “We hit Sabini where it hurts. The bookies, the money, the men he trusts.” His fingers tapped against the table. “We take their bets. We take their business. We show them they don’t run things anymore.”

You frowned slightly, piecing it together. "And you think Sabini is just going to let you walk in and take over?"

Tommy smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “No. That’s why we make sure he doesn’t see it coming. Campbell wants you to keep feeding him information. We use that.”

Your pulse picked up. “What do you need me to tell him?”

Tommy exhaled, considering his words carefully. “You tell him I’m planning to fix a race.”

You sighed. "Fix a race?"

Tommy nodded. "Make him think I'm using the Derby to make a fortune, that I’ve got a deal in place to ensure the right horse wins. Make him believe that’s where all my focus is, on the money, not the power shift. That’s where they’ll focus their energy.”

Tommy’s lips twitched slightly. “He thinks I’m only concerned with making a profit. He’ll expect it from me.”

Your throat tightened. This plan was starting to feel bigger, more consuming. 

It wasn’t just feeding Campbell false information anymore. It wasn’t just playing a careful game of words, slipping half-truths between the cracks. This was setting a trap.

And you were the one laying the bait.

You swallowed, gripping the edge of the table as the weight of it all pressed against your chest.

It wasn’t fear for yourself that made your hands shake. It was the fear of what would happen if you got this wrong. One wrong word, one miscalculation, and it wouldn’t be you who paid the price. It would be Tommy.

Campbell had been circling him for months, waiting for a reason, waiting for proof. If you slipped, if you made a mistake, Tommy wouldn’t just lose this game. He’d lose his life.

The thought sent a shiver down your spine.

Tommy must have noticed, because his voice cut through the thick, suffocating air between you.

“It’ll be alright,” he murmured. 

You tried your best to believe him. 

…

As you made your way to Campbell’s new meeting location, you ran over your response in your mind, combing through every word, every calculated pause. You had been careful, giving him enough to satisfy his suspicions without betraying anything real. 

Still, there was always the nagging doubt, the lingering question of whether you had played your part well enough. Whether Campbell believed you. Whether he was starting to suspect that you weren’t his pawn at all.

You pushed the thought aside as the meeting point came into view, steadying yourself. 

Campbell had chosen an abandoned rail yard on the outskirts of the city, where the rusting skeletons of freight cars sat beneath a low-hanging fog. The tracks stretched out in every direction, disappearing into the night, and the damp air carried the faint scent of oil and metal. A place chosen for secrecy, not comfort.

You adjusted your coat as you stepped onto the gravel, your boots crunching softly against the stones. The only movement came from the occasional flicker of a distant streetlamp, casting brief, weak halos of light against the damp steel. Your breath curled in the frigid air as you scanned the area, forcing yourself to move with the same quiet confidence you always did.

Campbell was already there, standing near a rusted train car, his figure stiff and upright, hands clasped behind his back. He was waiting, watching. Always watching.

As you approached, his gaze flickered over you, taking in every detail, the set of your shoulders, the pace of your steps, the slight shift in your expression as you closed the distance between you.

“You took your time,” he remarked, his voice calm but clipped.

You stopped a few paces away, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Sorry. I had to make sure I wasn’t followed.”

Campbell studied you for a moment, then gave a small, slow nod. “Good,” he said, voice smooth but edged with something unreadable. “Because I have something new for you.”

You didn’t react, keeping your expression even. “What is it?”

Campbell’s expression was unreadable, but the weight of his gaze told you this wasn’t just another task. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

"The Derby," he said.

Your stomach clenched. 

Campbell let the word settle between you for a moment, watching your reaction carefully, like he was waiting for something, some tell, some flicker of hesitation.

You kept your expression neutral, forcing yourself to breathe evenly. “What about it?”

Campbell’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but it wasn’t far off.

“I know Thomas Shelby is planning something,” he said, voice smooth, assured. “Something big, having to do with Sabini’s men. The betting syndicate."

You swallowed. 

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head just slightly. “It’s ambitious, I’ll give him that,” he continued. “A man like Thomas Shelby, thinking he can carve out his own place at the top of a world already ruled by bigger men… It’s foolish, really.” His voice dropped, taking on that same condescending edge he always used when he spoke about Tommy, like he was a child playing a game far beyond his reach.

“But predictable. Shelby’s greed has always been his weakness. He’s an opportunist, a gambler, always looking for the next pot to take. And he thinks the Derby is his ticket to something bigger.”

You forced yourself to nod as if considering it, but inside, a slow coil of tension wound tighter in your chest. He had taken the bait. Tommy’s misdirection had worked. Campbell believed exactly what Tommy wanted him to– that this was about money, about rigging bets and making a fortune, rather than the real goal: power. Control.

It should have felt like a relief. If Campbell was looking at the numbers, at the movement of money through the tracks, then he wasn’t looking at the bigger picture. He wasn’t seeing what Tommy was really after. But somehow, it didn’t feel like a victory.

Campbell’s gaze sharpened. “But we’re planning something bigger.”

The certainty in his voice sent a chill through you. “What have you got planned?”

"We’ve got Sabini on the hook, and we’re going to hit Shelby at the Derby," he said, his tone even but carrying the weight of something final.

Your stomach clenched. "Like a raid?" you asked.

Campbell nodded, his expression unreadable. “We’ll let him think he’s in control," he said, voice smooth, deliberate. "And then, when he makes his move, we’ll be waiting.” 

His gaze didn’t waver as he continued. “My men will be stationed along the north entrance, disguised as stable hands, close enough to see everything, but far enough to keep out of sight until the right moment.”

He flicked the ash from his cigarette, his voice calm, assured. “Shelby and Sabini’s men will meet at the betting house near the track. Five o’clock sharp. That’s when we’ll move in. And once they have Shelby in their sights, they’ll close in. Quickly. Cleanly.”

You forced yourself to stay still, to keep your expression neutral. “So what do you need me to do?”

Campbell studied you for a long moment, like he was searching for the slightest hint of hesitation. “I want you there,” he added. “Inside the betting house. Watching. Making sure he follows through.”

You kept your expression carefully neutral, forcing yourself to nod as if you were simply processing his orders. 

Campbell smiled faintly. “You’ve done well so far,” he said, his voice cool, edged with quiet warning. “Now let’s get this bastard.”

You forced yourself to nod, keeping your breathing even. "So you’re planning to arrest him right then and there?"

"Not just arrest." Campbell’s eyes gleamed with something colder now. "I want him exposed. Publicly. Humiliated. Stripped of the power he clings to so desperately. No quiet arrests in the dark this time. We’ll have him on display for all of Birmingham to see."

Your pulse pounded, but you fought to keep your voice steady. "What if he fights back?"

Campbell’s expression darkened slightly. "If Thomas Shelby refuses to be taken quietly, we’ll make sure he doesn’t walk away at all."

A sharp chill crept up your spine, but you forced yourself to nod, giving the illusion of compliance. "I understand."

Campbell studied you for a moment longer, then gave a satisfied nod. "Good."

You didn’t let your shoulders relax until you were well out of sight. But even then, the weight of what you had just learned pressed hard against your ribs.

Campbell wasn’t just trying to arrest Tommy. He was planning to slaughter him. 

…

By the time you arrived at Polly’s house later that evening, the weight of Campbell’s words still clung to you. Every step you took felt heavier, like you were carrying something dangerous in your hands, something that could change everything.

The door opened before you could even knock.

Tommy was there, standing in the dim light of the entryway, his expression unreadable. He didn’t say a word at first, just stepped aside, letting you in, his sharp eyes already flickering past you, scanning the street beyond.

As soon as the door shut behind you, he reached for the curtain, pulling it back just enough to check outside, his shoulders tense, his movements methodical. It wasn’t paranoia, it was precaution. A habit built from years of knowing just how quickly things could go wrong.

Tommy turned back to you, his eyes softening just slightly. The sharpness in them gave way to something quieter, something more human. His hand lifted, his fingers brushing against your cheek before settling there, his thumb stroking just beneath your eye.

Then, before you could fully process it, he leaned in.

The kiss was warm, steady– not urgent, not rushed, just grounding. Like he needed to feel you, to be sure you were really standing there in front of him, in one piece. His lips lingered against yours, his hand firm against your skin, anchoring you to the moment.

When he pulled back, his forehead nearly touched yours, his voice low. "You okay?"

You exhaled, your chest tight. You nodded.

Tommy searched your face, his hand still cradling your cheek like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. Then, after a beat, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if he had made some kind of decision.

His hand dropped, his sharp gaze flickering past you toward the sitting room. "Come on then. Everyone’s waiting."

As you followed him inside the house, you noticed the air inside was thick with cigarette smoke and whiskey, the dim glow of the oil lamps casting long shadows against the walls. Arthur and John sat across from one another, looking tense. Polly stood near the fireplace, swirling whiskey in her glass like she already knew something bad was coming.

The second you stepped inside, all eyes were on you. 

Tommy stepped in behind you, shutting the door firmly before moving toward the center of the room. He didn’t sit, just lit a cigarette, exhaling slowly, waiting.

You swallowed, your pulse pounding. You had already gone over it in your head, rehearsed the words, prepared yourself for what needed to be said. But now, standing here, feeling the weight of their gazes, the truth of it all settled in your chest like a stone.

"It’s a trap," you said finally, breaking the silence. 

Arthur’s hand stilled against his knee. John’s brow furrowed slightly. Polly didn’t react, just took a slow sip of her whiskey, watching.

Tommy exhaled through his nose, flicking his cigarette. "When?"

You swallowed hard. "The Derby. Campbell thinks you’re using the race to make a fortune, just like you said he would. But he’s moving in so that he can catch you in the act."

Tommy nodded once, as if this was exactly what he’d expected. But something in his jaw tightened, just slightly.

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. "That bastard never lets up, does he?"

"He said they’ll have men at the north entrance," you continued. "Campbell made it sound like they’re waiting for you to meet with Sabini before cornering you inside the betting house."

Polly hummed, setting her glass down with a quiet clink. 

Tommy’s gaze was still locked onto you, unreadable. "What does he want from you?”

You held his stare. "He wants me there with you, to make sure you go through with it.”

Tommy exhaled slowly through his nose, tapping his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray. His expression didn’t shift, didn’t crack, but you knew him well enough by now to see the calculation flickering behind his sharp blue eyes.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. "Fucking bastard," he muttered under his breath.

John let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "So what do we do?"

For a long moment, no one spoke. The weight of it all hung thick in the air.

Then, Tommy flicked his cigarette into the tray and leaned forward. "We do what he wants."

Arthur’s head snapped up. "Tom–"

"We move like we’re going through with the deal," Tommy cut in smoothly, his voice cool, steady. "We let him think everything is happening exactly how he planned it." His gaze shifted back to you. "And when he makes his move, we’ll be ready. We’ll have a few men cause a distraction at the north entrance to keep them busy, and more in the betting house causing chaos. Once it’s disrupted, we’ll be forced to move the meeting location at the last minute. While Campbell’s men are busy handling things, we’ll meet with Sabini, do what we do, then slip out the south entrance.” 

The room was silent.

Then, “We stay one fucking step ahead of them,” John said.   

Arthur let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “Well, looks like you’re going to your first Derby, Doc.”

John smirked, tipping his glass toward you. “Should be a hell of an introduction to the Derby for ya.”

You exhaled, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “Right. This is exactly how I imagined it.”

John grinned. “Oh, come on. A bit of excitement never hurt anyone.”

Polly shot him a look. “Tell that to the last man who crossed Campbell.”

John’s smirk faltered just slightly, but he covered it with another swig of whiskey.

You glanced at Tommy. He hadn’t moved, still watching you with that quiet intensity, the weight of a thousand unspoken things pressing between you.

…

The next night, the day before the Derby, the Garrison was alive with its usual noise– laughter, clinking glasses, the hum of conversations layered over the low tunes of the piano. But to you, it all felt muted. Distant. Like you were moving through it without really being there.

You poured a drink, slid it across the bar without thinking. Your hands were steady, but your stomach hadn’t stopped twisting since you left Polly’s the day before. Since Tommy laid out his plan.

It was a good plan, but something felt off.

Campbell was expecting Tommy to be ready. He was waiting for him to make the first move, waiting for him to react. And even if Tommy was a step ahead, even if he knew how to slip past the net, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something you weren’t seeing.

You knew Tommy. Knew how his mind worked. He thought he was playing Campbell, but Campbell was too calm. Too certain. You had seen it in the way he spoke, in the quiet amusement beneath his words.

Your fingers tightened around the bar top.

Tommy had been holed up in the back with Arthur and John, and some other men, going over final details. But just then, the door to the back room opened, and Tommy stepped out into the main room, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. Arthur and John followed, but Tommy veered off toward the bar while they settled at a nearby table, already halfway through a bottle.

His eyes flickered over the room as he took a drag.

You stepped out from behind the bar, tilting your head slightly toward the hallway leading to some privacy. Tommy hesitated, glancing toward his brothers before nodding once and following you.

The hallway was dimly lit, quieter, tucked away from the noise of the pub. The moment the door swung shut behind you, you turned to face him.

“Please don't do this,” you said.

“We’ve already gone over this,” Tommy said, rubbing his thumb against the bridge of his nose like he was growing tired of the conversation. “You’ll put on a pretty little dress, doll up real nice, and pretend to keep me in line. We’ll make sure Campbell believes everything is happening exactly how he planned it. Then, we’ll meet near the stables and be home before you know it.”

It was so simple when he said it like that. Like it was just another move on the board, another calculated risk that he had already accounted for.

“I know the plan,” you said, voice tighter now. “But something is wrong, Tommy.”

He sighed, slipping a hand in the pocket of his slacks casually. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated, trying to find words that would be convincing enough, but nothing you said would matter, would it? Because Tommy thought he was untouchable.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, frustration curling in your chest. “But I can feel it, Tommy. I think this is a bad idea. I think we should call it off."

His jaw tightened ever so slightly, but his face remained unreadable. “That’s ridiculous.”

You shook your head, frustration curling in your stomach, making you sick. “Listen to me–"

His voice turned cool, clipped. “We stick to the plan. Everything will be fine.”

You hadn’t expected him to listen. Not really. But still, the way he dismissed your concerns so easily, like they were nothing more than an inconvenience, sent frustration clawing up your throat.

You let out a sharp breath. “Tommy–”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Look,” he said, his tone bordering on impatient. “I can’t abandon plans just because you’ve got a hunch. We don’t operate like that.”

Your throat tightened.

You had seen it before, the blind faith he had in his own planning, in his own ability to control every variable, to outthink every enemy. But war had taught you better. No plan was perfect. There was always something you couldn’t account for.

You took a slow breath, forcing yourself to nod. “Okay,” you said curtly, your voice devoid of any real agreement. Then, you turned on your heel, moving to brush past him. If he didn’t want to hear you out, then fine. It had to be fine.

Before you could get two steps away, Tommy caught your arm.

His grip was firm, not rough, but enough to stop you in your tracks. His fingers curled around your wrist, grounding, steady, but you didn’t want steady. You wanted him to listen.

“I know you’re worried.” He exhaled through his nose, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “But we don’t get to back out just because you have a hunch. It’s always been a risk.”

You swallowed hard, but it felt like trying to force down something sharp. “That’s not what this is,” you murmured. “It’s not just risk, Tommy. It’s—” You exhaled, shaking your head. “You’re not hearing me.”

For a second, just a flicker of a moment, something in his expression shifted. Softened. But then it was gone, replaced by that quiet, unreadable certainty. The one that made your stomach turn.

"We move forward as planned."

You yanked your arm from his grasp.

Tommy let you go immediately, but the weight of his touch lingered, burning against your skin.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice still calm, but there was something beneath it now, something you couldn’t quite place.

You turned back to him, your eyes burning. “Home,” you bit out. “To find a pretty little dress and get myself nice and dolled up, just like you said.”

The words came out sharper than you intended, laced with something bitter, something angry. But you didn’t take them back.

You just turned, pushing open the door and stepping back into the hum of the Garrison before he could stop you again.

Behind you, Tommy exhaled sharply, but he didn’t call you back.

…

The night air was crisp, the faint hum of the city still alive in the distance as you walked. Your heels clicked against the cobblestones, each step quicker than the last. You weren’t being followed, you had checked, doubled back twice just to be sure.

But the nerves didn’t fade.

They had been gnawing at you all evening, an invisible weight pressing down on your chest. You had kept your composure at the Garrison, your face smooth and unreadable, but inside, your mind had been running in circles.

The waiting was the worst part. It always had been. Now, and back in France. A quiet, suffocating kind of agony, where time stretched thin, and every second felt like borrowed time, like the world could end in the space between one breath and the next.

By the time you reached your door, your hands were trembling as you fumbled with the key. You cursed under your breath, forcing yourself to breathe, to steady yourself. The lock clicked open, and you slipped inside, shutting the door behind you. The quiet should have been a comfort, but it wasn’t.

Because the nerves, the waiting, the knowing that tomorrow could change everything—it was all too familiar.

Your breath hitched.

No. Not now.

But your mind didn’t listen. Your mind was traveling back.

The scent of damp earth filled your nostrils, the weight of exhaustion settling into your limbs like lead. The dim candle light flickered against the dirt walls of the makeshift medical station, casting long shadows across the stretchers lined up against the tunnels. Men groaned in pain, some deathly silent, their bodies broken, their blood seeping into the earth.

The shelling had stopped. For now. But there would be more. There was always more.

You pressed a cloth against a soldier’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of his blood soak through your fingers. His breath came in shallow gasps, his eyes wide with shock. “Hold on,” you murmured, though the words felt empty, useless.

Your hands moved on their own, muscle memory guiding you as you wrapped the wound, but your mind was already on the others– the men still out there, the ones who hadn’t made it back yet. The tunnels had collapsed in the last blast, sealing them under the earth.

And then, the next wave came.

The ground trembled with the impact, the walls shuddering as dirt rained down from above. The candlelight flickered violently before snuffing out entirely, plunging the station into darkness. Shouts rang out. Someone was pulling at your arm, dragging you down just as another explosion tore through the earth, the deafening roar drowning out everything else.

You hit the ground hard, dust choking the air, your ears ringing so violently it made you dizzy. Your hands clawed at the dirt, struggling to push yourself up. The groans, the cries, they sounded distant, muffled, like you were underwater.

And then came the silence.

You didn’t know how long you lay there before you heard them, new voices, urgent, rough with exhaustion and something else, something colder. You had been trained to recognize voices like that. Soldiers hardened by war, men who had survived the kind of hell that stripped everything human from them.

It was the same way Tommy spoke now.

His voice carried that same weight, that same quiet detachment, like he had seen too much, lost too much, and come out the other side with nothing left to give but calculation and control. He moved through the world the way those men had, steady, deliberate, always watching, always waiting. The war had taken pieces of them all, but with Tommy, it had done something else. It hadn’t just stripped the softness from him; it had reshaped him entirely. War had ended for everyone else, but for Tommy, it had never really stopped.

Now, years later, the same nerves clawed at you, the same fear of waiting for something inevitable, something you couldn’t stop.

Tomorrow, it would be different. It wasn’t war, not like before. But it was still a battlefield, still a fight for survival.

And you weren’t sure if either of you would make it out unscathed.

…

The morning light filtered through your curtains, casting long streaks of gold across your room. You stood before your wardrobe, fingers ghosting over the fabrics, trying to focus on something as simple as choosing a dress. But your mind was elsewhere– on the day ahead. The plan. All the ways it could go wrong. 

You swallowed, forcing yourself to breathe evenly as you pulled a dark green dress from the rack. You wondered if Tommy would like this one. You weren’t sure if that mattered today, but you needed something that made you feel steady, something that fit the part you had to play.

The fabric was smooth, a luxurious blend that draped elegantly over your frame, cinching at the waist before flowing down in soft, effortless folds. The neckline was modest, a gentle curve that framed your collarbones, fitted enough to be flattering but loose enough to allow movement.

Delicate buttons ran down the back, small and precise, the kind that required careful hands to fasten. The buttons felt small beneath your fingers as you fastened them, your movements practiced, controlled. 

A sharp knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. Firm. Measured. 

You hesitated, your pulse quickening as you smoothed your hands over the fabric of your dress. Frustration still lingered from the night before, but despite it, a part of you couldn’t help but wonder if Tommy would approve of what he saw.

But when you opened the door, it wasn’t Tommy. It was Arthur.

For a moment, you just stared at him, thrown off by the sight of him standing on your steps. His posture was as loose as ever, but there was something behind his eyes, something sharper, more aware. 

“Mornin’, Doc. Tommy sent me. Said he’d meet us at the Garrison,” Arthur said, his voice low but firm.

You searched his face, trying to gauge if there was anything more to those words, but he gave you nothing. Just a nod, as if that was all the explanation you needed.

You wondered if Tommy was angry with you.

You had been short with him last night, too tense to play whatever game he had expected of you. Maybe that was why he hadn’t come himself. Maybe he was pulling away, keeping his distance until all of this was over.

“Right, okay then,” you said. With practiced movements, you gathered what you needed– your purse, a small knife tucked away in the lining, and a few other things you never left without.

Arthur watched you from the doorway, saying nothing, but there was something knowing in his gaze, like he understood without needing to ask.

With one last glance around the room, you exhaled and followed him outside, the cold air settling over your skin as the day truly began.

Arthur said nothing at first, only falling into step beside you, his presence solid, grounding. It wasn’t until you reached the car that he glanced sideways at you. “You look nice, love.” 

You smiled, letting yourself lean into Arthur’s compliment. “Thank you, Arthur. So do you. Did you actually comb your hair?” 

Arthur scoffed, running a hand through his hair as if to prove a point. “Oi, I make an effort sometimes.”

You smirked, settling into the passenger seat as he climbed in beside you. The engine rumbled to life, and the familiar scent of cigarette smoke filled the space between you as he took a long drag.

The drive to the Garrison was quiet, the hum of the engine filling the space between you and Arthur. 

As the car rolled forward, you watched the city pass by in a blur of muted colors, the morning light just beginning to stretch across the rooftops. The silence between you and Arthur was comfortable at first, but the weight of the day pressed in quickly, wrapping itself around your ribs like a vice.

You turned to him, your voice quieter now. “Do you think the plan will work?”

Arthur didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl through the air before flicking his cigarette out the window. “‘Course,” he muttered. 

You nodded, understanding. The plan was calculated, precise– but it relied on deception, on Campbell believing he was a step ahead when, in reality, he was walking into a trap.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to ask the question that had been clawing at you since last night. “Is Tommy… is he angry at me?”

Arthur gave you a sideways glance, something unreadable in his expression. “Nah,” he said eventually. “Not angry. Just got too much rattling ‘round in that head of his to come get you himself.”

You nodded, staring straight ahead, not entirely reassured.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, the tension settling in your bones.

When you finally pulled up to the Garrison, Arthur cut the engine, stretching his arms before turning to you. “C’mon, let’s get a drink in you before the day goes to hell.”

You smirked, shaking your head as you climbed out of the car.

Inside, the warmth of the pub wrapped around you, thick with the scent of whiskey and old wood. Behind the bar, Harry looked up and smiled.

“Well, look at you,” he said, shaking his head in approval. “You look beautiful, love.”

“Thanks, Harry,” you said, his kind face easing some of the tension in your shoulders. 

Arthur had already disappeared toward the back, where you knew Tommy and the others were. You lingered near the bar, running your fingertips along the edge of the counter before taking a seat.

For a few minutes, you simply waited, your thoughts turning over themselves, wondering how this day would unfold, whether the pieces Tommy had set in motion would fall the way he intended.

You drummed your fingers lightly against the bar, forcing yourself to breathe evenly, to sit still when every nerve in your body felt like it was coiling tighter with each passing second. 

Then, the door to the back swung open.

John stepped out first. A few others followed, their voices low, their movements sure. And then, Tommy.

The moment he emerged, his eyes landed on you.

The noise of the Garrison faded into the background as Tommy’s gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, his expression unreadable. You felt your pulse quicken under the weight of it, the way his eyes lingered just long enough to make your breath catch.

Then, as if making a decision, he murmured something to the man beside him and stepped away from the group, heading straight for you.

You sat up a little straighter, forcing yourself to hold his gaze as he approached, his movements steady, unrushed. 

Something shifted in his expression. The hard lines of his face softened, just slightly, just enough for a flicker of something else to settle in the silence between you.

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply.

The words landed like a strike to your chest– unexpected, deliberate.

A small, wry smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “This dress nearly cost me a month’s worth of wages.”

His eyes flickered as he reached out gently, his knuckle grazing down your cheek. “Sounds like you might need a raise.”

His touch was light, barely there, but it sent a slow, deliberate warmth curling through you. The roughness of his knuckle against your skin was a contrast to the softness of the gesture, a quiet contradiction—something careful from a man who was anything but. It was fleeting, just a brush, but it left behind a ghost of heat, a lingering sensation that made your breath catch. Like a spark against dry kindling, small but enough to set something smoldering.

You leaned into his touch. “Maybe you could have a word with my boss for me.”

Tommy let out a quiet huff, something close to a chuckle, but the warmth in his eyes didn’t fade. His knuckle lingered against your skin for a second longer before he let his hand drop, slipping it back into his pocket as if to remind himself, and you, that there were things to be done.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly as he studied you. 

For a brief, fleeting second, the weight of the day ahead, the trap being set, the danger pressing in from all sides– it all faded.

But then, just as quickly, it was back to business.

“Remember, we let Campbell think everything is happening exactly how he planned it.”

Your stomach twisted, but you kept your expression steady, listening intently as he continued.

“We’ve got men set to cause a distraction at the north entrance to keep his men busy, more in the betting house stirring up chaos. Once the disruption starts, we’ll move the meeting location at the last minute.” He let the words settle, watching for your reaction.

You nodded, swallowing. 

“And while Campbell’s men are busy handling the mess, I meet with Sabini and slip out the south entrance.”

“Then you and I meet at the stables,” you replied. 

Tommy nodded approvingly. “At the stables,” he affirmed.

It was simple in theory.

Tommy stepped back, adjusting his cap. “Come on, then. The others are waiting.”

You followed him out, the morning air crisp against your skin as you stepped into the waiting car. 

And just like that, the game began.

 << Previous Chapter

The way he barely glanced your way when he walked into a room, the way his voice never lingered on your name like it used to. The way those fleeting moments– the ones where his eyes softened for just a second before he caught himself, had started to disappear.

He wasn’t being cold or cruel. But he offered you little more than brief glances and clipped words. Not necessarily distant, but detached. 

And maybe that was good. Maybe that was what you needed.

Still, there were nights when you caught yourself thinking about him, about the weight of his hand on your waist, the way he had looked at you in the quiet, like he wasn’t sure whether to push you away or pull you closer. You hated yourself for it, for noticing, for missing something you had never really had to begin with.

On the rare nights when Tommy wasn’t occupying your thoughts, your mind still refused to rest. Instead, you replayed every conversation with Campbell, sifting through the details, making sure you remembered what you had told him, and what you hadn’t. Trying, and failing, not to dwell on the inevitable question: What would happen if he ever found out where your loyalties truly lay?

Somewhere along the way, the exhaustion had settled into your bones. 

Polly was the first to notice. 

It started small, comments here and there. A look she gave you when you lingered too long at the Garrison, staring at the same spot on the counter. A knowing hum when you waved off a drink, saying you had to get home after your shift.

Then, one evening, she set down her glass and spoke.

"You’re coming to dinner. My house, seven o’clock."

The words were simple, firm– not a question. You blinked, pulled abruptly from your thoughts.

Polly stood across from you, one hand resting against the bar, the other wrapped around a half-empty glass. She watched you over the rim, eyes sharp, knowing. Like she’d already decided for you.

You hesitated. "I’ve got things to do."

Polly scoffed, shaking her head as she took a slow sip of whiskey. "What you’ve got is too much time spent caught in the middle of a war you never started. It’s not good for you. You look like hell."

Your grip on the bar tightened. "I’m fine."

Polly tilted her head, unconvinced. "Are you?"

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, to insist that yes, you were fine, you had to be fine. But nothing came out.

She exhaled, setting her drink down with a quiet clink. "Come to dinner at my place tonight. Eat a good meal, think about something other than whatever it is Tommy has you roped into."

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to go, but because you weren’t sure you could sit across from Tommy, feel the weight of his gaze, and pretend it didn’t affect you. Pretend that something between you hadn’t shifted in the last week, that you weren’t hoping for him to see you the way he had before.

Polly watched you, waiting.

But just like that, you were out of excuses.

…

Polly’s house was full when you arrived. Laughter and the sound of clinking glasses carried from the dining room, the warmth of conversation spilling into the hallway.

You let out a slow breath as you stepped inside, shrugging off your coat. 

Everyone was here. Everyone except Tommy. 

Your shoulders loosened slightly at the realization. You hated that it mattered, hated the way your stomach twisted at the thought of seeing him, the way your mind braced itself, wondering which version of Tommy you’d get tonight. The man who looked at you like you meant something, or the one who made you feel like you were just another game piece on the board.

One moment, he was brushing his thumb along your cheek, grounding you when the panic took hold, murmuring things that made your knees go weak. And the next? He was distant. Treating you like you were strictly around for business and information.

But you had to stop blaming him. You were the one who had let yourself feel something for a man like Tommy Shelby. You weren’t naive. You knew what he was, what kind of life he lived. What else did you expect? 

Before you could dwell on it any further, a blur of movement barreled into your side.

"You’re here!"

You barely had time to steady yourself before Finn had his arms wrapped around you, squeezing tight like he hadn’t seen you in years.

"Hello, Finn," you laughed, ruffling his hair as he pulled back.

He grinned up at you, eyes bright with excitement. "Aunt Pol said you might not come, but I told her you would. You wouldn’t miss a Shelby dinner."

You smirked. "Oh yeah? And how’d you know that?"

Finn shrugged, still grinning. "‘Cause you like us too much. Well, me at least."

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "You’re too cocky for your own good."

"Nah," Finn shot back, nudging you toward the dining room. "Just smart."

You followed, the tension in your chest easing slightly. Finn had always been easy company, he didn’t ask about the business, didn’t read too much into things.

John was the next to notice you. He was seated near the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in hand, looking more like himself than he had in days.

"Well, look who it is." He grinned, lifting his glass in greeting. "My very own guardian angel."

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips. "How’re you feeling?”

"Pretty good, all things considered. And I don’t take it for granted," he said, patting his side. "Stitched me up nice, you did."

Relief settled in your chest. You hadn’t seen much of John since that night. He’d actually followed your instructions to take it easy, meaning he wasn’t frequenting the Garrison like he usually did. 

"Just don’t go getting shot again," you muttered. 

John chuckled. "No promises, love."

You rolled your eyes. “At least wait until this one’s healed.”

John smirked, tilting his head. "What, and miss out on all the fun?"

You shot him a pointed look, crossing your arms. "Yeah, I’m sure bleeding out on a dirty table at the Garrison was a real fun time."

Finn, who had been listening from the corner, let out a loud snicker. “Arthur said you squealed like a pig.”

John’s smirk faltered just slightly, eyes narrowing as he shot Finn a glare. “Yeah? Well, Arthur’s full of shit.” He muttered something under his breath, shaking his head as he took a swig of his drink. “Next time he gets shot, I’ll make sure I’m the one patchin’ him up, see how much he squeals then.”

Finn just laughed, and you bit back a smirk, shaking your head. 

Just then, across the room, Ada caught your eye, gesturing toward the dining table. "Come on, then, since Polly’s gone on about making you stay, you might as well make yourself useful."

You didn’t argue, following her toward the kitchen while the boys continued to bicker. It was easier to keep your hands busy, easier to focus on setting out plates and pouring drinks than to think too hard about why you were here at all. As you moved around the table, setting out plates and pouring drinks, the noise of the room wrapped around you, familiar, and warm.

Arthur joined in on the conversation. He began telling a story, his voice animated, hands moving wildly as he spoke. Finn was practically in tears laughing, barely able to breathe between gasps. Polly, always the sharp observer, poured herself another drink, her eyes flicking between everyone, as if keeping count of who had too much and who wasn’t drinking enough.

You handed Ada a stack of silverware, barely registering her quiet thank you before setting a pitcher of water near the center of the table.

Then, the door opened. "Sorry I’m late." Tommy’s voice carried over the conversation, low and steady.

Your hand stilled over a glass. You glanced up just as he stepped inside, shrugging off his coat, his movements slow, measured, like he was arriving at a meeting, not dinner.

And then his eyes landed on you. It was subtle, just a flicker of recognition at first. But then he paused.

A rare, fleeting moment where he hesitated, where something passed through his expression, surprise, maybe. Or confusion. Like he hadn’t expected to see you here. Like the sight of you, standing at the table among his family, didn’t quite make sense.

Tommy dragged his gaze away from you, exhaling as he tossed his coat over a chair. "What’d I miss? What happened?"

Polly scoffed, swirling the whiskey in her glass. "Nothing happened. I invited her for dinner. Because that’s what polite people do when someone’s helped them out as much as she has."

Instead of turning towards Polly, Tommy’s gaze lingered on you. "You make sure no one followed you?" 

Your stomach tightened, but you kept your expression even. "Of course," you said.

Tommy didn’t look convinced. His gaze flickered over you, searching, as if trying to see past your answer, to find something you weren’t saying. "Are you sure?" he pressed.

“Oh, for goodness' sake, Tommy,” Polly said, exasperation dripping from every syllable as she set her glass down with a sharp clink. She leveled him with a pointed look, one brow arching in that way that made even him think twice before pushing back. “The girl’s got more sense than every man in this room combined. You think she’d waltz in here with a bloody tail on her?”

Tommy’s jaw ticked, but before he could say anything, Polly continued.

"She saved John’s life. Stitched him up when he was bleeding out on the streets." Her voice was stern, there was a weight behind it, something unspoken pressing into the space between them. "And while we’re keeping count, she saved yours too. Twice, I heard."

You tensed slightly, pulse skipping at the mention of France. 

His gaze flickered, but his expression remained unreadable. 

Polly scoffed, shaking her head. “Honestly, you’ve got bigger things to worry about than chasing shadows that aren’t there. Maybe start with a proper ‘thank you’ before you start interrogating the poor girl.” She lifted her glass, swirling the amber liquid lazily before taking another sip. "Or is gratitude beneath the great Thomas Shelby these days?"

Silence stretched across the table. Arthur shifting slightly in his seat, Ada giving a small nod of agreement, Finn glancing between you and Tommy like he was waiting for something to happen.

Tommy exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders slightly before reaching for a drink. “Never said she didn’t deserve to be thanked.” His voice was even, but something about it made your chest tighten. He didn’t look at you as he poured himself a drink. 

Polly huffed, shaking her head as she lifted her own glass. "Then act like it, Thomas."

Without another word, Tommy raised his drink slightly in your direction, a slow, measured movement.

"Thank you. For all you’ve done for us."

Simple. Certain.

Arthur raised his glass, “To our miracle worker!” He grinned as he knocked back his drink, and the rest of the table followed suit, conversation picking up again like nothing had happened.

Dinner passed in a blur of laughter, arguments over whose turn it was to pour the next drink, Finn trying to sneak extra food onto his plate when Polly wasn’t looking.

By the time everyone drifted into the living room, drinks still in hand, you found yourself relaxing just a little, letting the tension in your shoulders ease.

Finn plopped onto the floor, tossing a deck of cards onto the table in front of him. "Alright, who’s up?"

John leaned forward with an exaggerated groan. "Jesus, Finn, you always pick the worst games."

"You’re just sour ‘cause you always lose."

You smirked as Finn grinned at you, nudging the empty space beside him. "Come on, you’re playing."

"Am I?"

"Yeah. I think you’re good luck."

"That so?"

Finn nodded, as if this was obvious, already dealing the cards. "You’re on my team."

John groaned dramatically, but he was already reaching for his own cards. "If I catch you cheating, Finn, I swear to God–"

You rolled your eyes but sat down anyway, shaking your head as the game started.

It was easy like this. The stakes were low, the room warm with whiskey and laughter, Finn kicking John under the table when he thought no one was looking.

You could pretend, for just a little while, that there wasn’t a war being waged in the space between your ribs. Or that the pressure of all these meetings with Campbell weren’t eating you alive. 

And then, Tommy walked in. His presence shifted the air immediately, subtle but unmistakable. He leaned against the doorway, cigarette between his fingers, watching the game with a quiet sort of curiosity. And despite yourself, you felt the weight of his gaze settle on you.

It was unfair, really, how effortlessly handsome he was. The sharp cut of his cheekbones, the way the dim light caught the angles of his face, the steady, unreadable expression that only made you want to know what he was thinking. Even now, standing there with that casual, unbothered confidence, he commanded the room without even trying.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to focus on the game. But it was hard to ignore the way your pulse picked up when his eyes lingered just a little too long. His glance was quiet and knowing. Not a demand, not an order. Just a look that said he expected you to understand.

Then, a slow nod toward the hall. A request, an invitation. And you knew that he wanted you to follow.

Your breath caught slightly, pulse stuttering against your ribs.

You didn’t want to play this game anymore– didn’t want to keep getting drawn in, only for him to push you back a moment later.

But Tommy Shelby had a way of making gravity work in his favor. And despite everything in you telling you to stay seated, to ignore him, to just let it be, you stood. 

You felt Finn’s eyes flicker toward you, but he didn’t say anything. Neither did John. Maybe they understood. Or maybe, this was just the way things worked with Tommy. 

So without a word, without letting yourself think too hard about it, you followed him.

The hallway was dimly lit, quieter than the rest of the house. The muffled sounds of laughter and conversation drifted from the other room, grounding you in the fact that you weren’t truly alone with him.

But it felt like you were.

Tommy stopped near the staircase, exhaling smoke as he leaned against the wooden railing. "John letting you and Finn win, or are you actually any good at cards?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. "What?"

Tommy smirked slightly, flicking his cigarette. "The game. You holding your own, or is John too soft to let you lose?"

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. "Did you really pull me out here to talk about cards?”

Tommy shrugged. "Just making conversation." 

His tone was easy and unbothered. 

"What’s wrong?" Tommy’s voice was quieter now, the ease in his expression slipping away. He was watching you closely, carefully. 

You clenched your jaw, resisting the urge to look away.

Of course he could read you like a book. It was infuriating, the way Tommy Shelby could cut through every layer of carefully built composure, peeling you back to the parts of yourself you weren’t ready to acknowledge.

Meanwhile, he was a locked door. A man built of walls and carefully chosen silences. You could never tell what he was thinking, never quite pin down what was real and what was calculated. One moment, his touch was gentle, grounding, like he was anchoring you to something solid. The next, he was distant, cold, acting as if you were just another piece of the game he was playing.

And yet, here he was, staring at you like he already knew every thought running through your head. Like he could see every flicker of frustration, every ounce of hesitation.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "I’m just–" You sighed, shaking your head again. "I don’t know, Tommy. I think I’m just confused."

A flicker of something passed through his eyes, but he didn’t interrupt. He just waited. So you forced yourself to continue.

"Maybe I’m reading things wrong, and if I am, I’m sorry." Your voice was quieter now, but still steady. "But one minute, you’re brushing my cheek, making sure I’m alright, looking at me like I’m–" You stopped yourself, jaw clenching slightly before you forced the words out. "Like I’m important. And the next, I’m just another person who works for you. Another pawn in your plan."

Tommy didn’t move, but you could feel the shift in him.

"If that’s all I am, fine," you continued, exhaling sharply. "That’s okay. But I think I just need you to flat out tell me that when you reach for my hand, or cup my cheek, or even fucking look at me, that it means absolutely nothing to you… Because, Tommy, I think it means something to me.”

Silence. It stretched between you like a loaded gun, heavy, waiting to go off.

Tommy’s face remained unreadable, but his cigarette burned low between his fingers, the ash dangerously close to falling. He barely blinked, barely moved, just let your words settle between you, sinking in deeper with every breath.

Your heart pounded, your throat tight. You hadn’t meant to say it like that– hadn’t meant to lay it all out so plainly. But now it was there, and there was no taking it back.

He exhaled slowly, flicking the ash onto the floor before finally meeting your gaze again.

"You think I do things without meaning them?"

His voice was quiet, measured, but there was something sharp beneath it.

You swallowed hard. "I think you do a lot of things, Tommy. And I think sometimes you decide later what they mean."

His jaw ticked, his fingers tapping once against the railing before stilling. "And what is it you think I’ve decided?"

You shook your head, frustrated. "I don’t know. That’s the problem, Tommy. You read me and everyone else in the world like a fucking book. Meanwhile, I have no idea what you’re thinking, and it’s infuriating."

Tommy took a slow step forward. Not closing the space entirely, but shortening it just enough to make your breath catch.

"I don’t do things for no reason." His voice was lower now, rougher, but controlled. "Not with business. Not with my family. Not with you."

Something tightened in your chest. "Then why?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze flickered over your face, lingering for half a second too long before he shook his head. "Because you are important. You matter. And that’s…" Tommy’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t look away. “That’s becoming a problem.”

You let out a slow breath, dropping your gaze for a moment, grounding yourself before lifting your eyes back to his. "A problem,” you murmured, trying to ignore the disappointment pooling in your chest. 

He didn’t correct it, didn’t take it back. You just let it sit there between you, like he’d already decided it was the truth.

The weight of it settled heavy in your chest. You swallowed around it, hands curling into fists at your sides. "Right. Because God forbid something matter, right?"

His gaze flickered, but he didn’t react, not at first. Then, he took another step forward. Closer now. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him, close enough that your breath hitched despite every part of you screaming not to let him do this again.

"I don’t have the luxury of letting things matter." His voice was quieter now, but somehow heavier, rougher. "Not in this world."

Something in you deflated, you sighed before nodding. "Okay.” You didn’t know what else to say. What else was there?

You had spent too much time trying to figure him out, trying to make sense of the moments where he let you in, only to shut you out just as quickly. And now, here he was, saying it plainly. That this, whatever this was, couldn’t exist. That you couldn’t matter.

 The weight of it settled in your chest, pressing down, pressing in.

A muscle in his jaw ticked, but he didn’t move, didn’t drop your gaze. “Okay?” he hummed. 

"Okay," you repeated, voice steady despite the way your pulse was hammering against your ribs.

Tommy’s gaze was searching. Like he was waiting for you to push back, to challenge it. But you wouldn’t. Because you had always suspected that this was how it would end. 

Slowly, carefully, Tommy reached out. Fingers brushing against your temple, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch so gentle it nearly broke you right then and there, like he hadn’t just told you that you couldn’t matter. Like he hadn’t just chosen the distance.

The breath you took was shaky, and before he could let his hand linger, before you could let yourself lean into it, you reached up and pushed it away.

His brows furrowed slightly, but he let his hand drop.

"Stop," you murmured, shaking your head. "Please– stop. You can’t have both, Tommy."

He stayed still, watching you, but you weren’t done.

"If I can’t matter, that’s fine," you continued, your voice soft but unwavering. "I get it, Tommy. Really, I do. But you don’t get to–" You swallowed thickly, frustration and something deeper curling in your chest. "You don’t get to look at me like that."

You let out a slow breath, willing yourself to stay steady. 

"Either you care or you don’t. But you don’t get to stand here and tell me I’m a problem, then turn around and touch me like I matter," You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "I can’t do that, Tommy."

A beat of silence. Then another.

It was suffocating, stretching thick and heavy in the dimly lit hallway. Tommy’s face was unreadable, but something in his posture had shifted, tighter, tenser.

"Understood," he murmured, his voice low and even.

You nodded, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes. This was the right thing. You needed to put space between you before he pulled you in again, before you let him.

So you turned.

And Tommy let you take one step. Then another. But before you could take a third, his hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist.

Before you could react, before you could even breathe, he spun you back to him.

Your balance faltered, your body colliding into his, and then, his mouth was on yours.

And suddenly, the world was tilting. 

His hand slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him, his grip firm, desperate, demanding. The other cupped your jaw, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head just so as his lips crashed against yours, hungry, insistent, like he was starving for this.

A quiet gasp left you, but it only spurred him on. He kissed you like a man trying to undo something. Like he’d spent too long telling himself he shouldn’t, only to lose the battle entirely.

Heat surged through you, burning through the frustration, through the confusion, through the ache you’d been trying so hard to bury.

And you kissed him back. 

Your hands fisted in his shirt, gripping him as tightly as he held you. There was no hesitation now, no restraint. His mouth moved against yours with a slow, aching intensity, like he wanted to commit every second to memory, like he already knew he was going to regret this but couldn’t stop himself anyway.

His fingers tightened at your waist, possessive, firm, as if he needed to feel you solid beneath him, to make sure you weren’t slipping away. His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw, coaxing you closer even though there was no space left between you.

God, you hated him for this– for making you feel like you were coming undone and put back together all at once. For making it impossible to breathe without breathing him in.

The kiss deepened, his lips parting slightly against yours, and the moment your body softened, the moment you gave in just a little more, he pulled away.

Barely.

His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, his fingers still gripping your waist like he wasn’t sure if he was going to let go. 

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his, blue, wild, and searching.

"Tell me to stop," Tommy murmured, his voice rough, his breath hot against your lips. "Tell me to stop, and I will."

His fingers tightened at your waist, firm, steady, like he was holding himself back as much as he was holding onto you. His breath was warm against your skin, his presence overwhelming, all-consuming.

Maybe you should have pushed him away. Maybe you should have reminded yourself of every reason why this was a mistake.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Instead, you swallowed, your voice quieter now, steadier than you felt.

"You know where I stand, Tommy." Your eyes met his, unflinching. "I don’t want to stop."

Tommy sighed. "If Campbell finds out I care about you," he said, voice rough, “He’ll use it. He’ll use you. And I can’t–" He stopped himself, jaw flexing. "I can’t afford to lose anyone else."

You swallowed, feeling the tension in your chest shift into something softer, something more painful. "Tommy–"

Your voice barely carried between you, hushed and unsure. The weight of his words lingered in the small space that separated you, pressing into your ribs like something you weren’t meant to hear, like something he hadn’t meant to say.

But you had heard it.

And despite everything, despite the risks, despite Campbell, despite this entire dangerous, tangled mess, you didn’t want to walk away. Because when you were with Tommy, the world felt quieter. Even with the weight he carried, even with the danger that lurked in every shadow, there was something steady about him, something solid. He had a way of making you feel like nothing could touch you, like no one else in the room mattered.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because when he looked at you like that, when his voice dropped low, when he let those rare moments of softness slip through the cracks, it was easy to forget the warnings. Easy to forget the risks. Easy to forget that men like Tommy Shelby didn’t get to have things like this.

But more than anything, it was the way he understood. He didn’t just tolerate the weight you carried, he recognized it. He knew the ghosts that lingered at the edge of your mind, because they lived in his too. He didn’t ask you to explain why your breath hitched at the crack of distant gunfire or why you woke up with the trenches still clinging to your skin. He already knew.

And that was the part that scared you the most. Because for all the reasons you should walk away, there was one reason you couldn’t: Tommy Shelby felt like the only person in the world who understood you.

You knew what this meant. You knew what Campbell was capable of, knew how men like him operated. But you also knew Tommy.

And you knew that this, whatever it was, whatever it could be, was already happening.

It had been for a while.

"I know the risk," you murmured, searching his face.

Tommy’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t look away.

"We can be discreet," you said, voice steady despite the way your pulse pounded in your throat. “Campbell doesn’t have to know.”

His brows knit together, his grip on your waist tightening just slightly. "It’s not just Campbell. It’s this life. Even if we get rid of him, even if the plan works and he’s out of Birmingham for good, there will always be someone else. There will always be another threat." His voice was lower now, rougher. "I don’t want that for you. I don’t want you looking over your shoulder, waiting for the next fight, the next danger. I don’t want you living in fear."

Tommy’s words hung between you, thick with warning, with the quiet weight of something unspoken. 

You searched his face, the way his jaw stayed tight, the way his grip on your waist remained firm, like he was already bracing himself for you to pull away.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you exhaled slowly, your fingers curling gently against his chest, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of him. "I’m not afraid, Tommy."

His eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them.

"You should be," he murmured.

You swallowed, shaking your head. "I know what this life is. I know the risks. But I also know that when I’m with you, I don’t feel afraid. I feel safe." The words left you before you could second-guess them, before you could soften them into something less vulnerable.

Tommy's jaw tightened, his fingers flexing against your waist. He dropped his gaze for a brief moment, exhaling slowly through his nose, before looking back at you. There was something different in his expression now, something raw and uncertain, like he wasn’t used to hearing words like that, like he didn’t know what to do with them.

"You trust me?" His voice was quieter now, almost careful, as if testing the weight of the question.

You didn’t hesitate. "I do."

Tommy's eyes searched yours, scanning for doubt, for hesitation, for any sign that you were saying it just to soothe him. But he found none.

His throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed, closing his eyes for the briefest second, like he needed to steady himself before doing something reckless. Then, without another word, he let out a slow breath and leaned in, closing the space between you.

And then, before you could say anything else, he kissed you again.

It was different this time– not desperate, not frantic. But deep. Intense. Certain.

His lips moved against yours in a way that felt like an answer. Like something he had been trying to hold back, but couldn’t anymore.

And you didn’t stop him.

His hand slid to your jaw, thumb brushing against your cheek, tilting your head just enough to let him kiss you the way he wanted.

Slow, unhurried, like he was memorizing you.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the solid weight of him, the heat of his body pressing against yours.

He made a quiet sound low in his throat, deepening the kiss, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there, like he wasn’t ready to let you go.

Like he never would be.

Tommy pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead pressing gently against yours. His hand stayed firm against your jaw, his thumb tracing absentminded circles along your cheek.

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmured, his voice rough, quiet, but unwavering. “At my house.”

Your breath hitched, fingers still curled in the fabric of his shirt. The temptation was immediate, curling warm and reckless in your chest.

But reality settled in just as fast. You exhaled slowly, shaking your head slightly. “Tommy… Campbell’s men… What if they’re watching?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight of it hung between you. “Would that be smart?”

His jaw tightened, his eyes searching yours like he was already trying to find a way around it. But you knew he had already thought about it. Already weighed the risks.

Still, his fingers stayed where they were, warm against your skin, his forehead lingering against yours. “Probably not,” he admitted, voice low, reluctant.

You swallowed, your grip on his shirt loosening just slightly. “Then we can’t.” The words felt heavier than you wanted them to, like saying them out loud made them more real, more final.

Tommy let out a slow breath through his nose, his fingers threading further into your hair before sliding back down to your jaw. His eyes stayed locked onto yours, like he was trying to commit something to memory. His fingers flex slightly against your jaw before sliding down to your waist. His forehead remained pressed to yours, like he was holding onto the moment, weighing something in his mind.

Then, quietly, “We could stay here. Pol’s got a spare room.”

Your stomach flipped. “Really? Would that be safe?”

Tommy exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. “If Campbell’s men are watching, they already know you’re here.” 

His hands flexed against your waist. Then, his lips barely ghosted over yours again, his voice lower now, rough with something unreadable. “I could take the floor,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. 

You huffed a quiet breath, your fingers tightening against his shirt. “That’s what you’re worried about? Sleeping arrangements?”

Tommy’s lips twitched, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m a gentleman.”

You let out a quiet scoff. “I don’t think I want you to be tonight.”

Tommy made a low sound in his throat, something close to a curse. Then, suddenly, he moved, his grip tightening as he walked you back a step, then another, until your spine met the wall.

His hands slid beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers pressing against the bare skin of your back, pulling you closer, as if he needed you closer. As if he couldn’t stand the space between you any longer.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his mouth was on yours again, slower this time, deliberate, like he was savoring every second, every stolen moment.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze, his breathing uneven, his fingers still gripping your waist, you murmured, “Just for tonight.”

Tommy’s lips barely parted, his breath warm against yours. “Just for tonight,” he replied.

Despite everything– despite the danger, despite the risks, despite the quiet warning in the back of your mind, you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Not when he was looking at you like that. Not when his touch made the rest of the world fade away. Not when, for the first time in too long, you felt safe.

<< Previous Chapter

With a quiet sigh, you pushed the blankets away and sat up. The house was silent now, the air thick with the weight of the night before. Everyone was either asleep or pretending to be.

Your bare feet hit the wooden floor as you stood, moving carefully toward the door. The hallway was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of a candle burning low in the sitting room downstairs. You stepped carefully, your movements slow and deliberate as you made your way toward the room where John had been brought earlier.

The door was slightly ajar.

You hesitated for a second, then pushed it open just enough to slip inside.

John was still, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. The room smelled of whiskey and antiseptic, the faintest trace of blood still lingering in the air. You moved toward the bed, careful not to make a sound as you reached for the bandages, peeling back the fabric just enough to check the wound.

Still clean. No signs of infection. That was good.

You adjusted the bandage before lowering yourself into the chair beside the bed, exhaling quietly.

The weight of the night pressed against your shoulders. Your body ached, your hands still unsteady in your lap. But here, in the quiet, it was easier to breathe.

Then, the door creaked.

You turned your head just as Polly stepped inside, her sharp gaze landing on you instantly.

For a moment, she didn’t say anything.

Then, "Couldn’t sleep?" she asked quietly.

You shook your head. Polly sighed, stepping further into the room, the dim candlelight casting long shadows across her face.

"Neither could I."

Polly stepped closer, her presence steady but unreadable as she came to a stop at the foot of the bed. Her sharp eyes flickered over John briefly before settling back on you.

"How is he?" she asked.

You glanced down at John, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. "The wound’s clean. No fever. He’s sleeping soundly."

Polly gave a small nod, arms crossing over her chest. "Good."

A heavy silence stretched between you, filled only by the quiet crackle of a candle burning low in the corner of the room. 

"And you?" Polly asked, her voice softer now.

You hesitated. “I’m okay.”

Your fingers curled slightly against your lap, the memory pressing against you before you could stop it. The gunfire. The shouts. The moment your body locked up, frozen in place, trapped.

“You’re a bad liar,” Polly said simply before glancing toward John again. 

You swallowed, fingers still curled in your lap, trying to force them steady.

Polly sighed through her nose, stepping closer to the bed. Her voice softened, losing some of its usual sharpness.

"They weren’t always like this, you know," she murmured.

You glanced up, watching as her fingers ghosted over the edge of the blanket covering John, smoothing it out like a mother would for a child.

"The boys." She gave a small shake of her head. "Everyone sees them now– sees what they are, what they’ve become. But I remember when they were just kids. When they were still mine."

You stayed quiet, listening.

"I took them in when their mother died. That was before the war, when they were still running around with scraped knees and dirty faces, causing more trouble than I knew what to do with. Arthur was always the loudest, John the boldest. And Tommy…" She trailed off for a second, then huffed a quiet laugh. "Tommy was different. He always thought ten steps ahead, even then. Even when he was too young to understand what it meant."

You could hear the warmth in her voice, the distant fondness buried beneath the weight of everything that had come after.

"And then they went away." Her tone shifted slightly, heavier now. "Went off to war. Left as boys, came back as something else entirely."

She let the words hang in the air, looking at you carefully now, like she was studying you the way she had studied them all those years ago.

Something about it made your chest ache. You tried to imagine it– a younger Tommy, before the war, before the weight of leadership settled onto his shoulders. A boy who schemed before he even knew what power meant. Someone who plotted his way through life, but not out of necessity, not out of survival, just because it was who he was.

You wondered if he smiled more then. If he laughed freely, if he ever let himself just be. It was a strange thought. The Tommy you knew now carried the world on his back, always watching, always calculating. Everything in his life seemed like a decision, a strategy, a means to an end.

Had there been a time when he wasn’t like that?

A quiet part of you ached for it. For the boy he might have been. For the version of him that you’d never get to see.

"You would've liked him then," Polly mused, swirling the whiskey in her glass.

You blinked, pulling yourself from your thoughts.

“I like him now,” you admitted softly. 

Polly smirked, giving you a knowing look before taking a slow sip of her drink.

And then, before you could say anything else, she asked, "When did you come back from France?"

Your stomach dropped. You stared at her, your lips parting slightly in surprise.

Polly tilted her head, her sharp eyes never leaving yours. "I knew as soon as I saw you," she said. "You’ve got the same look in your eyes they did."

You swallowed hard.

"And what look is that?"

Polly exhaled slowly, lowering herself into the chair across from you. "The look of someone who never really came home."

You forced yourself to swallow down the knot in your throat.

"I came back at the end of the war," you murmured. Your voice was quieter than you meant it to be. "I was a nurse. Volunteered."

Polly nodded, like she’d already expected that much. "Where?"

"Ypres. Then the Somme." You exhaled through your nose. "And after that… anywhere they sent me."

Polly hummed softly, a sound that wasn’t quite approval, wasn’t quite understanding, just acknowledgment.

"I was in the tunnels."

Polly’s gaze sharpened.

"With Tommy?"

You nodded. The memory pressed at the edges of your mind– the darkness, the suffocating air, the weight of dirt above your head, the sound of men coughing through the dust.

"I was there when he was injured." Your fingers twitched in your lap. "I stopped the bleeding. Kept him awake. He nearly died."

Polly’s lips pressed into a thin line, her expression unreadable.

"And he remembers?" she asked carefully.

"He knows it was me," you admitted. "He put it together back when I was helping him with his injuries. But we don’t talk about it."

Polly leaned back slightly, studying you, as if trying to piece something together.

"That explains a lot," she murmured.

You frowned. "What does?"

"You," she said simply.

Your frown deepened. 

"Tommy’s private. Always has been. Even before the war. He keeps people at a distance, doesn’t let them too close unless he has to." She paused, studying your reaction. "But you, he didn’t have to let you in. And yet, here you are."

You shifted in your seat, uncomfortable with the weight of her words. "I’m not sure what you mean."

Polly smirked slightly, shaking her head. "You’re not stupid, love. You know exactly what I mean."

You looked away, fingers twisting together in your lap.

"He’s protective," she continued. "Especially of family. That’s what matters to him more than anything. Family and business. And if he’s brought you into it, if he’s keeping you close, then you must have done something to earn that trust."

You swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in your throat. "I don’t think it’s like that," you said quietly. "He needed a nurse– someone who could stitch up his men. That’s all."

Polly hummed, unconvinced. "Is that all?"

You hesitated.

"He trusts you," she said. "More than I’ve seen him trust anyone who wasn’t born into this family." Her gaze softened just slightly. "And trust from a Shelby is a rare thing."

Your chest felt too tight, your mind racing with thoughts you weren’t ready to face.

Polly moved toward the door, her hand resting on the handle, but she didn’t leave. Not yet.

Instead, she turned back to you, her expression unreadable.

"Whatever it is between you two," she murmured, "just be careful with it."

You swallowed, unsure how to respond.

Polly tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharpening. "It might feel exciting now. This life, Tommy, the way he pulls people in. It has a way of making you feel like you belong to something bigger. Like you’re untouchable, like the rules don’t apply to you."

She watched your face carefully. "But the reality of this world?" Her voice dropped lower, quieter, like she wanted you to hear her properly. "It takes more than it gives. Men like Tommy, they burn bright. And for a moment, it’s warm, and it’s brilliant, and you think you could live in it forever." She took a step closer. "But you can’t. Because sooner or later, that fire turns to ash, and you’ll be left choking on the smoke."

She let that sit between you for a moment before sighing.

"This life?" she continued. "It doesn’t end kindly for people like you. And when you care about a Shelby, when you love a Shelby–" she exhaled, shaking her head, "you have to be prepared for what comes with that."

Your fingers curled against your lap. "And what comes with it?"

Polly held your gaze, unwavering.

"Blood."

She exhaled sharply, like she had seen this all before. Like she knew how it ended.

"I’m not saying run," she admitted. "I’m just saying… know what you’re walking into before you get too deep."

Your throat felt tight, your thoughts tangled. Polly watched you for a moment longer, then sighed, her expression softening just slightly.

"Normally, I spend my time chasing people away," she admitted. "People who want in– who see Tommy, see this family, and think it’s a way to power. To excitement. To something bigger than themselves."

Her lips pressed together for a moment before she continued.

"But I don’t want to chase you away."

That surprised you. Your eyes flickered to hers, searching for something– maybe a lie, maybe an angle. But there was nothing there. Just honesty.

Polly inhaled slowly, leaning against the doorframe, her gaze steady. "Part of me hopes you stay."

Your chest tightened.

"But another part of me hopes," she added, quieter this time, "you’ve got enough sense to go."

"I don’t know if I do," you admitted before you could stop yourself.

Polly huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no amusement in it. "Well, then that makes two of us."

She hesitated for only a moment before finally pulling open the door. "Get some rest," she murmured.

And then she was gone.

You let out a slow breath, but the weight in your chest didn’t lift.

…

After heading back to the guest room, you managed a few hours of sleep. It was restless, broken sleep filled with flashes of gunfire and mud, of voices calling out, of the weight of old memories pressing down on your chest.

When you woke, your body was stiff, your throat dry, your mind still lingering somewhere between the past and the present. Your heart pounded against your ribs, too fast, too uneven.

It took you a moment to remind yourself where you were.

The Shelby house. Not France.

You inhaled deeply, exhaled slower, and pushed yourself upright. The house was quiet, the kind of silence that only came after a long night of violence.

With a steadying breath, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and stood. Your feet carried you before your mind had fully caught up, leading you back toward John’s room.

The door creaked softly as you pushed it open, stepping inside.

He was still there, still breathing, still alive. His bandages were clean, his skin a little less pale. You lingered for a moment, just long enough to watch the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest before turning back toward the hallway.

You needed air.

The stairs creaked beneath your weight as you made your way down to the kitchen, expecting it to be empty. It wasn’t.

Tommy was already there, sitting at the table, a cigarette burning between his fingers, an untouched drink beside him. His gaze flickered up as you entered, sharp as ever.

For a second, you hesitated in the doorway.

Last night flickered through your mind– the warmth of his hands on your face, the steady weight of his thumb brushing against your cheek, the air between you shifting, growing heavier, closer. You weren’t sure who had moved first, but the space between you had nearly disappeared. For a second, you had thought that he might have closed the distance. That something was pulling you both forward, something unspoken but undeniable.

But then he had stepped back. Like nothing had happened. Like it hadn’t meant anything at all.

And maybe it hadn’t. Maybe you were imagining whatever tension existed between the two of you. Maybe you were reading too much into the way he lingered, the way his eyes held yours a second too long.

Or maybe he felt it too.

But now, in the quiet morning light, Tommy just studied you the way he always did– like he was sizing you up, trying to read between the lines of something you hadn’t even said yet.

"There’s tea,” he said simply, nodding towards the counter. “How’d you sleep?" he asked, voice low and even.

"Fine," you answered automatically, stepping further into the room.

Tommy huffed a quiet breath, shaking his head. "Liar."

You paused, your fingers tightening around a cup.

"How bad were the dreams?" he asked, watching you carefully.

You exhaled through your nose, gripping the edge of the counter as you leaned against it, hating how well he saw through you. "Bad enough."

Tommy nodded once, flicking the ash from his cigarette.

You hesitated, then asked, "Do you get them too?"

For a second, he didn’t answer. He just sat there, cigarette smoldering between his fingers, his expression unreadable. You wondered if you’d crossed a line. Then, finally, "Of course I do."

You studied him, but he didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to.

The room settled into silence again. The only movement was the slow curl of smoke rising from Tommy’s cigarette, dissipating into the dim morning light filtering through the window.

You knew he wouldn’t say more, yet you knew better than to press.

Instead, Tommy took another slow drag, exhaling through his nose before finally speaking again.

"How’s John?"

You ran a hand over your face, grounding yourself back in the present. "No fever. The wound’s clean. He’ll be alright."

Tommy gave a short nod, as if confirming what he already knew. But his fingers tapped against the edge of his cigarette case, his gaze flickering toward the tabletop, thoughtful.

You hesitated, then slowly pulled out a chair and sat across from him. The weight of exhaustion clung to your body, but something heavier pressed against your ribs. "I wasn’t much use last night,” you said. 

Tommy’s eyes lifted to yours, unreadable.

"You stitched John up," he replied simply.

You shook your head. "Not fast enough. Not steady enough." Your fingers curled slightly, frustration curling in your chest. "I wasn’t on it, Tommy. I should’ve been better."

He watched you, silent, his cigarette burning low between his fingers.

"I–" You swallowed. The words felt thick in your throat. "That was the first time I’ve actually heard a gun go off since France. And I lost it." You forced yourself to meet his gaze. "I froze."

You swallowed, your throat tightening. "It won’t happen again."

For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then, he took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaled the smoke, and finally spoke. “Yes, it will.”

Your stomach twisted, and your fingers curled against your lap.

"You can tell yourself it won’t," Tommy continued, his voice low, steady, "but you don’t get to choose when it happens. It’ll hit you when you don’t expect it. Could be a sound, could be a smell, could be nothing at all." He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly.  "You can’t stop it." He tapped his cigarette against the ashtray, his gaze unreadable. 

You sat there, absorbing his words, letting them settle into the space between you. Then, before you could stop yourself, you asked, “Why don’t you freeze up?”

Tommy’s gaze flicked up to meet yours, sharp and unwavering. His lips pressed into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a frown. "Fear slows you down," he said, flicking his cigarette into the ashtray. "So I don’t let it."

"That easy, huh?" you murmured, voice quiet.

Tommy huffed a breath, something almost like a laugh but not quite. "No," he admitted. "Mine tends to hit at night. Gunshots don’t make me freeze up, but the silence does.”

Your chest tightened. The weight of what he had just admitted settled between you, thick as the smoke curling from his cigarette.

Then, just as quickly as he had let you see that glimpse of something raw, something real, Tommy pushed it aside.

His expression shifted, sharpening into something more familiar– more composed, more controlled.

"We’ve got some business today."

The sudden change in subject made you blink, but you knew better than to comment on it. Tommy Shelby didn’t linger on things. Didn’t let conversations run too deep unless he wanted them to.

So, you adjusted just as quickly. "What kind of business?"

Tommy leaned back slightly, resting his elbows against the table, his fingers idly tapping against his cigarette case.

"Arthur and I need to handle something." His voice was even, but there was a tightness to it, something controlled, something deliberately unsaid. "Won't take long, but it needs both of us."

“Can I do anything to help?” you asked. Part of you hoped he’d say yes– invite you along, show you more of the business. 

Instead, he said, "See if you can get in touch with Campbell while we’re away."

Your shoulders fell slightly, but you kept your expression neutral. "What for?"

Tommy exhaled through his nose, flicking ash from his cigarette. "If last night was his idea of a clean job, he’ll have another plan. I want to know what it is before he tries again."

You hesitated, your fingers curling slightly against your lap. "You think he’ll tell me anything useful?"

Tommy gave you a pointed look. "Worth trying.”

You exhaled, then nodded. "I’ll see what I can do."

Tommy didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just watched you, cigarette smoldering between his fingers, eyes sharp and calculating.

You wondered if he had thought about last night, too. The weight of his hands on your face. The way his thumb had brushed your cheek. The way the space between you had grown too small, too charged. The way he had stopped, stepping back before it could become something real.

If he had, he didn’t show it. And you weren’t quite sure what you thought of that, yet.

Tommy blinked, took another slow drag from his cigarette, and finally exhaled. "Be smart about it," he said. "Campbell’s got eyes everywhere."

And just like that, the moment slipped away. You swallowed down whatever had settled in your chest and nodded, pushing your chair back.

"Right. I should go.” You stood, moving toward the door, feeling the weight of his gaze on your back.

For a moment, you considered looking back, searching his face for something, anything, that might tell you what was going through his mind.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you exhaled, steadying yourself. And then you stepped out, leaving Tommy behind.

…

Campbell’s message arrived at the Garrison later that afternoon, short and direct.

Meet me.

There was a time and address on the back, no other details.

You hadn’t been surprised. After last night, you had expected this. What you didn’t know was how much Campbell suspected, or whether he had already begun unraveling the truth.

The meeting place made sense, neutral, discreet. A small café on the quieter side of town, the kind where no one would look too long at a well-dressed man sitting in the corner, sipping tea like he wasn’t plotting an entire family’s downfall.

You arrived a few minutes early, scanning the room before finding Campbell already seated in the back. His posture was stiff, his gloved hands folded neatly over the table. A fresh cup of tea sat in front of him, untouched.

He looked up as you approached, his expression unreadable. 

"You're early," he remarked.

You slid into the seat across from him, keeping your face neutral. "So are you."

Campbell studied you for a moment, then gave a slight nod. "Were you there last night?"

"No,” you lied. 

His lips pressed together. "No?"

"No." You leaned back, keeping your voice even. "After the warning you gave me? You told me to make sure the Shelby brothers were there. That was my only task. What happened after that wasn’t my business."

Campbell’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Well, Shelby and his men were prepared."

Campbell let the silence stretch, watching you carefully.

“Tommy Shelby is always prepared," you said simply. “He keeps men on standby.”

"You almost sound impressed."

You held his gaze, refusing to let anything slip.

After a long moment, Campbell exhaled, reaching for his tea. "No matter," he murmured, lifting the cup to his lips. "There will be other opportunities."

You kept your breathing even, forcing a slow nod. “How can I help?” 

"I want details on who he’s working with," Campbell said. "Names, locations. If anyone from London has been sniffing around, I need to know about it. And if Shelby is planning a move against anyone, whether it be a rival or the law, I want to know first."

You hesitated for just a second before responding, careful not to sound too eager. "How am I supposed to get any of that information? He doesn’t talk to me about business.”

Campbell gave a small smirk, something cold and knowing. "Men like Thomas Shelby don’t stay still for long." He tilted his head slightly. "Your job is simple– listen. Observe. When he meets someone new, just figure out a name. When a deal is made, I want to know who’s involved. If you’ve no luck with Thomas, I’ve heard his brother Arthur has a rather loose tongue after a whiskey or two."

You nodded again, forcing yourself to appear thoughtful. "Alright."

Campbell studied you for another moment, then gave a slight nod of approval. "Good. Keep me informed, and this will all go smoothly." He stood, adjusting his coat. "You’ll hear from me soon."

And just like that, he left. 

You waited a moment before standing, adjusting your coat before heading outside. 

You walked with your hands in your coat pockets, head low against the cold air. The streets of Small Heath were quieter than usual, the tension from last night still lingering like smoke after a fire.

Campbell’s words echoed in your mind.

You had done well to keep him at ease so far, playing your part carefully, feeding him just enough to keep suspicion off your back. But the way he spoke today– it was a reminder.

Campbell wasn’t just using you. He was watching you. And now, with the weight of that knowledge settling into your chest, you realized how badly you needed to be careful.

You took a slow breath, steadying yourself. But then, something shifted.

It was subtle at first– just a feeling, a prickle at the back of your neck, like a whisper of unease crawling along your spine.

You adjusted your pace, casting a glance toward the nearest shop window. A shadow. Not close, not obvious, but there. Following.

You kept walking, your heartbeat picking up just slightly. Maybe you were imagining things. Maybe it was paranoia after the meeting with Campbell. But then, a few streets later, you took a different route– one you never used. The shadow followed. 

You knew then, someone was tailing you. 

Your stomach twisted, but you kept your stride even, your face neutral. You couldn’t panic. Not here, not now. Your first instinct was to go back to Tommy’s. Because the truth was, you felt safest when Tommy was around. Something about him, about the way he carried himself, the way he looked at a room and saw every possible threat before it happened, it settled something in you.

But you couldn’t go to him now. That would be too obvious– too reckless. If this really was one of Campbell’s men watching you, leading them straight to Tommy would be the worst mistake you could make. 

Instead, you changed direction again, your pulse hammering as you took a long, winding route toward the only place you could think of– the Garrison.  

You kept your eyes forward, pretending not to notice the way the shadow moved when you did. Without meaning to, your pace quickened. It wasn’t a conscious decision, just fear and instinct. The primal urge to get away, to put more distance between you and whoever was trailing too closely behind.

Your breath came a little shorter, your pulse a little quicker. You told yourself to slow down, to stay steady, but your body wasn’t listening.  And the more steps you took, the more you could feel it tightening around you.

It wasn’t until you finally pushed through the door of the pub that you let yourself breathe.

The bell above the door jingled sharply as it slammed shut behind you, your heart still thudding in your chest. 

It was still early, too early for customers. The usual crowd hadn’t trickled in yet, the air inside thick with the lingering scent of whiskey and smoke from the night before. Behind the bar, Harry barely looked up, polishing a glass with his usual unhurried rhythm.

"You’re not set to work ’til later," he remarked.

You didn’t answer right away, still catching your breath, your chest rising and falling too fast. You could still feel it– that creeping sensation, the weight of eyes on your back, the way your skin prickled like you were still being watched.

Harry’s hand paused mid-wipe on the glass, his brow furrowing as soon as he took a proper look at you.

"You alright?"

You opened your mouth, but no words came at first. You had rushed here so quickly, barely thinking, barely breathing, just moving. Now that you were standing still, the adrenaline was hitting all at once, sending a violent shiver through your arms and legs.

Harry set the glass down, stepping around the bar, voice more serious. "What’s wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Before you could reply, the back door flung open.

Tommy and Arthur emerged, their conversation stopping cold the second they laid eyes on you. You weren’t sure why, but something in you unclenched at the sight of him.

Arthur's brows furrowed, glancing between you and Harry. "What’s all this, then?"

But Tommy– Tommy just looked at you, his sharp blue eyes scanning every inch of your face, every shift of your stance. His gaze flicked to your hands, still trembling slightly at your sides, then back to your eyes, locking onto them with quiet calculation.

"What happened?" he asked. 

Not what’s wrong? Not are you alright?

He already knew you weren’t.

You swallowed, forcing down the lump in your throat. "Someone was following me."

At that, Arthur straightened, his expression hardening, but you barely noticed. You were still trying to slow your breathing, to calm the frantic rhythm of your pulse.

Tommy didn’t react right away, but you could feel the shift in the air, the way his focus sharpened, cutting through the room like a blade.

"Who?"

"I don’t know."

Tommy took a slow step closer. "Where?"

"Everywhere." Your voice was quieter now, but still unsteady. You exhaled sharply, trying to gather yourself. "I took different streets to lose them. But they stayed with me the whole way."

Arthur muttered a curse under his breath. Tommy, however, stayed quiet, tilting his head slightly.

"And you came here." It wasn’t a question.

You nodded. “I didn’t want to go home alone.”

Tommy’s gaze flickered toward the door. Then, after a moment, he turned to Arthur. "Check outside."

Arthur didn’t hesitate, moving past you, the door swinging shut behind him.

You could still feel the weight of Harry’s gaze from behind the bar, his quiet concern lingering. You didn’t want to answer any more questions, didn’t want to be studied like some wounded thing that had stumbled in off the street. 

And Tommy knew it. Without a word, he stepped closer. Then, his hand found yours. The touch was firm and warm, his fingers wrapping around your wrist before sliding lower to catch your palm in his. In that brief contact, you felt an electric surge– a quiet reassurance that somehow, amidst all the chaos, you were not alone. 

Tommy didn’t say anything– he just turned, leading you toward one of the side rooms off the main bar. His grip was steady, but not rough. The kind of touch that told you resistance wasn’t expected, because he already knew you’d follow.

You did. You would have followed him anywhere if it meant staying close– if it meant feeling safe.

It was just the two of you in the back room, tucked away. Tommy released your hand as he turned to face you. You felt the absence of his touch immediately, but resisted the urge to reach right back out again.  

"Start from the beginning," he said, voice low.

You swallowed hard, trying to focus. "I was walking home from meeting with Campbell, like you said–"

Tommy’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

"I didn’t notice at first," you continued, your hands still shaking slightly as you flexed your fingers. "But after a few streets, I realized someone was following me. I took different turns to be sure, but they kept up."

Tommy’s gaze didn’t waver. He was listening, really listening.

"Did you see them?"

You shook your head. "Not properly. I didn’t want to stop, or make it obvious I knew."

Tommy reached forward again. Not for your wrist this time– for your face. It was brief, just the faintest brush of his thumb against your temple, but it sent a quiet shiver through you. A touch so light, so fleeting, yet impossibly steady. Like he was checking for something unseen, something only he could recognize.

His fingers lingered, not in hesitation, but in intent. A silent tether, pulling you back to the present. To him.

His thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along your skin, warm and grounding, his calloused touch more familiar than it should have been.

"Next time," he murmured, "you don’t walk alone."

The words sent something sharp through your chest, but you pushed it down.

Instead, you straightened slightly, tilting your head just enough that his fingers slipped away. "I can’t walk around with a bodyguard." Your voice was shaky. "If Campbell really is watching me, and I start showing up places with one of your men at my back, he’ll know something’s wrong."

Tommy exhaled slowly, dropping his hand completely. "Then we make it subtle."

You let out a short breath, shaking your head. "No. If I start moving differently, he’ll notice. If I act afraid, he’ll want to know why."

Tommy studied you for a long moment, then nodded once, conceding. "I don’t like it.”

“I don’t either. But I don’t think we have a choice,” you sighed. 

Tommy exhaled slowly through his nose. His gaze flickered away for a moment, thoughtful, calculating. You could practically see the gears turning in his head, weighing every angle, every risk.

Finally, after a long pause, he sighed. "No, we don’t." His jaw tightened, his eyes finding yours again, sharper now. "But we’ll need to be careful where you go," he said. 

You nodded, but he wasn’t done.

"You don’t act afraid, fine. But that doesn’t mean you walk blind. You watch for changes. You notice the things people don’t say. If Campbell so much as looks at you the wrong way, you tell me."

There was something about the way he said it, the way he was always thinking ahead, always making sure you had a way out before the danger even came knocking. He wasn’t just being cautious. He was being protective.

And maybe you should have resented that, should have reminded him that you weren’t someone who needed looking after.

But instead, you couldn’t help it.

Despite the tension, despite the weight of the conversation, the corner of your mouth twitched.

"I didn’t know Tommy Shelby could worry."

His eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them. For a second, you thought he might brush it off. But instead, he exhaled through his nose, and said, "I don’t like leaving loose ends."

"That what I am?" you asked, forcing your voice to stay steady. "A loose end?"

"Campbell’s watching you close," he said. "I’ve seen what happens when a man like that sets his mind on someone."

You exhaled slowly, searching his face. "And?"

His eyes flickered up to meet yours, sharp and steady. "And I don’t plan on letting it happen. Not to you."

It wasn’t an offer, wasn’t a reassurance. It was a decision he’d already made.

Before you could respond, Tommy flicked open his cigarette case, shifting gears like the conversation had already ended.

"What did Campbell say earlier?" he asked, voice even.

The shift was sharp, deliberate. Like he was pulling the conversation away from something else. You swallowed, shaking off the lingering weight of his last words. "He talked about last night. He didn’t seem happy you were prepared, but he’s not making a move yet. He just… asked me what I knew. If I saw anything."

"And what did you tell him?"

You tilted your head slightly. "That I wasn’t anywhere near the Garrison when it happened. That I did what he asked– got you all in one place. After that, whatever happened wasn’t my concern."

Tommy hummed low in his throat, like he was considering it.

"And he believed you?"

"If he didn’t, I think I’d know by now."

Tommy took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling through his nose. He didn’t look convinced.

"He asked me for something else," you admitted.

That got his attention. "What?"

You hesitated, but only for a second. "He wants me to keep an eye on your business. Who you meet with, who comes and goes. Names, locations."

Tommy didn’t react at first, but you knew him well enough now to recognize the flicker of tension in his jaw, the slight shift in his posture. "So that’s the game now," he murmured.

"Looks like it."

A long silence settled between you. Then, finally, Tommy nodded once. "Alright."

"Alright?" you echoed, raising a brow.

He glanced at you, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "If Campbell wants names, we’ll give him names."

Your stomach tightened slightly, but you nodded. You had expected something like this.

This was the game, after all.

And now, Tommy was playing, too. And you were right in the middle of it. 

…

Campbell’s message arrived the next morning, as expected. Short. Direct.

Same place. Same time.

You weren’t surprised. You knew he’d want answers, and quickly. So, as the evening crept in, you found yourself at the same café, the same corner seat, the same routine. Only this time, you weren’t just walking into the lion’s den.

You were bringing bait.

Campbell was already seated when you arrived, his tea untouched, his posture as stiff as ever. He didn’t look up right away, just let the silence stretch as you settled across from him.

Then, finally, he spoke. "What have you got for me?"

No pleasantries. No small talk. Straight to the point.

You didn’t hesitate. "Mr. Shelby’s been meeting with several people," you said, voice even. "Names I haven’t heard before. New faces."

Campbell’s eyes flickered with interest, though he kept his expression neutral. "Go on."

You exhaled, pulling the carefully crafted list from memory– the names Tommy had given you, the ones meant to keep Campbell chasing shadows.

"Richard Ellis. He arrived from London two nights ago. I got Arthur drunk last night, he let slip that it was business."

Campbell hummed, unimpressed.

"Then there was Michael Bowen. Dockside meeting. Didn’t seem local."

A slight twitch of his fingers.

"And Christopher Hale. I don’t know what he does, but Tommy met with him at the Garrison the night before last, and it looked important."

That one made Campbell pause.

You held steady, watching him, waiting. "Hale," he repeated, tapping a gloved finger against the table. 

You gave a small shrug, keeping your expression carefully neutral. "That’s all I know."

Campbell’s gaze sharpened.

"Is it?" 

Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist.

“I’ll keep listening," you replied smoothly, leaning back in your chair. 

Campbell studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he smirked. "You’ve got a good eye," he murmured, voice even. "But eyes can be deceiving."

Your breath hitched, but you tried not to react. Because as far as you knew, he had no reason to suspect you.

Not yet.

But something about the way he was watching you now…

It felt like he was just waiting for you to slip.

<< Previous Chapter

Campbell exhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch between you. The smoke from his cigar curled upward, dissipating into the dim light as he studied you with that familiar, unsettling amusement.

"I need you to make sure all the Shelby brothers are at the Garrison at nine o’clock tonight," he finally said, his voice smooth and deliberate.

Your fingers tensed slightly in your lap. "Why?"

Campbell smiled, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. He took another slow drag from his cigar before setting it down in the ashtray, tapping a gloved finger against the desk.

“Tell me, what would you do if you knew a storm was coming?”

You kept your expression steady, unwilling to let him see the way your stomach twisted at his words. After two weeks of spying for Tommy, you knew Campbell well enough by now. He never asked rhetorical questions. Every word he spoke was a piece of a larger game, designed to see how you would react.

You tilted your chin slightly. "I suppose that depends on the storm."

Campbell exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as if amused by your answer. "No, it doesn’t." He leaned forward, resting his forearms against the desk, his sharp blue eyes pinning you in place. "You move out of its way. You prepare. You ensure that, when it passes, you are still standing."

He let the words settle before continuing, his voice dropping to something quieter, more dangerous. "But you see, the Shelby brothers… they don’t seem to have the same sense of self-preservation." He flicked the ash from his cigar, watching it fall. "They don’t step aside. They don’t move out of the way."

Campbell gave you a slow, knowing smile. He took another measured drag before setting the cigar down, his fingers tapping once against the desk.

"And because Thomas Shelby has been testing his limits for far too long." His tone was conversational, almost lazy, but you knew better. "He believes himself untouchable, beyond consequence. And men like that…" He exhaled a stream of smoke, watching it rise. "They need to be reminded of their place."

A chill crawled down your spine, but you forced yourself to keep your voice even. "What’s going to happen?”

Campbell tilted his head, studying you. "Do you know how many men would pay for the chance to watch Thomas Shelby crawl? How many would seize the opportunity to strike, given the right push?" He leaned forward slightly. "All it takes is a whisper in the right ear, a reminder of debts unsettled, and men will do what they were always going to do. Tear each other apart."

Your stomach twisted. "Who?"

Campbell exhaled a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "The who is irrelevant. What matters is that they are coming tonight. And when they do, I imagine it will be quite the spectacle." He sat back in his chair, his expression eerily calm. "A full-scale assault on the Peaky Blinders. Every man they have, armed and ready. It will be quick, brutal, and final."

Your fingers curled against your skirt. “You’re letting that happen?”

"Letting?" Campbell echoed, raising a brow. "No, my dear. I am ensuring it happens. Because Thomas Shelby has outgrown his station, and every empire must fall."

You swallowed hard, your mind racing.

"Men like the Shelbys think they own this city. But power is borrowed, not stolen. And tonight, Thomas Shelby will learn that he is not untouchable."

You forced yourself to nod, slow and deliberate, as if you were considering his words. As if you weren’t already thinking ten steps ahead.

Campbell’s gaze lingered on you, searching for cracks. He didn’t trust easily, if at all, but he trusted that people feared him. That fear kept them in line.

And he wanted you to be afraid.

You stood carefully, smoothing your hands over your skirt, your movements slow and measured. "Nine o’clock. The Garrison." Your voice didn’t waver.

Campbell’s lips twitched, barely, as he lifted his cigar again. "That’s right. And if you’re smart, you’ll make sure you aren’t there with them."

He took a slow drag, exhaling smoke as he leaned back into his chair, dismissing you without another word.

You turned and walked out, resisting the urge to slam the door behind you.

…

The night air hit you as soon as you stepped onto the street, but it did nothing to steady the storm brewing inside you. You moved quickly, each step sharper than the last, your breath coming faster than you wanted it to.

You needed to get to Tommy.

The streets of Small Heath were quieter than usual, the tension thick in the air, the kind that settled before something violent. You pushed forward, ignoring the burn in your lungs as you crossed through the market and rounded the corner to the Garrison.

Inside, the warm scent of whiskey and smoke wrapped around you, but you barely noticed. You walked past the patrons, through the familiar hallways, straight to the back room where you knew Tommy would be.

He was there, as expected, standing over a map spread across the table. Arthur sat nearby, flipping a coin between his fingers, while John leaned back in his chair, boots kicked up on the edge of the table.

Tommy didn’t look up right away. "What’d you learn?" he asked, his tone sounding distracted.

You swallowed, pushing past the tightness in your chest. "Campbell set you up."

Tommy’s cigarette paused midway to his lips. Slowly, his sharp blue eyes lifted to meet yours, the flickering lamp light casting shadows across his face.

You took a steadying breath. "He’s orchestrated an attack against you tonight. He said it’s a gang, someone with numbers, someone who hates you, is coming full force. Armed. Ready to wipe you out."

Arthur swore under his breath, sitting up straighter. John’s smirk disappeared. Tommy didn’t move, but you could see it, the flicker of calculation behind his eyes, the shift in his posture.

"Who?" Tommy asked, his voice calm. Too calm.

"He wouldn’t say," you admitted. "But he said men like you think they own this city. That power is borrowed, not stolen. And tonight, you’re going to learn that you’re not untouchable."

Tommy’s expression didn’t change, but the tension in the room sharpened like a blade.

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. "That bastard’s always talkin’ in riddles."

"This wasn’t a riddle," you said quietly. "It was a promise."

The weight of your words settled over them. You watched as Tommy flicked the ash from his cigarette, tapping it against the rim of the tray. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, measured.

"And what did he ask you to do?"

You hesitated, but only for a second. "Make sure you were all here. At nine."

A muscle in Tommy’s jaw ticked. He exhaled slowly, letting the smoke curl around him before setting his cigarette down.

"So that’s the plan, then?" John leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "We sit here and let ‘em come knockin’?"

Arthur reached for the whiskey bottle on the table, pouring a drink. "Fucking hell. And here I was hopin’ for a quiet night."

Tommy didn’t move, his gaze still locked onto yours, reading everything you weren’t saying.

"What will you do?" you asked.

Tommy didn’t answer right away. He reached for his cigarette again, but instead of taking a drag, he rolled it between his fingers, slow and deliberate.

"We’ll be ready," he said.

John huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah? And what exactly does ready look like when we don’t know who’s coming?"

Tommy’s gaze flicked to him, the barest hint of impatience in his expression. "It means we prepare for anything." He leaned forward, tapping the cigarette once against the table. "If Campbell’s orchestrated this, he’s banking on us being outnumbered. So we make sure we’re not."

Arthur took a slow sip of his whiskey, then set the glass down with a heavy thunk. "You think we should call everyone in?"

"Everyone we can trust." Tommy’s voice was firm. "Not just the boys. I want eyes on the streets, I want the guns checked, and I want every single man walking into that pub tonight to know exactly what’s waiting for them if they try to cross us."

John smirked, but there was something sharper underneath it now– anticipation. "So we turn the trap back on them?"

Tommy didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

You exhaled slowly, trying to push down the weight pressing against your chest.

“How can I help?” you asked.  

Tommy's expression was unreadable. “If Campbell’s right about this, it’s going to get ugly. Men will get hurt. Maybe worse. I need someone I trust to be ready.”

Your chest tightened, but you nodded. “I can do that.”

Tommy studied you for a moment longer. "Then get what you need. When this is over, we patch up the ones who make it through."

Arthur let out a breath, shaking his head. “Jesus. Feels like France all over again.”

John cracked his knuckles, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I’ll round up the boys. Looks like we’ve got a long night ahead of us." He clapped you on the shoulder before following Arthur out, the door swinging shut behind them.

Tommy rested his hands on the table, fingers lightly tapping against the wood in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. His cigarette smoldered in the ashtray, forgotten.

You shifted your weight, glancing at him. “How bad do you think it’ll be?”

Tommy finally looked up, his sharp blue eyes meeting yours. He didn’t answer right away, and that in itself was answer enough.

His jaw tensed slightly, but when he spoke, his voice was quiet, even. “Bad.”

You nodded, swallowing against the lump in your throat.

"Men will die," he continued. "Maybe ours. Maybe theirs. It doesn’t matter to Campbell, long as I come out of this weaker than before." He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. "He wants us bled dry, either by bullets or by what comes after.”

You let his words settle, the weight of them pressing down on your chest.

"And if he gets what he wants?" you asked quietly.

Tommy held your gaze, his fingers stilling against the table. Then he shrugged, just slightly. "Then we deal with it."

You nodded, though it didn’t make you feel any better.

“You’ll be alright, then?” he asked. 

You hesitated, then nodded again. "Yeah."

Tommy studied you for a second longer, then finally took a slow drag from his cigarette.

"Good."

Neither of you spoke after that. There wasn’t anything else to say.

…

By eight forty-five, the Garrison was packed, the air thick with smoke, sweat, and anticipation. 

Men stood shoulder to shoulder, hands resting near their weapons, eyes flickering toward Tommy as he moved to the center of the room. The low murmur of conversation faded as he pulled a cigarette from his case, lighting it with the kind of steady hand that made people trust him. Believe in him.

You stood near the back, pressed into the corner, heart hammering as you watched. You had done all you could to prepare– bandages, whiskey, clean water, but none of it would matter until the shooting stopped.

Until you knew who was left standing.

Tommy took a slow drag, exhaling as his gaze swept over the men in front of him. When he spoke, his voice was calm, certain.

"We’ve been here before." He rolled his shoulders back, the flickering light casting sharp shadows over his face. "We know how this goes. Men who think they’re bigger than us, stronger than us, smarter than us." He paused, eyes narrowing. "They never fucking are."

A few low chuckles rippled through the room, but the tension remained thick.

"Campbell’s counting on this fight to hurt us." Tommy flicked the ash from his cigarette, gaze settling on each man, one by one. "He’s banking on fear. On hesitation. On doubt." He took another drag, letting the silence stretch before his next words cut through the room like a knife.

"But we don’t hesitate."

A murmur of agreement. Arthur cracked his knuckles, restless energy rolling off him in waves. John stood with his arms crossed, grinning like he was already picturing the fight.

You swallowed hard, shifting on your feet. Tommy’s voice was steady, unshaken, but you knew what was coming.

"You don’t need me to tell you what to do," he continued. "You all know why you’re here. You all know what’s at stake." His cigarette burned low between his fingers. "So we do what we do best. We stand our ground, and we make sure they regret ever setting foot in Small Heath."

Another low murmur. A few nods.

The room shifted with Tommy’s words, tension hanging thick in the air. Men checked their weapons, straightened their shoulders, muttered quiet reassurances to one another.

Then, just as the silence stretched tight, the door burst open.

A boy, no older than fourteen, stumbled inside, breathless, his face flushed from the cold night air. His cap was askew, his coat too big for his frame, but his wide eyes were sharp with urgency.

"They’re coming!" he gasped, his voice cracking slightly. "Loads of ‘em– moving fast. Just turned off Watery Lane."

The room stilled.

Every man inside stiffened, the scrape of chairs and shifting boots the only sound for a long moment.

Tommy exhaled once, slow and measured. "How many?"

The boy swallowed hard, catching his breath. "At least twenty, maybe more. Got guns, clubs, all of it." He wiped his nose with his sleeve, glancing anxiously at the men surrounding him. 

Tommy nodded once, flicking his cigarette into the ashtray before turning to the boy. "Go back the way you came. Don’t stop for anything, don’t look back."

The boy hesitated, glancing at you before nodding and bolting out the door.

Everything moved at once.

Arthur downed the rest of his whiskey in a single gulp, tossing the glass aside. John was already loading his revolver, the other men shifting into position, grabbing weapons, bracing themselves.

Through it all, Tommy didn’t move. Not at first. He just stood there, watching the room settle into controlled chaos, his cigarette burning low between his fingers. Then, without a word, he crossed the room toward you.

Your breath caught as he stopped in front of you, closer than he needed to be. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, flicked over your face, searching for something.

"Stay inside," he said, voice low, clipped. "Hide in the back. Don’t come out until you hear my voice."

You opened your mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes stopped you. This wasn’t a request. It was an order.

You swallowed hard, nodding once. "Alright."

Tommy didn’t move. Didn’t step away. The tension between you felt heavier than the weight of what was coming.

"Be careful," you murmured.

Something flickered across his face, gone as quickly as it appeared. Then, with a sharp nod, he turned on his heel and walked away.

And all you could do was watch as he stepped into the storm.

…

You sat in the back room, exactly where Tommy told you to stay, but your body wouldn’t settle. Every muscle in you was tight, braced for something you couldn’t stop. Your fingers curled into fists in your lap, nails pressing into your palms.

Outside, the murmur of voices had faded. The last of the men had taken their positions. The only thing left now was the waiting.

You strained your ears, desperate for any sign of what was happening beyond the walls. But the night held its breath, stretching the silence until it felt unbearable.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. It wasn’t peaceful– it was the kind of silence that came before something terrible. The kind that pressed down on your chest, waiting to be broken.

You shifted, adjusting your position in the chair, but it didn’t help. Your body was wound too tight, your skin prickling with unease. The longer the quiet lasted, the worse it became. Every second without gunfire, without shouting, felt unnatural. Where were they?

You clenched your jaw, forcing your breathing to stay even. But the silence– God, the silence– was starting to feel like something worse than noise.

You squeezed your eyes shut, exhaling slowly. You had seen war before. You knew this feeling. The quiet before the first shot, the moment before hell broke loose. But this was different. This wasn’t a battlefield miles away. This was here.

And Tommy was out there.

The thought sent a fresh wave of unease through you. You pictured him, cigarette burning between his fingers, expression unreadable but shoulders braced like always.

Your stomach twisted.

What if Tommy was already bleeding out on the cobblestones?

What if Arthur was lying face down in the dirt?

You swallowed hard, forcing the thoughts away. No. They weren’t dead. Not yet. But the longer the silence stretched, the more your mind raced, the more you felt like you had to move, had to do something.

You turned your head sharply, staring at the door. Your fingers twitched at your sides. Tommy’s voice echoed in your head.

"Stay inside. Hide in the back. Don’t come out until you hear my voice."

But what if you never did?

Your breath hitched, and you curled your hands into fists again.

The silence returned, heavier than before.

Then, suddenly– a gunshot.

Loud. Sudden. Too close.

You flinched so hard it felt like your entire body had been shocked through the spine. Your breath caught, your limbs going rigid as your heart slammed against your ribs.

Then came another shot.

Then another.

Then chaos.

Gunfire erupted outside, sharp and unrelenting. The sound rattled the windows, slammed against the walls, filled every inch of the Garrison with deafening violence.

Your breath came in short, panicked bursts. Your hands shot up to cover your ears, but it didn’t matter– it was too loud, too close, too much.

Shouting followed. The roar of men fighting, of boots pounding against the cobblestones. The war had started just beyond the walls, but your body– your mind– was suddenly trapped somewhere else entirely.

You squeezed your eyes shut, but it didn’t help.

France. The trenches. The screaming. The smell of blood, sweat, dirt, gunpowder.

You gasped, but the air was thick, choking. Your chest ached with the effort to breathe.

More gunfire.

A scream.

Something heavy crashing to the ground.

Your knees buckled.

Your body moved without thought, sinking down into the corner of the room, curling in on itself, hands still clutching your ears, knuckles white. Your fingers dug into your scalp, pressing hard, desperate for something to ground you.

But it was too late. Your mind wasn’t here anymore. 

You were back there. 

Buried in the mud.

Drowning in the sound of bullets tearing through flesh, in the metallic scent of blood, in the thick smoke clinging to your throat, to your skin, to your lungs.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t move.

Another explosion of gunfire rattled through the walls, and something inside you snapped.

Your body shuddered violently, curling tighter into itself, your breath shallow and ragged.

The scent of damp earth, sweat, and blood filled your nostrils. The crack of gunfire tore through the air, so loud it rattled your bones. Somewhere, men were shouting orders, screams, names of the fallen.

You pressed your hands harder against your ears, but it didn’t stop.

Too loud. Too close.

Your breath came in short, panicked bursts, your chest squeezing tight like it was caving in on itself. You needed to move, needed to get up, to do something, but your body was frozen, locked in place as another explosion of gunfire tore through the air outside.

Move. Move, dammit. Get up.

Your fingers curled against the floorboards, nails digging into the wood.

The world tilted.

Your vision swam.

More shouting. More gunfire. Something crashing. Someone yelling– The voices blended together, distant and warped like you were underwater.

You sucked in a breath, too shallow, too fast.

Your chest burned.

Then, a flicker of movement.

Your head snapped up– eyes wide, searching, but you weren’t seeing the back room of the Garrison anymore. The walls had melted away, replaced with barbed wire and smoke. The floor was slick with mud, bodies strewn across it, limbs twisted at unnatural angles.

No. No, no, no, you’re not there. You’re not–

Something slammed against the outside wall of the Garrison.

You jolted so hard your back hit the wooden shelves behind you. Glass rattled.

Another shot.

Another scream.

Your vision blurred.

Your fingers dug into your scalp, pressing so hard it hurt, grounding yourself in the pain, trying to pull yourself out of it. But the harder you tried, the deeper you fell.

The war.

The blood.

The bodies.

You were trapped there, suffocating in it.

Somewhere, beyond the haze, there were voices. Muffled, distant. They slipped through the ringing in your ears, too low to make out.

Your body was locked in place, curled tight against the floor. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps, your pulse hammering like a drum in your skull.

The voices grew closer. Urgent. A door creaked. Heavy footsteps. 

Suddenly, warm hands cupped your face.

You jolted violently, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat as your eyes snapped open.

For a split second, all you saw was the dim light flickering against a dirt-covered face, blood smeared along the temple, exhaustion clinging to sharp features. The same way you’d found him then, half-dead in the tunnels, skin clammy, breath shallow.

Tommy.

Your chest heaved as your vision sharpened, the war-torn memory melting away into something more real.

Tommy was crouched in front of you, his grip firm but careful, steadying your trembling face between his hands. His blue eyes, wide but dark under the weight of exhaustion, flickered over yours, reading everything you couldn’t say.

"You hear me?" he asked. 

Your breath hitched. The blood at his temple was fresh, smeared against his skin, but it wasn’t his. You didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

"You’re alright," he murmured.

Your breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, your body still rigid, locked in the panic that had swallowed you whole. But Tommy’s grip was steady, his thumbs brushing against your skin, his touch firm but not forceful. He wasn’t dragging you out of it– he was waiting for you to come back.

"Can you hear me?" he asked again, voice lower this time, softer.

You swallowed hard and nodded, though the movement felt weak, unconvincing. Your hands still trembled where they rested on the floor, your body too light, too unsteady.

Tommy exhaled, relief flickering over his face so briefly you might have missed it if you weren’t staring at him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the present.

"Good." His voice was rough, but not unkind. His hands lingered for a second longer before one of them slipped from your cheek and wrapped around your wrist, his grip firm, grounding. "You’re alright.”

You nodded again, slower this time. "Not France," you forced yourself to say. 

His eyes flickered over your face, searching. You wondered if he could see how deep you had gone, how close you had been to drowning. Maybe he could.