#small heath

A/N: I don't know if any of you are fans of Peaky Blinders. The DH started watching it recently and I've watched it with him. My muse grabbed me and this was the result. But I find if I keep her happy, she'll let me work on my other projects so... Let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

You shivered in the chilly air, wearing your best dress and wrapped in your heaviest shawl. You walked along the cobbled street, slick with rain and coal dust. You felt numb, struggling to accept the situation you found yourself in through no fault of your own. 

One one side of you, John Shelby walked with his usual restless energy, a lit cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers. Though younger than the others, he had a sharpness in his eyes. There was a tension about him that betrayed the weight of the world he’d been forced to carry. His hair was slightly disheveled, his cap pulled low over his forehead. But he cast a shadow that made him look harder than his years. The dim gas light flickered across his face, highlighting a faint bruise on his cheekbone. Maybe evidence of a recent scrap, though nothing too serious by Shelby standards.

On the other side, Liam Murphy, one of the Peaky Blinders’ trusted men, walked along. Taller and broader than John, he carried himself with the calm confidence of someone who knows he can handle whatever comes next. His dark eyes scan the area as they reach the destination, ever-watchful. Dressed in the same razor-brimmed flat cap and three-piece suit as the rest of the gang, Liam looked every bit the part of a man who’d bled for the Shelbys and would again without hesitation. You thought you smelled whiskey on him, but his movements were steady and his focus razor-sharp.

Around them, the air hummed with unspoken tension. John’s energy crackled like a struck match, eager and impatient. His gaze landed on you and he cracked a smile. "Look at you. You look like a fuckin' lamb going to slaughter."

Yes, you were scared to death. But you lifted your chin, holding his gaze. "Wouldn't you?"

Both of them burst into laughter as they stopped in front of the apartment, the agreed meeting place. 

"Yeah," John said. "Can't say I'd want to fuck Arthur either."

The reminder of why you were here was too pointed, too impersonal. You glanced around Small Heath, the neighborhood the Shelbys dominated here in Birmingham. It was a rough area, a working-class district, thick with the grime of industry and the weight of hardship. The narrow, soot-stained brick houses huddled together as if bracing against the cold, damp air rolling in from the factories. The sharp scent of iron and smoke from nearby foundries clung to the wind like an ever-present warning.

Gas lamps cast flickering pools of light, their glow struggling against the heavy smog that lingered in the alleyways. The sounds of the city never truly died. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle howled through the night, blending with the rattle of carts, the distant shouts of drunken men spilling from the back doors of a pub.

When the door opened, your heart lurched in your chest to see Arthur Shelby standing there in the dim light. He seemed a shadow of the man he once was, now wild-eyed and disheveled. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, his once-crisp white shirt now rumpled and stained with whiskey and the sweat of a man who'd been drinking too long and thinking too hard. His tie hung loose around his neck, the knot twisted and undone.

His hair, usually slicked back with care, was in disarray, tufts sticking up where he’d raked his fingers through it in frustration. His face was a map of old scars and fresh exhaustion. His beard was uneven, the shadow of stubble catching the flickering light. His knuckles were raw, split from a recent fight. Maybe from a brawl at The Garrison, maybe something worse.

His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. They burned with the remnants of rage and sorrow. His breath reeked of whiskey and smoke, and when he exhaled, it was slow, heavy, as if the weight of the world pressed down on his chest. When he saw you, his eyes lit up in surprise. It was like his mind was pushing the memory of why you were there through the haze of his enebriation. 

"Come in," he said after studying you for a moment.

What else could you do? 

Dropping your head, trying to keep your desperation and fury at bay, you walked quickly by him and into the apartment. 

When John and Liam tried to push their way in, Arthur smashed a fist into Liam's face. The crunching sound made you think Arthur broke his nose. "What the fuck?" Liam yelled. "Aren't we supposed to be witnesses?"

The question sent a spike of fear through your heart.

"The hell you are!" Arthur raged at them. "Now get out before I knock some teeth out, you fuckin' bastards."

With that, he slammed the door hard and locked it for good measure. 

Inside the small apartment, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood and old tobacco. The walls were thin, covered in peeling wallpaper that was once floral but now curls at the edges. The floorboards creaked under the weight of every movement, betraying any attempt at stealth. Outside, heavy boots scuffed against the cobblestones, stopping and starting, keeping you on edge.

The only light inside came from a low-burning candle near the window, its feeble glow barely touching the dark corners of the room. A single iron-framed bed sits against one wall, its mattress lumpy and worn. A wooden table stands near the hearth, cluttered with an empty bottle, a playing card bent at the edges, and a knife someone left behind.

The Peaky Blinders owned these streets, and yet, danger lurks in the shadows, even for them. Every knock at the door could be salvation—or the end. This is where you were born.

You stood in the small space and waited. You had no intention to make this easy for anyone. Particularly when it wasn't fair at all how you came to be here.

Arthur swayed slightly, adjusting his stance, his grip tightening on the half-empty bottle he lifted from the small table by the window. At least the curtains there were closed. There was an eerie stillness in him, the kind that only comes before a storm. He wiped a hand down his face, inhaling sharply, trying to steady himself. The chaos inside him was still bubbling, waiting for the right moment to spill over.

"Look," Arthur said, "I'm truly sorry for this situation. It's nothing personal towards you, you know. It was your father and the coin toss. He--"

"Stepfather," you corrected him. Your father had been a decent man who didn't make it back from the war. Your mother had married Sean O'Grady out of necessity, to keep you and your younger brother fed. Your stepfather was as bad as your father had been good.

"Whatever," Arthur said. "He lost the coin toss and the coin is sacred to us. He promised me a turn with you if he lost."

Something like shame flashed in his eyes as he looked you over. It wasn't hard to guess what he was thinking. You were inexperienced with men. Your brother had started working at the factory at a young age, but you stayed home and helped with the garden, with the sewing. Your mother took in work as a seamstress here and there and that's how the Shelbys came into your life to begin with. Arthur started it, coming by to have a couple of shirts repaired, stains removed. He'd been intimidating enough but he wasn't the one who scared you the most.

Tommy Shelby.

His name alone carried weight, pressing down on your chest like an iron shackle. He was the kind of man stories are whispered about in dark corners. He never needed to raise his voice to command obedience, nor did he need to lift a hand to make someone afraid. His power was in his silence, and in the way his glacier-blue eyes stripped a person down to their bones.

You'd seen men stronger than you shrink beneath his gaze, their bravado crumbling under the quiet calculation that lurked behind those cold, unreadable eyes. He was a man playing chess while everyone else is swinging fists. And yet, beneath the tailored suit and composed expression, there lurked something even more dangerous—something hollow and broken. It made him unpredictable.

He didn't look like a man who enjoyed violence. That would make him easier to understand. His detachment terrified you the most. Men who enjoy hurting others could be manipulated, could be fed their own hunger until they slipped. Tommy killed without joy, hesitation, or remorse. He was a different kind of monster entirely.

Arthur drank straight from the bottle, the amber liquid splashing inside it. His eyes never left you and now you were shaking. You knew your stepfather wanted you married off and gone from his house, but how was this the way to do it? Was he punishing you for still living in his house?

"What are you waiting for?" Arthur asked, slurring his words. "Come over here."

"And do what?" you had to ask. "I don't know... how..."

His eyebrows shot up at that. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?"

You shook your head. Waves of shame and anger rushed through you. You were untried and terrified. He was drunk and seemed at a loss as to how to handle the situation. After a moment, he set the bottle back on the table and marched towards you, wrapping his strong arms around you and holding you in place for his kiss.

Instinct had you fighting him. His kiss was sloppy and wet, the liquor on his breath heavy. It made you feel a little sick. He was easily twice your size and it was nothing for him to drag you in the direction of the bed. When your back met the mattress, you closed your eyes in acquiescence. You just wanted it over with so you could go back home, soiled goods thanks to your stepfather's poor judgment. But you'd live to fight another day. At least you hoped you would.

Arthur's weight dropped onto you on the bed, but after a moment, you realized he wasn't moving. When he snored by your ear, it was all you could do not to burst into tears. Did this mean you'd have to wait for him to sober up? Would this torment be rescheduled? You didn't think you could take that.

You didn't know what to do. Carefully, you managed to roll him off you and onto his side. He didn't wake or even move as you managed to get off the bed. Hope had your heart swelling in your chest. Could you make it out of this apartment then? You could claim that the deed was done and he passed out after.

Rushing to the window, you moved the curtain just enough to see the street and it didn't look like anyone was outside the door now. Could you make it out if you moved fast enough? 

With your heart flying in your chest, you unlocked the door and pulled it open. You dashed out onto the street sending up every prayer that you'd ever said that you could just make it home. 

You collided with someone hard. You were shaking as his hands came up to steady you, keep you from falling. An apology was on your tonque as you glanced up to see who blocked you.

It was him.

Tommy Shelby was the one who had you, his figure a sharp silhouette against the darkness. A beat after he released you, a match flares to life, momentarily illuminating the angular planes of his face—the high cheekbones, the cut of his jaw, the cigarette resting between his fingers. The glow flickers out as he exhales, smoke curling around him like a specter. In that brief moment, his icy blue eyes locked onto yours.

He didn’t look surprised.

There was no anger or raised voice. Just a cold, assessing gaze, as if he had already predicted this. As if he knew you'd run before yoou even did. He inhaled slowly as he stance shifted. His demeanor was that of a wolf considering a cornered rabbit.

“Going somewhere?” His voice is soft, all the more dangerous for its calmness.

You want to run, but your legs refused to move. The street around you seemed empty now, swallowed in shadow. But you knew he was never truly alone. Somewhere, in the darkened alleys, his men are watching.

Tommy took one step forward, slow and deliberate.

“You should know,” he murmured, flicking his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the toe of his polished boot, “I don’t like having to come after people.” 

Hooking your thumb in the direction of the apartment, you said, "He's d-done."

That cool gaze moved over you, up and down before returning to yours. "Not with you. Arthur loves the ladies but I've never seen him move that fast."

You hadn't thought of that. 

"Did he pass out?" he asked quietly.

Tears stung the backs of your eyes and you nodded. It wouldn't do any good to lie to him. "What happens now?" you asked, cringing under that cold gaze. 

"There's still an arrangement," Tommy reminded you. "And it has to be honored."

You glanced back over your shoulder at the door wondering what he meant by that. Would you wait for Arthur to wake up? Come back another day when he was sober?

Rough fingers at your chin turned your face back to him, and you shrank away from that unfamiliar touch. When your attention was returned to him, he grabbed your upper arm and started walking, almost dragging you up the street at first. What was he going to do? Where was he taking you?

Men were walking not too far behind you now, his men. They stayed behind the two of you until Tommy abruptly turned a corner, heading up a short flight of steps. Leading you into another apartment.

The new apartment was cleaner, quiet and cold. A stark contrast to the cramped, smoke-choked rooms you just fled from. The walls are smooth, freshly painted in an off-white shade that seems almost too pristine for a place in Small Heath. The faint scent of tobacco and whiskey, mingling with the lingering traces of fresh linen and polish, told you someone actually cared for this space.

The furniture was sparse but elegant in a way that didn’t fit the rough streets outside. A solid oak table sits near the window, a glass decanter of amber liquid resting on top, two crystal tumblers beside it. A plush armchair, its deep leather cracked at the seams, faces the fireplace where faint embers glow, casting flickering shadows against the walls.

Against one wall was a proper bed. It was well-made with crisp white sheets and a thick wool blanket folded at the foot. A luxury in this part of Birmingham.

His men have left by now, their boots retreating down the hallway, leaving you alone with him. The door closed.

“You’ll be more comfortable here,” he said, and there was no mistaking the finality in his words. It wasn't a courtesy, but an arrangement.

You still didn't understand why you were here. Was he going to keep an eye on you until his brother slept it off? Or would he expect you to stay here until the deed could be done?

He hung up his cap and shrugged out his dusty black coat, hanging it up too. You heard the soft sound of a match striking as Tommy lit another cigarette, his gaze unreadable as he exhales a slow stream of smoke. Grabbing the Scotch and tumblers on the table, he filled the crystal glasses and motioning you over. 

"Have one," he said. 

He wanted you to drink? You'd never drank spirits in your life. You must have stared at the glass like a snake about to bite you.

Tommy took a drag from his cigarette. "Since my brother is unable to do the honors," he said, "we'll finish the arrangement here and now. Drink it. It will make it easier."

Panic threatened to overtake you. What? Arthur Shelby passed out drunk so now you were expected to fuck Tommy Shelby?

Not doing as he said seemed terrifying, so you reached for the tumbler meant for you with a shaking hand. Bringing it to your lips for a sip, you almost coughed. The drink was smooth but potent. It burned like fire all the way down to your stomach. 

"Sit down," he said, using his foot to push one of the two chairs at the table back for you. You did as he wanted, taking another drink of whiskey. You felt the weight of those ice-blue eyes on you as you stiffly took a seat. "You ever been with a man?"

The man could just talk about something so personal like it was nothing more than business. It was a lot more than that to you. It took a moment for you to work up the courage to meet his gaze now, but you made yourself do it. You may have been trapped in this situation but you had to remember that you personally had done nothing wrong. 

“No,” was all you said. “Never drank either. Until now.”

Tommy studied you, the faint glow of his cigarette illuminating the sharp angles of his face. “Your stepfather isn’t a wise man.”

“Or a kind one,” you murmured, the words bitter on your tongue.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, effortless yet edged with something unreadable. “That why he offered you up?” His voice was calm, almost casual, but his gaze never wavered. “Strict with you, was he? That why you haven’t got any experience?”

You shook your head, fingers tightening around the tumbler in your hands. “No. He just wants me gone.”

Tommy hummed in answer. The room feels smaller with him in it. He took the chair across from you. One arm draped lazily over the back of the chair, the other rested on his thigh with his fingers curled loosely around a half-filled tumbler. He hasn’t spoken for a couple of moments, and yet his silence is as oppressive as a threat.

His ice-blue gaze roamed over you like a weight you couldn’t shake off. It felt like he was unraveling you in his mind, peeling back the layers of fear, of defiance, of whatever fragile armor you've built to protect yourself. It felt like he could see right through you. And he enjoyed it.

The cigarette smoldered between his fingers, the red ember glowing each time he took a slow, unhurried drag. He exhaled through his nose, the smoke curling like ghostly fingers in the space between you. He wasn;t trying to scare you. His presence alone was enough.

And yet… he was devastating.

The angles of his face, chiseled and unyielding, should have made him look harsh and unappealing, but they didn’t. His dark lashes, too long for a man, cast shadows over his cheekbones. The corner of his mouth curled around the cigarette in a way that shouldn’t have been attractive but was. The controlled power in the way he moved, the effortless confidence... It drew you in even as you willed yourself to stay on guard.

He lifted his glass, taking a slow sip of the liquor, the tendons in his forearm flexing beneath the crisp sleeve of his shirt. When he set it down, the clink of crystal against wood echoed loudly in the silence of the room.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was low and even.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, tapping ash from his cigarette, “and I’ll start thinking you’ve forgotten why you’re here.”

It was a warning.

And God help you, it was both terrifying and intoxicating. You took another sip of from your glass, welcoming its burn and warmth. You'd been unable to eat today given what was going to happen. Your entire life would change after tonight. The alcohol went straight to your head, taking the edge off of your fear. Not enough but it was better than nothing.

"If the... arrangement is settled, here and now, then I'm done?" you had to ask. "Arthur..."

Tommy took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a ribbon of smoke. His blue eyes stay locked on yours, the weight of his gaze making it impossible to look away.

"Would you prefer Arthur?”

The question landed like a blow.

Your fingers tightened around the tumbler, the burn of alcohol lingering in your throat. You struggled to find your voice. Prefer Arthur? Tommy said it so easily, like the answer didn’t matter to him either way, like it was nothing more than an idle curiosity. But the way he watched you, eyes half-lidded, you knew that wasn't true.

Your pulse quickened. Arthur was rougher, louder, and reckless. But Tommy was something else entirely.

You swallow hard, shaking your head. “No.”

Tommy didn’t react immediately. He just studied you for another long, unbearable moment before smashing the cigarette out in a small tray. “Good.”

You didn’t ask why. Something told you that you didn’t want to know.

Your heart pounded as he drained his tumbler in one slow pull, rising from the chair with smooth movements. Without a word, he reached for your glass. Carefully, but firmly, he took it from your hands and placed it on the table. Then, he offered you his hand.

Your heart started flying. A silent command. A choice that wasn’t really a choice. Despite the tension tightening in your chest, you took it. His fingers closed around yours, steady. He pulled you effortlessly to your feet, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin.

It was only a few steps to the bed, but the space between felt heavily charged. Tommy took a seat at the edge, his grip still firm around your hand. When he glanced up at you, those piercing blue eyes pinned you in place. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words. And still, he didn't let go.

Tommy’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand, almost absentmindedly, as he studied you with a quiet intensity that made your breath catch. His gaze moved over your face, taking in every detail.

His smooth, low voice sent a shiver down your spine, when he spoke next. “Pretty thing, aren’t you?”

Your stomach tightened. There was no warmth in his tone, no flirtation. It was like he’d already decided exactly what to do with you. His fingers tightened, just for a beat, before his grip loosened again. And for the first time, you realized it wasn't fear making your heart race.

You weren’t prepared for the way his other hand slid behind your neck, his fingers pressing just firmly enough to send a shiver down your spine.

The only time a man had ever kissed you was Arthur’s sloppy, whiskey-soaked attempt in the other apartment.

There was no drunken sway or careless fumbling. Tommy moved with purpose. When his lips touched yours, it was a whisper of a kiss at first. There was no overpowering smell of spirits, just the faint scent of tobacco, of him. As his lips moved against yours, firmer and seeking, you tried to mimic him, afraid not to do something. You must have done something right. He increased the pressure at the back of your neck to pull you closer, and your hands landed on his shoulders, crisp linen covering tight muscle under your palms. When he deepened the kiss, you let him, and the slide of his tongue against yours gave him a deeper taste of you. His moan surprised you, and you felt that subtle sound all through your body as he continued to kiss you breathless.

It was easy for him to pull you onto the bed and roll you under him, breathless as you were. When his mouth claimed yours again, his kiss was more demanding, and his hands were everywhere. Tommy managed to pull your shawl free of you without breaking the kiss, his hands then sliding down to work the worn leather Mary Janes you wore off your feet, tossing them off the side of the bed. One hand grabbed your ankle before sliding up your leg, up to cover the globe of your ass. Panic had you jerking in his hold. 

Tommy pulled back to look you in the eye, his face flushed. There was a wildness in his eyes, something raw and unchecked. You doubted many had ever seen it. His gaze searched yours, and you trembled in his hold from the sheer intensity of it.

"I'm going to have you," he said breathlessly, his weight pinning your body to the bed. Grinding himself into your tummy, the hard, heated length of him was unmistakable, even with both of you clothed. His eyes darkened in sheer determination and his hold on you tightened. "You understand?"

You nodded quickly. "I'm sorry," you whispered.

Sliding his hand roughly up your body, he smoothed his hand over your cheek, his gaze never leaving you. Tommy kept watching you as that hand moved back down to pluck at the buttons of your blouse and his nimble fingers made quick work of it. Impatiently, his hands pulled the garment free of your skirt before undoing the buttons of your camisole beneath. You couldn't stop trembling as he undid the last barrier and peeled it back to reveal your upper body to him.

His gaze was sharp, moving over your breasts with growing impatience, hunger. With a delicacy you wouldn't have believed him capable of, his fingers traced over your collar bone, over the tiny gold cross pendant of your necklace. He trailed a finger over your skin, across to one breast, using that digit to tease your nipple to a tight peak with a gentle circular touch. When his heated gaze returned to yours, he filled his hand with your breast, squeezing firmly but not enough to hurt. Tommy began kissing you again, heated and greedy now, with his hand teasing your breast before sliding down your body and beneath your skirt.

As if he knew you were about to start fighting him again, he broke the kiss to cover your breast, teasing it with his lips and tongue as his hand slid under your skirt, into your underwear. Sensation overwhelmed you, need battling fear, and your hands clutched in the bedding beneath you as his fingers teased your private flesh, the light pressure drawing new sensations from your body.

"You can touch me," he muttered around your nipple. It felt like a command. Your hands shook as they slid up to him, instinctively moving to his head. The glossy black locks of his short hair slid between your fingers as he continued to tease you relentlessly, burning you down with his mouth and hands. 

Chills and pulses of unexpected pleasure had you writhing feverishly beneath him as his tongue smoothed over your aching nipple and his fingers danced in the wet folds between your legs. Your breath sucked in when he touched your pearl, and he lifted his head to savor your reaction. Whatever he was doing with his fingers, all you knew was that it would soon drive you insane. He didn't give you the speed or pressure you wanted, his touch fleeting and maddening. Your fingers clutched in his hair as he continued to delicately torture you, your legs clamped around his hand because you couldn't help it in your need. But it didn't slow his efforts at all. 

When his touch stopped, you whined, an unfamiliar sound to you. In a frenzy of movement, Tommy roughly yanked off your skirt along with your underwear, your stockings. He wasn't satisfied until you were stripped bare beneath him, all of you trembling under the intensity of his stare. As he sat there next to you, taking every inch of you in, his fingers went to work with haste, undoing his tie, stripping off his waistcoat. His fingers flew at undoing the buttons of his own shirt which he pulled free of his trousers but didn't remove it. 

Tommy shifted down the bed and moved to throw one of your legs over his shoulder so fast, you didn't have time to react. And by the time you did, he'd buried his face between your thighs. The flames of humiliation only burned you for a few seconds. The man's mouth covered your sex, his tongue a wicked torment that was unfamiliar and almost too much to bear. One of his hands worked to keep your folds open, your curls out of his way, as he kissed your pussy as he had your mouth. The other slid up over your tummy with pressure, holding you in place for his assault on your senses.

You accepted it but your entire body was shaking, shivering and it was impossible to stay still. Your back arched and you would have been horrified to realize that you were pushing yourself towards him, towards his mouth, wanting more, if you hadn't been so lost in the storm of sensation. What he was doing didn't make the fever better, it made it worse. It felt like fire running through your veins with raw need pooling low in your belly. When he slid a finger back to your pearl as he continued to work you with his mouth, you gasped. When his movements sped up, when his tongued traced your opening, you screamed long and loud. A wave of pure pleasure swept over you and he didn't stop what he was doing the entire time, dragging it out until you violently shook beneath him, crying and moaning as your body shivered and eased. 

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he moved up the bed toward you, his hands working the fine leather belt at the front of his trousers. He wore nothing beneath and the sight of his cock, angry red and larger than you expected, filled your vision as you watched him take himself in hand, working himself as his gaze roamed over you. Tommy shifted, one of his knees pushing yours apart. You let him, watching him drape himself over you. There was something obscene about the way he stripped you naked but was still mostly clothed himself. 

He surprised you by stopping then, a hand smoothing over your hair and face with care. You sensed he was holding back, respecting your inexperience. You knew it meant nothing to him but he realized it meant something for you, and your heart squeezed in your chest at the gesture. 

"It's going to hurt," he said, whispering against your lips. "Not for long. Hang onto me."

You did what he said, but slid your hands beneath his shirt, running your hands over the muscular plane of his damp back. Your fingers found scars, a lot of them, but it gave you a distraction from the way he lined himself up with your entrance, the smooth head of him pressing into you insistently. It felt better to bring your legs up, your knees hovering around his hips. You held your breath as the pressure built, and the intrusion of him pushed further into your body. When he met that fleshy barrier inside you that proved your claim, Tommy surged through it, and the pain was searing. It took your breath away, had tears stinging your eyes as he completely filled you. Your tender walls quivered around him, trying to adjust to the unfamiliar length of him.

With the pad of his thumb, he caught a tear, brushing it away. Then, without a word, he lowered his head, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was unexpectedly tender. As if, for once, Tommy Shelby was in no hurry to take what he wanted. He held still inside you, allowing you to adjust to him. Lost in the dizzying mix of pain and pleasure from his kisses, you found yourself clinging to the unexpected gentleness in his touch. A quiet mercy.

But the arrangement wasn’t over yet. Not until he was finished.

Slowly, he started moving inside you and it stung like fire as he thrust in and out of you. You knew you were wincing, but you'd be damned if you'd complain now. You wanted to be brave, feeling like you'd earn his respect if you were. And as he moved in and out of you, the pain lessened and dulled, easing to be replaced with more of the sensations from before. The good ones. Before long your thighs were clamped around his hips as he plunged into you again and again. Hot, reckless kisses dropped over your face and breasts as he fucked you. Your arms and legs were wrapped around him but it was more than that. You weren't just lying there and thinking of England as you'd been advised by your mother and aunts. You were riding waves of unexpected pleasure, soaring to those heights again. Your hands became claws at his back, your nails carving into his skin. Your thighs tightened around his hips as you moved with him, wanting more, craving more.

His lips blazed a path to the sensitive skin of your throat, peppering your skin with kisses and swipes of his tongue as he rode you harder. The drive of him inside of you, his hands on your breasts, fingers teasing your pearl, drove you mad. You started begging him, pleading for release from the intense experience he was drowning you in.

"Please," you chanted.

His actions pushed you higher until, with your heart racing in your chest, he sent you flying again. Your cries filled the room as the man literally destroyed you. 

Tommy drove on above you and you knew he was now chasing his own end and you still held him. But it also occured to you in that moment that there was no birth control being used here, no condom or anything. You tried to steady your breathing, pushing down rising panic. Surely, a man like Tommy Shelby wouldn’t want a bastard running around, wouldn’t leave something like that to chance. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he had more honor than that.

 As his movements sped up, his thrusts just shy of painful, you tensed, hoping he was going to pull out of you when his time came so there'd be no worries. Above you his eyes were closed, his mouth slack. The beauty of him in that moment made you pause as he came. When you jerked beneath him, his hands collared your wrists and pushed them into the bed on either side of your head. Holding you there, he pumped himself into you growling as he did, thrust after thrust. Truthfully, you didn't have it in you to try and stop him. As if you even could.

He'd collapsed onto you, but his weight wasn't too much as his breathe rushed with yours. Running your fingers through his hair, you tried to stay calm. Your mind couldn't help jumping ahead.

Now that the deed was done, you'd be sent back home. Everyone in Small Heath knew you'd been won in an ill-advised bet. Would other men consider you an easy mark? You couldn't count on your stepfather to protect you. 

Tommy pulled himself free from you and it stung. He stretched out next to you on the bed, his finger tracing the curve of your breast. He watched you in that way of his, sharp and knowing. “What are you thinking so hard about?”

You opened your mouth, then close it. Because what do you even say to him? But he didn’t look away. And somehow, that was even worse. At the end of the day, only the arrangement mattered. His family’s honor was intact, the deal upheld. That was all that concerned him. Whatever you felt, whatever came next for you, wouldn’t change a thing. Tommy wasn’t the kind of man to concern himself with your plight.

You took the coward’s way out.

“Can I go home now?” The words left your lips, but somehow, they didn’t sound like a plea. More like a quiet resignation.

Was that reluctance you saw in his face? Something hesitant beneath the mask of indifference?

Tommy considered your question, his expression giving nothing away. But he studied you, weighing something.

With a deep sigh, he finally says, "You can."

As you start to sit up, you watched him search through your clothing on the bed, finding your simple underwear. You watch in stunned silenced as he carefully dipped them between your legs, staining the white garment with your blood. When you instinctively reached for them, alarmed by the sight of your own blood and just mortified by what he’s just done, Tommy’s gaze met yours, sharp and unyielding. Before you could touch them, he moved them out of reach, his expression leaving no room for argument.

“I’m keeping these.” The finality in his voice sent a shiver down your spine.

Why?

You were shaking as you watched him dress, dressing yourself as quickly as you could with shaking limbs. It was over now, right? Was your blood-stained underwear proof that the arrangement was met? It was distressing. He must have noticed because without a word, he stepped to a cabinet drawer and pulled out a clean, white towel, tossing it onto your lap.

"Clean yourself up," he said, already pulling on his coat and adjusting his cap with practiced ease. "I'll be back to take you home."

And with that, he was gone.

You sat there, staring at the door he’d just disappeared through, the towel limp in your hands.

Tommy Shelby was taking you home.

A short, breathless laugh escaped before you could stop it. That would scare the shit out of your stepfather. Maybe then, he wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss you.

Maybe it wouldn’t matter at all. You didn't know what the future held for you or what impact this night would have on it.

***

Tommy’s grip tightened on the wheel, the road stretched dark and empty ahead of him. The hum of the engine the only sound between them. He didn’t glance her way. No, he could feel the weight of her presence beside him, could hear the way she shifted in her seat, the tension rolling off her in waves.

This was necessary. That’s what he told himself. A loose end tied up, an arrangement upheld.

When he pulled up to Watery Lane, the headlights cut through the mist curling over the cobbled drive, illuminating the towering structure of Arrow House. The place had never really felt like home, but it served its purpose, just like everything in his world.

He killed the engine and stepped out first, running as he rounded the car and opened the door for her. She hesitated, just for a moment, then followed without a word. He could almost see the question in her mind. Why am I here?

Because he wanted her here. He wanted her. Tonight merely sealed her fate.

Inside, the house was dimly lit. Tommy didn’t break stride, already pulling off his gloves as he spotted Polly standing at the bottom of the staircase, arms crossed, dark eyes sharp as her gaze moved between him and her.

“Take her up,” he said simply, voice low and clipped. “My room. Find her something to sleep in.”

Polly didn’t move right away. Instead, she gave him a look, one of those looks. The kind that didn’t need words, the kind only Polly could give. What’s this, then?

Tommy exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose before muttering, “Not now, Pol.”

With a slow shake of her head, she turned to his girl, her expression softening slightly as she gestured for her to follow.

Tommy watched for a second longer, then turned on his heel, heading straight for the whiskey decanter. He'd knock back a couple then he'd join her in sleep.

***

The house was quiet early the next morning, but Polly was already up. Tommy found her in the sitting room, a cigarette between her fingers, an untouched cup of tea going cold on the table beside her. The first rays of sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room.

She didn’t look at him right away, just took a slow drag, exhaling through her nose before finally speaking. “That the girl Arthur won in the coin toss?”

Tommy poured himself a drink, even though it was too early for one. He took his time before answering. “It is.”

Polly’s gaze locked with his. “So why is she upstairs, in your room, and not with him? Or home with her family?”

Tommy didn’t answer immediately. Just swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way the light caught in it. He didn't feel the need to explain himself.

But Polly wasn’t stupid. Her eyes narrowed slightly, putting the pieces together faster than most ever could. She leaned back in her chair, cigarette poised between her fingers, a slow smirk curving her lips. “You wanted her.” It wasn’t a question.

Tommy took a sip of his whiskey. He didn’t confirm or deny anything. But Polly was already seeing through him, like she always did.

“You let Arthur think it was his idea.” Her voice was quieter now. “Tricked her stepfather into wagering her. Then drugged Arthur when the time came to claim her. You waited, knowing she’d panic, knowing she’d run. And who was there, ready to catch her?” She let the silence hang for a beat before answering her own question. “You.”

Tommy took another slow sip of whiskey before finally meeting Polly’s gaze.

She sighed, shaking her head as if tired of playing this game with him. “What are your intentions, Thomas?”

Another pause. He could lie or deflect. But Polly wouldn’t believe him, and they both knew it.

So instead, he took another drag of his cigarette, exhaled the smoke, and simply said, “She’s mine.”

Polly let out a breath, long and slow, before muttering, “Jesus Christ, Tommy.”

Tommy had already made his decision.

Arthur would know soon enough. There’d be shouting, maybe a drunken outburst. Tommy would hand over proof that the arrangement had been upheld, that the wager had been honored in the way that mattered. It would be enough to keep Arthur from questioning him for long.

As for the girl’s stepfather? He would be a cautionary tale. A reminder of what happened when someone gambled with the Shelbys and lost. When a debt was called, when something was taken and then never seen again. Her sudden disappearance, her absence, would be enough to send a whisper of fear through Small Heath, a warning to any fool who might ever think to challenge them again.

And in time, when the dust settled and the moment was right, he would marry her. Not because of the arrangement.

Somewhere behind the bar, Harry was setting glasses on a shelf with enough force to prove he had already been awake for some time and resented everyone who had not. The room smelled different in the morning. Less of bodies and drink, more of stale beer, cold ash, damp wood, and whatever men left behind after they had shouted themselves empty and gone home.

Vera sat up slowly.

Every part of her protested.

The chair near the fire had not been comfortable, but it had been inside. That mattered more than comfort. She had learned that quickly. One night in this place, and already her standards had shrunk to heat, walls, and no hands on her while she slept.

Harry glanced over from the bar. “Thought you’d died in that chair.”

“Disappointing you this early would feel rude.”

He gave her a look over his shoulder. “Still got that mouth, then.”

“Unfortunately.”

Vera pushed herself upright and tried not to wince. Her coat had been folded over her lap sometime during the night. She did not remember doing it. For one strange moment, she wondered if someone else had.

Then she dismissed the thought.

Small Heath did not feel like a place where kindness happened quietly. If kindness happened at all, Vera imagined it came with a debt attached.

Harry jerked his chin toward the back room. “Water’s in the jug. Wash your face. You look like you slept in a pub.”

“I did sleep in a pub.”

“And now you look it.”

Vera stood, gathering her coat in one hand. “Your charm explains why the place is so full.”

“It’s the whisky, not the charm.”

“That makes more sense.”

Harry muttered under his breath, but he did not tell her to leave.

That alone made Vera pause.

She looked toward him, waiting for the part where he reminded her that last night had been an exception. A chair by the fire, a few coins, and then out into the street once morning came. She had prepared herself for it sometime before dawn, during one of the many times she had woken with her heart racing, certain she had heard footsteps coming for her.

Harry did not say it.

He only went back to stacking glasses.

Vera walked to the back room with the careful steps of someone trying not to show how badly she needed the floor to stay beneath her.

The water in the jug was cold enough to bite. She splashed it over her face and gripped the edge of the basin afterward, breathing through the shock. The little room was empty except for crates, hooks, the apron she had worn the night before, and a narrow mirror fixed crookedly to the wall.

Vera avoided looking into it for as long as she could.

When she finally did, the sight of herself unsettled her.

Not because she looked different, exactly. She looked tired. Dirty at the edges. Her hair had come loose from how she had arranged it the day before, and there was a faint mark along her cheek from where she had slept against her sleeve. But those things were ordinary enough.

It was the room behind her that made her stomach turn.

The wood. The dim light. The apron on its hook.

For half a second, Vera had the impossible sensation of standing there before.

Not yesterday.

Not last night.

Before.

Her hand tightened on the basin.

The feeling passed before she could catch hold of it. It left nothing useful behind, only the same sick confusion that had followed her since the alley.

“Stop it,” she whispered.

Her reflection stared back, unconvinced.

By the time she returned to the main room, Grace had arrived.

She was behind the bar, tying her apron with neat, practiced hands. Vera noticed that about her first. Grace always seemed arranged. Even when the work was hard, even when a drunk man grabbed her wrist, even when her eyes moved too carefully over a room, there was something composed about her that Vera did not trust.

Grace looked up as Vera approached.

“Good morning.”

Vera gave a short nod. “Morning.”

“You stayed?”

It sounded like a simple question.

It did not feel like one.

“Harry offered the chair.”

Grace glanced toward Harry, who was making himself busy with a crate of bottles and pretending he could not hear them. “That was kind of him.”

Harry snorted. “Don’t make a habit of saying that.”

Vera reached for the apron. “I won’t.”

Grace watched her tie it. “Have you eaten?”

The question was gentle enough that Vera nearly answered honestly.

No.

Not since before the rain, before the alley, before she woke in the wrong century with mud under her hands and smoke in her throat. Her stomach had cramped sometime in the night, then gone quiet in that dull way hunger sometimes did when it realized it would not be obeyed.

“I’m fine,” Vera said.

Grace’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion this time, but concern. Somehow that was worse.

Harry set a heel of bread and a small piece of cheese down on the counter without looking at either of them. “Eat before you fall into the glasses.”

Vera stared at it.

For a moment, her throat did something strange.

She recovered quickly and picked up the bread before anyone could read too much into her silence. “If this is part of the wages, I’ll be negotiating.”

Harry pointed a finger at her. “You’ll be sweeping if you keep on.”

Vera tore off a piece of bread. “I can sweep.”

Grace hid a smile by looking down at the glass in her hand.

The morning passed quietly compared to the night before. Quiet did not mean peaceful. Men came in early, shoulders hunched against the damp, boots tracking mud across the floor Vera had only just wiped. They drank like the day had already wronged them. Some looked at her because she was new. Some looked because they liked making women feel the weight of their attention. Others barely noticed her at all, which Vera began to prefer.

Grace showed her more of the work.

Which bottles disappeared quickest. Which regulars needed watching. Which men paid without being asked and which required a hand held out before the glass touched the bar. She was helpful. Too helpful, maybe. Or maybe Vera was too tired to know the difference between kindness and strategy.

“Harry said you worked well last night,” Grace said, setting clean glasses in a row.

“Did he?”

“In his way.”

“Was there grunting involved?”

“A little.”

“That sounds like praise from him.”

Grace smiled, then reached for another glass. “He doesn’t usually let strangers sleep here.”

“Lucky me.”

“You must have been desperate.”

Vera’s hand slowed on the cloth.

There it was again.

A question dressed as concern.

She wiped a ring from the counter that did not want to lift. “Most people are, in one way or another.”

Grace looked at her. “That sounds like something learned.”

“It sounds like something obvious.”

“Not everyone notices obvious things.”

Vera met her eyes. “You do.”

The smile Grace gave her was small and careful. “That depends on the thing.”

Vera should have left it there. She knew she should have. But exhaustion had worn down the part of her that knew when to stop.

“And what have you noticed about me?”

Grace did not answer immediately.

She set the glass down, aligned it with the others, and only then said, “You are alone. You don’t want anyone to know how alone. You are afraid, but you get angry quicker because you think it hides it better.”

Vera stared at her.

The words landed too close. Worse, Grace had not said them cruelly. She had said them the way someone might identify bad weather on the horizon.

Vera looked away first, angry with herself for giving even that much.

“You should save that for the men,” she said. “They’d pay good money to hear themselves described.”

Grace’s gaze lingered. “And you would?”

“I’d charge more.”

Grace almost laughed.

Almost.

The door opened before she could answer, and the air changed with it.

Vera hated that she felt it before she looked.

The pub did not fall silent this time. There were fewer men to perform for, fewer voices to dim. But something in Harry’s posture shifted. Grace’s hand stilled at the shelf. A man at a table near the window lowered his eyes to his glass with sudden dedication.

Vera turned.

Thomas Shelby stepped inside alone.

No Arthur filling the doorway with noise. No John grinning like trouble was a favorite coat. Just Thomas, rain darkening the shoulders of his overcoat, cap low enough to cast shade over his eyes until he removed it.

He looked even more dangerous in the quiet.

Last night, with his brothers around him and the Garrison full of men, Vera had been able to pretend he was simply part of the chaos. This morning, there was nothing to hide him in. He moved through the room like a decision already made.

Grace straightened. “Thomas.”

Vera heard it.

The softness.

It was not much. It was not enough for most people to notice. But Vera had been noticing everything because everything might matter.

Thomas glanced at Grace. “Grace.”

Then his eyes moved to Vera.

She forced herself not to look away.

“Still here,” he said.

It was not a question.

Vera reached for a clean glass because her hands wanted something to do. “So are you.”

Harry made a sound behind her that might have been warning or prayer.

Thomas’s expression did not change. “I own the place.”

“That would explain it, then.”

One of the men at the tables coughed into his drink, trying not to laugh.

He took off his gloves slowly. “You found somewhere to sleep.”

“A chair by the fire.”

“No London friends to take you in?”

There was no sharpness in his voice. That made it worse. Men like Arthur came at a person with force. John, probably with charm first and violence waiting behind it. Thomas did not need either in the beginning. He only placed words down and watched what they crushed.

Vera set the glass on the shelf. “London is far.”

“Not far enough to forget which part of it you came from.”

Grace’s gaze flickered toward her.

Vera felt heat rise in her chest, not embarrassment exactly, but something close to panic dressed up as irritation. She had slept badly. She was hungry despite the bread. Her head still hurt in a dull line behind her eyes. She did not have the energy to outmaneuver Thomas Shelby, and they both knew it.

“I didn’t realize you were waiting on my full address.”

“I wait on all lies eventually.”

The words landed quietly.

Vera looked at him then, really looked, and saw that he had not come in by chance. Maybe he had business with Harry. Maybe the Garrison always drew him in. But he had come early enough to find her before the noise of the evening, before his brothers, before she could hide behind work.

He had come to look at her again.

The thought should have frightened her.

It did.

But fear still chose anger when it rose in her.

“You’ll be bored, then,” she said.

Thomas took one step closer to the bar. “Will I?”

“I’m not interesting enough for this much attention.”

For the first time, something like amusement moved behind his eyes. It was gone too quickly to trust.

“No,” he said. “You’re not.”

Vera’s grip tightened on the glass she had picked up.

Thomas watched her hand, then her face.

It was a small movement, his attention shifting. Most men would not have noticed the way her fingers tensed around something breakable. He did. He noticed everything and made no apology for it.

Grace moved before the silence could deepen. “Your usual?”

Thomas did not look away from Vera immediately. Then he nodded once.

Grace poured his drink.

Vera busied herself with wiping the counter, listening to the muted clink of bottle against glass. Her heart had not settled. She hated that too. She hated the way her body reacted to him like it knew something she did not.

Grace set the whisky down.

Thomas took it but did not drink.

“Harry,” he said.

Harry came over with his towel thrown across one shoulder. “Tommy?”

“Private room.”

Harry nodded at once and reached beneath the bar for a key.

Vera should not have looked toward the door at the back.

She did anyway.

The private room sat half-hidden behind a narrow door near the end of the bar, the kind of room meant for men who did not want their business overheard but wanted everyone to know they had business worth hiding. Vera had not been inside it. Not knowingly.

Still, when Harry passed Thomas the key, Vera knew exactly which lock would stick.

The knowledge came so cleanly that she almost turned toward it before stopping herself.

Her pulse jumped.

He noticed.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

Vera picked up the cloth again. “No.”

“You looked at the door.”

“So did everyone else.”

“Not like that.”

Grace glanced between them.

Vera forced herself to keep her hands busy. “I didn’t realize there was a correct way.”

Harry shifted behind the bar, uneasy now.

Thomas held her gaze for a moment longer, then turned the key over in his fingers. “You’re very quick to answer questions I haven’t asked yet.”

He walked toward the private room.

Vera told herself not to watch him go.

She watched anyway.

Thomas placed the key into the lock and turned it. It caught halfway. Vera knew, with horrible certainty, that he would need to lift the handle before turning again.

Her own hand twitched against the counter.

He paused.

Then, very slowly, he lifted the handle.

The lock gave.

Thomas opened the door and looked back at her.

Not long.

Just enough.

Vera’s mouth went dry.

After he disappeared inside, the pub seemed to breathe again. Harry went back to pretending none of it was happening. Grace wiped the same glass twice.

Vera stared down at her hands.

She did not know that lock.

She had never opened that door.

She could not have known.

“You all right?” Grace asked quietly.

Vera hated the question because it was almost kind.

“I’m working.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“It’s the answer I’m giving.”

Grace accepted that for exactly three seconds.

Then she said, “Tommy doesn’t like unanswered questions.”

“Then he must have a very difficult life.”

“That depends on who refuses to answer.”

Vera looked at her. “Are you warning me?”

Grace’s expression softened into something that looked practiced because it had to be. “I’m saying it’s easier here if you give people less reason to wonder.”

Vera leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You first.”

The words hit.

Grace did not flinch, but she did go still.

Vera wished she felt victorious. She didn’t. She felt as if she had stepped onto rotten wood and heard it crack beneath her.

Before Grace could answer, Thomas’s voice came from the private room.

“Grace.”

Grace looked away first. “Yes?”

“Bring the ledger.”

Harry, still at the end of the bar, reached automatically toward a shelf beneath the counter.

Vera moved at the same time.

Her hand went under the bar and found the ledger before she had thought about where it might be. Brown cover. Worn edge. Kept behind the second stack of old newspapers, tucked far enough back that spilling drink would not reach it.

She pulled it out.

Then froze.

Grace was looking at her.

Harry was looking at her.

From the open door of the private room, Thomas was looking too.

Vera’s hand remained on the ledger.

The room seemed to narrow around it.

Harry spoke first. “How’d you know where that was?”

Vera could hear the blood in her ears.

The answer should have been easy. It wasn’t.

“I saw you reach for it.”

Harry’s brows drew together. “No, you didn’t.”

Vera’s grip shifted on the cover. “Then I guessed.”

“That’s a very lucky guess,” Grace said.

Vera looked at her. “I have many gifts.”

The joke fell flat.

Thomas stepped into the doorway. “Bring it here.”

For a second, Vera thought he meant Grace.

He didn’t.

His eyes were on Vera.

Harry looked as if he wanted to object, but he did not. Grace’s expression was difficult to read. Concern, suspicion, maybe both.

Vera picked up the ledger.

Each step toward the private room felt like walking deeper into a trap that everyone else understood better than she did. The air seemed colder near the doorway, though that was impossible. The room beyond was dimmer than the bar, lit by a lamp and a low fire. A table sat in the center with chairs arranged around it, ashtray already waiting, papers stacked in a careless-looking order that Vera suspected was not careless at all.

Thomas stepped aside to let her enter.

Vera did not want to turn her back to him.

She did anyway because refusing would show too much.

She crossed to the table and set the ledger down. Her eyes moved despite herself. The fireplace. The cabinet. The narrow pass-through window. The wall panel near the corner with a faint split in the grain.

Her gaze caught there.

Only for a second.

Thomas saw it.

“Have you been in this room before?”

“No.”

“You knew where the ledger was.”

“I told you I guessed.”

“You looked at that wall.”

Vera faced him. “Maybe I’m admiring your decor.”

Thomas closed the door behind him.

The sound was soft.

It still made her stomach drop.

Outside, Grace’s voice became muffled behind the wood. Harry called something to a customer. The ordinary life of the pub continued, separated from Vera by one closed door and Thomas Shelby standing between her and the only way out.

He did not move closer.

That restraint unsettled her more than if he had.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I told you.”

“Vera Hart.”

“Yes.”

“From London.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

The same soft answer as the night before.

Vera’s temper snapped through her fear. “Then why ask if you’ve decided already?”

“Because liars change when they get tired.”

She laughed once, without humor. “And what have I changed into?”

“Someone less careful.”

Vera looked toward the door and back again. “Is this how you welcome all your barmaids?”

“You’re not a barmaid.”

“I’m wearing the apron.”

“That doesn’t make you one.”

“No. It makes me employed.”

“For now.”

The words were not loud. They did not need to be.

Vera felt them settle where he meant them to. Under the ribs, near the fear she kept trying to pretend wasn’t there. He could have her sent out. Harry might feel sorry for her, but Harry answered to Tommy. Grace might help her, or she might not. Vera did not know enough about anyone to rely on mercy.

She swallowed.

Thomas saw that too.

Something in his expression shifted, not soft enough to be comfort, but less sharp than before. It irritated Vera that she noticed.

“You’ve no people here,” he said.

Vera held herself still.

“No money,” Thomas continued. “No bag. No proper story. You sleep in a chair and wake knowing where things are kept in a pub you entered yesterday.”

He paused.

Vera said nothing.

Thomas reached for his cigarette case. “That makes you either very unlucky or very dangerous.”

“I’d prefer unlucky.”

“You don’t get to choose how men see you.”

“No, men seem very committed to doing that themselves.”

This time, Thomas almost smiled.

Almost.

He lit his cigarette, and the brief flame turned the room gold at the edges. Vera watched his hands despite herself. Steady. Precise. Familiar in a way that made her feel sick if she let herself think about it too long.

Then she saw the watch chain.

It was tucked against his waistcoat, glinting faintly where the firelight caught it. Thomas followed her gaze.

His hand stilled.

Vera looked away too late.

“Time bothering you now?” he asked.

Her mouth felt dry. “Should it?”

Thomas pulled the watch free.

The chain slipped over his fingers with a faint metallic whisper. He opened it with his thumb, checked the face, then looked back at her as if the movement had been casual. It was not casual. Nothing he did was.

The click of the watch opening went through Vera like a struck match.

For one impossible second, the room shifted.

The fire seemed too bright. Smoke thickened in the air. A chair scraped hard against the floor. Someone was shouting nearby, but the sound came to her as if through water.

Thomas was in front of her, but not like this.

Closer.

His hand was around her wrist, not hurting her, holding her there with the force of someone who could not afford for her to run.

“Look at me,” he said.

Or had said.

Or would say.

Vera blinked.

The private room returned.

Thomas stood several feet away, watch open in his palm, cigarette burning between his fingers. His eyes had narrowed.

Vera realized she had reached back for the table to steady herself.

“Vera,” he said.

She hated the sound of her name in his mouth.

Not because it was cruel.

Because for a heartbeat, it had sounded familiar.

“I need to go back to work,” she said.

Thomas did not answer right away. He closed the watch with the same quiet click.

Vera’s stomach turned.

Then he stepped aside.

She moved quickly, but not so quickly that she looked like she was fleeing. At least, she hoped not. She opened the door with a hand that nearly slipped on the knob and stepped back into the main room.

Grace looked up at once.

Vera kept walking.

“I need air,” she said to no one in particular, and did not wait to see whether anyone allowed it.

Outside, the cold hit hard enough to make her gasp.

She stopped beside the wall of the pub, one hand pressed to the brick, and forced herself to breathe. The street was alive around her, carts and boots and voices, smoke flattening the sky into one long gray bruise. None of it made sense. None of it had made sense since she opened her eyes in the alley, but the private room had been worse.

Because for the first time, the wrongness had not felt like being lost.

It had felt like remembering.

Vera closed her eyes.

Look at me.

She heard it again, not with her ears, but somewhere deeper.

Thomas’s voice.

Urgent.

Not threatening.

That frightened her more than anything else had.

The door opened behind her.

Vera turned too quickly.

Grace stepped out, shawl pulled close around her shoulders. For a moment, they looked at each other in the narrow strip of space between the pub wall and the street.

Grace spoke first. “You shouldn’t run from him.”

“I didn’t run.”

“You left quickly.”

“I needed air.”

Grace looked toward the street. “He’ll only wonder more.”

“He was wondering plenty before I breathed wrong.”

Grace’s mouth softened, but not into a smile. “Tommy notices things.”

“So do you.”

That settled between them again, sharper now.

Grace lowered her voice. “You don’t want him thinking you’re hiding something dangerous.”

Vera stared at her, tired enough that the words came before caution could stop them. “And what are you hiding, Grace?”

For the first time, Grace truly looked caught.

It was small. A blink held a fraction too long. Her fingers tightening in the edge of the shawl. But Vera saw it, and Grace knew she saw it.

Then the mask returned.

“I’m not the one he brought into the private room.”

“No,” Vera said. “You’re the one listening outside it.”

Grace’s expression went still.

Vera’s heart knocked once, hard.

She had guessed. Mostly. She had seen Grace near the door when she came out, seen the way she straightened too quickly, the way her attention had been fixed somewhere it shouldn’t have been. But the accuracy of the accusation startled even Vera.

Grace drew herself up. “You should be careful.”

Vera laughed under her breath. “Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Maybe you should start listening.”

“And maybe you should start asking fewer questions.”

The pub door opened again before Grace could respond.

Thomas stood there.

Both women went quiet.

His eyes moved from Grace to Vera, then back again. If he had heard them, he gave no sign of how much.

“Inside,” he said.

Not loud. Not harsh.

It was still an order.

Grace went first.

Vera remained where she was for one stubborn second longer, because apparently terror had not cured her of being foolish. Thomas looked at her, waiting. He did not repeat himself.

Finally, Vera stepped past him into the Garrison.

The day worsened as it went on.

By evening, the pub filled until there was nowhere Vera could stand without brushing against someone’s shoulder or reaching across someone’s arm. Noise rose with the smoke. Men pressed close to the bar, impatient and laughing, some already drunk, some mean with the desire to become so. Vera worked because work was easier than thinking. Pour, take coins, wipe, move, refuse to flinch.

But her awareness had split.

One part of her stayed behind the bar, measuring whisky and dodging hands.

The other remained in the private room, hearing the click of Thomas Shelby’s watch.

She did not see it again. He had left sometime in the late afternoon, slipping out after speaking quietly to Harry and exchanging a few words with Grace that Vera could not hear. His absence should have made the room easier.

It did not.

A thing did not have to be present to cast a shadow.

Grace’s mood changed after that too. She was still polite, still helpful when the crush at the bar became too much, but there was a careful distance in her now. Vera felt it and understood that whatever fragile courtesy had existed between them had been damaged outside.

Good, Vera told herself.

Then, almost immediately, she wondered if good was another word for stupid.

A man near the end of the bar snapped his fingers at her.

Vera turned her head slowly.

He grinned, showing teeth stained by tobacco. “You deaf?”

“No.”

“Then bring us a drink.”

“Ask properly.”

His friends made a low sound of amusement.

The man leaned forward. “You forgot where you are, girl?”

Vera held his gaze. She could hear Grace shift beside her.

No sharp mouth, she reminded herself. Not every fight needed her name on it. Not here.

She reached for a bottle. “No. I remember.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

Vera poured the drink and set it down, keeping her hand around the glass when he reached for it. “Coin first.”

His smile thinned.

For a moment, she thought he might grab her. A day ago, before waking in the alley, she would have trusted a bar between them more. Now she knew better. Wood did not stop men who felt entitled to cross it.

A hand came down on the man’s shoulder.

John Shelby leaned beside him with that bright, dangerous grin Vera remembered from the night before.

“She said coin first.”

The man’s expression changed at once. “John.”

John did not remove his hand. “You know, I like this one. She’s mean.”

“I’m not mean,” Vera said.

John looked at her. “You are, a bit.”

“I’m efficient.”

“Mean efficiently, then.”

Despite herself, Vera almost smiled.

The man paid.

John watched until he did, then clapped him once on the shoulder hard enough to make the warning clear beneath the friendliness. “Good lad.”

Arthur appeared behind John with a cigarette in his mouth and impatience in his whole body. “John, stop flirting with the barmaid and drink.”

“I’m defending her honor.”

“I didn’t ask,” Vera said, taking the coins.

John’s grin widened. “See? Mean.”

Arthur barked a laugh and turned toward Grace for his drink.

The Shelby brothers changed the pub simply by existing inside it. Men made room without being told. Some became louder in the hope of seeming unafraid. Others quieted. Vera watched it happen and understood, in a way she had not fully the night before, that Tommy did not stand alone. His name had weight because it came with brothers, with men, with violence that had already taught this street where to bend.

John leaned his elbows on the bar. “Tommy been bothering you?”

Vera kept wiping a glass. “Does he consider it bothering?”

“Tommy considers it conversation.”

“That explains why no one looks happy during it.”

John laughed. “You’re learning.”

Arthur took his drink from Grace and looked Vera over with a squint. “You still claiming London?”

Vera paused.

John’s grin sharpened.

Grace looked down at the bar.

Vera placed the clean glass on the shelf. “Do you still ask every woman you meet where she’s from?”

Arthur laughed like she had pleased him. “Only the suspicious ones.”

“That must keep you busy.”

John pointed at her. “I’m telling Tommy you said that.”

“Will he be hurt?”

“No.”

“Then it won’t be worth your breath.”

Arthur laughed again and moved away, already calling to someone near the tables. John lingered half a second longer.

“You know,” he said, quieter now, “if you are running from something, there’s better places to hide than this.”

Vera looked at him.

There was still humor in his face, but less of it. John Shelby, she realized, was not careless. He only wore careless well.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.

He nodded once, as if that was the best he expected, and followed Arthur into the room.

Vera watched him go.

Grace came to stand beside her. “They like you.”

“They don’t know me.”

“That doesn’t always matter to men.”

Vera turned. “Does Tommy like me?”

Grace’s expression shifted before she could stop it.

There it was.

Something Vera had touched without meaning to.

Grace reached for a bottle. “Tommy doesn’t like people easily.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“No,” Grace said. “It wasn’t.”

The rest of the evening dragged. Vera’s feet hurt. Her head hurt. The noise grated against her nerves until every shout felt personal. Still, she worked. She worked because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant the private room, the lock, the ledger, the watch, Thomas’s voice telling her to look at him in a memory she could not possibly have.

By closing, Vera felt hollow.

Harry ushered the last men out with all the charm of a door slamming. Arthur and John had gone earlier. Grace stayed until the room was nearly empty, tying her shawl with slow fingers.

“You’ll sleep here again?” Grace asked.

Vera stacked glasses without looking at her. “Apparently I look good in chairs.”

Grace did not smile. “You shouldn’t stay alone.”

“With Harry?”

“Harry leaves.”

Vera paused.

She had not known that.

Harry was counting coins near the bar and either did not hear or chose not to. The fire burned low. Outside, the street had quieted into that uneasy kind of dark that did not feel empty so much as waiting.

Vera put another glass on the shelf. “Where do you sleep?”

Grace’s eyes met hers.

The question was too pointed. Both of them knew it.

Grace reached for her gloves. “Good night, Vera.”

Vera watched her leave.

Harry locked the front door behind her a few minutes later and turned the bolt. The sound sank into Vera’s chest.

“You,” he said, pointing toward the private room, “clear the glasses in there. Then you can sit by the fire. I’ll be upstairs for a bit, then I’m out. Don’t open the door for anyone.”

“Does anyone try?”

Harry gave her a look. “It’s Small Heath.”

“That’s becoming a very flexible explanation.”

“It’s the only one you’ll need.”

He went into the back, leaving Vera alone in the main room.

The silence after a full night of noise felt unnatural. Vera could hear the building settling around her, the faint tap of rain against the windows, the scrape of Harry moving somewhere overhead. The Garrison without men in it seemed less like a pub and more like something holding its breath.

She stood still for a moment, listening.

Then she picked up a tray and went to the private room.

The door was unlocked now.

Vera hesitated before opening it.

She told herself that was reasonable. Thomas Shelby had spent the morning asking her questions inside that room with the door shut. Anyone would hesitate.

But when she stepped inside, the feeling that went through her was not fear of Thomas.

It was the awful certainty of entering a place that had been waiting.

The private room looked ordinary enough. Chairs slightly out of place. Two glasses on the table. Ash in the tray. Papers gone, though Vera could still see the cleaner rectangle where they had rested. The fire had nearly died, turning the room into amber shadow.

Vera set the tray down.

She collected the glasses first.

Then she wiped the table.

Then she moved a chair back where it belonged and stopped with her hand still on the wood.

The wall panel near the corner had shifted.

Or maybe it had always been that way.

A narrow line ran between two pieces of wood, almost invisible unless the firelight caught it. Vera stared at it until her eyes began to water. Her heart had started beating harder, though nothing had happened. No sound. No movement. No reason.

She should leave it alone.

She knew that as clearly as she had known the ledger’s hiding place.

Leave it.

Take the glasses.

Go back to the fire.

Instead, Vera stepped toward the wall.

The floorboard beneath her left boot gave the smallest creak.

She did not look down.

She had already avoided that board earlier without knowing why.

Her mouth went dry.

Vera lifted a hand, then lowered it again. She looked back at the door. Empty. No one there. Harry’s footsteps had faded upstairs. Rain ticked faintly against the window.

She faced the wall.

“This is how stupid women die in stories,” she muttered.

The sound of her own voice helped for half a second.

Then she pressed her fingers against the panel.

Nothing happened.

Vera almost laughed at herself. Relief came so quickly that it made her angry. She had been standing in a private room pressing walls because a century had gone wrong around her and she had begun to believe the building knew her.

She pulled her hand back.

The panel clicked.

Vera stopped breathing.

A thin section of wood loosened inward, not opening fully, just enough to reveal darkness behind it.

For several seconds, she did not move.

Then, slowly, she pulled the panel aside.

There was a hollow space inside the wall.

Dust lay thick along the bottom. The smell that came out was stale and old, trapped wood and metal and time. Vera’s fingers shook as she reached inside, already hating herself for doing it, already knowing she would not stop.

Her hand touched something cold.

Round.

Metal.

She drew it out.

A pocket watch rested in her palm.

It was not the same as Thomas’s. Vera knew that immediately, though she did not know enough about watches to say why. This one was older, heavier, its surface dulled by years hidden in the wall. The chain was wrapped around it tightly, as if someone had put it away in a hurry and meant to make sure it did not catch on anything.

Vera stared at it.

The room seemed to tilt.

She could hear ticking.

That was impossible. The watch could not still be ticking. Not after being hidden in a wall for God knew how long. Not after dust had settled over it like a burial sheet.

Still, Vera heard it.

Slow.

Steady.

Louder than her own breathing.

Her thumb found the catch.

The moment she pressed it, the world tore sideways.

Smoke filled her lungs.

Vera was standing in the Garrison, but not the Garrison as it was now. The room was louder, hotter, full of panic. Someone shoved past her hard enough to make her stumble. Glass shattered nearby. A woman screamed from the direction of the bar, sharp and terrified.

Grace.

Vera knew it was Grace without seeing her.

Then Thomas was there.

Not the cold, controlled man from the morning.

This Thomas had blood at his collar and fury stripped bare across his face. His hand closed around Vera’s wrist, strong enough to hold her but not enough to hurt.

“Look at me,” he said.

Vera tried to pull away.

He stepped closer, blocking out the smoke behind him. “Vera, look at me.”

There was fear in him.

The sight of it stunned her.

Thomas Shelby, afraid.

Not for himself.

For her.

Something crashed against the door. Men shouted. Someone called Tommy’s name like a warning.

Vera looked down and saw the watch in her hand.

Her fingers were slick.

Blood.

She did not know if it was hers.

Thomas gripped her face then, making her look at him. His mouth moved, but the words came broken, swallowed by the roar around them.

Then she heard one sentence clearly.

“If I remember you, I lose you.”

Vera gasped.

The private room came back so violently that she nearly fell.

Her shoulder struck the wall. The loose panel clattered against the floor. She clutched the pocket watch to her chest with both hands, breathing too fast, trying to drag air into lungs that still believed they were full of smoke.

There was no shouting.

No broken glass.

No blood.

Only the dying fire and the rain and the watch in her hand.

Vera looked down.

The watch was open.

Inside, beneath the cracked glass of the face, something had been tucked into the casing. Not behind the hands, but into the other side, hidden beneath the lip of the cover. A small folded paper. No, not paper.

A photograph.

Vera’s fingers had gone numb, but she managed to ease it free.

The photograph was old. Worn at the corners. Creased down one side from being folded too tightly into the watch. For a moment, she could not make sense of it in the dim light.

Then the image settled.

Vera stopped breathing.

She was in the photograph.

Standing outside the Garrison beside Thomas Shelby.

Not smiling.

Not posed like lovers. Not sweet. Nothing that simple.

Thomas’s hand was around her arm, not dragging her, not quite holding her back, but gripping her with urgency. His head was turned slightly toward someone out of frame, eyes hard and alert. Vera’s own face was turned toward him, mouth parted as if she had been speaking when the photograph was taken. There was something in the angle of her body that looked like she had been caught between running and staying.

It was unmistakably her.

It was unmistakably him.

And at the bottom of the photograph, written in small, faded ink, was a date.

Vera made a sound she did not recognize.

The photo trembled in her hand.

No.

This could not be another strange feeling. It could not be a door she seemed to know or a lock she understood too quickly. This was proof. This was her face printed in a photograph from a year she had only arrived in yesterday.

Her knees weakened.

She sat down hard in the nearest chair, still staring at the image.

The room felt too small around her. Too hot, then too cold. Vera turned the photograph over because some desperate part of her thought the back might make it less impossible.

There was writing there.

Not much.

Only one line.

The handwriting was hers.

She knew it the way a person knew their own voice even when it came from another room. The slant of the letters. The pressure of the pen. The slight drag at the end of the words where she always grew impatient.

Vera read it once.

Then again.

Her chest tightened until breathing hurt.

Do not let him remember you.

The words blurred.

She blinked hard, but they remained.

Do not let him remember you.

A floorboard creaked outside the room.

Vera’s head snapped up.

For one dreadful second, everything went still.

Then Thomas Shelby’s voice came from the doorway.

“Vera.”

The manor was silent, neat and chilling. Tommy stood calmly as you turned your head slowly around the entrance, trying to regain as many memories as possible. But it was all the same from before, green walls, polished wood and priceless decors placed in a perfect position. Yet you struggled to piece how everything felt so disarranged. 

A residence you hardly knew was now known as your home. A building with countless rooms for you to find comfort in. Many empty beds which would one day be expected for you to fill with children of your own, all holding the Shelby name. 

Noticing how lost you were in thought, Tommy inhaled slowly. Taking off his cap and jacket, the help took it from him, Tommy’s foot stepped closer as he approached you from behind. You gasped as you sensed his presence, the scent of tobacco curled into your nose. 

“Shall we go find Charlie?” Tommy asked, a soft smile on his lips. 

You stuttered, wanting only to run — to your room, to lock the door, to disappear. But something deep in you compelled you to nod your head. Perhaps your past self, the spirit of the woman you didn’t know you turned into. Tommy gently reached for your hand, and led you to the staircase. He glanced over his shoulder and dismissed the staff with a wave.

Slowly, you climbed step by step, your mouth opening as you came to a sudden stop as you stared at the wall. A painting that confirmed your new life in this world, a life dedicated to Thomas Michael Shelby. Tommy’s eyes lingered on the portrait as well… admiring the painting, doting over his family. Reflecting on the process it took… the hours brought for the artist to perfectly get your features, even though he always knew it’d never compare to your beauty. 

You searched for any sign of sadness in your eyes, pain in your lips. But you looked at ease. Charlie sat on both yours and Tommy’s lap. Tommy, of course, looked the same as always. Sharp, determined, and frosty, wearing a neat suit as per usual. Gulping, you looked away from the painting and hurried up the stairs. 

His hand tightened around yours, guiding you down the hall until you reached the nursery. Giving you a gentle look, Tommy nodded his head and let the door creak open. A maid with light brunette hair sat in the middle of the room, with Charlie on the floor. Her eyes immediately shot to you both.  

“Mr Shelby” the maid gasped lightly, Charlie distracted by the wooden toy train in his hand. 

Tommy’s hands rested on your shoulder, lightly urging you to take a step inside. But you hesitated, little Charles now unrecognizable to you. The maid gathered Charlie’s attention, then pointed toward you. A wide, pure smile grew on his tiny lips. 

“Mama!” Charlie cried, balancing onto his feet before he charged for you. 

His body swaying from side to side, Tommy was certain he’d fall. You froze, the baby you cradled at night now a growing toddler, latching his tiny arms around you as he begged you to pick him up. Slowly, you reached down and picked him up, arms shaking as anxiety surged like crashing waves. 

Charlie continued to cry your name, holding tightly onto you and burying his head in his chest. You cooed by his ear, caressed the back of his head as you bounced him on your hip. Tommy came up to you from behind, his breath close to your ear as he rubbed Charles' heated cheek. 

“There, there Charles. Mama is home” Tommy declared, sending chills down your spine. 

You sniffled and blinked away the forming tears before Tommy could notice. The maid blinked her eyes towards you and cleared her throat. Tommy’s eyes shot towards her and he clicked his tongue. 

“Go tend in the kitchen Ruth, ensure Eric is preparing something for us” Tommy rolled his shoulders back. 

“Yes Mr Shelby” Ruth replied quietly, hurrying to her feet.

You stared at Ruth, her features unrecognizable to your fractured mind... she must have started after you arrived. Locking eyes with one another, you could see the fear in her eyes. But you blinked, believing the forced suspicion in your puzzled mind, She hesitated to speak, the first syllable of your name echoing through the air before she came to a sudden stop. “Mrs Shelby” she corrected, Tommy’s eyes followed her to the door. Letting herself out of the room, the door shut behind her. 

Staring at the closed door momentarily, Tommy turned his eyes back to you. His desperate hands urged him to wrap them around your body, the figure he’d missed so dearly. As his hands reached out into the air surrounding you, you took a sudden step forward. 

“He’s grown so much” you commented, smiling at Charlie as he looked up to you. “Let’s play?” you asked, sitting yourself down on the carpet, desperate to reclaim any memory this room might offer. 

Tommy shook off the urge to light another cigarette and sat on the floor close to you. Both of you sat there quietly, spoke a few words to one another as Charlie picked up toy after toy. Keeping your attention on Charlie, you could still feel Tommy’s eyes linger onto you from behind. 

Charlie quickly grew restless as lunchtime neared. As you felt your stomach growl, there was a gentle knock on the door. “Come in” Tommy said. 

Mary appeared, smiling softly down to you all. “Lunch is prepared Mr Shelby” she announced. 

Tommy nodded and dismissed her. “Are you hungry my boy?” Tommy asked, reaching his hand towards Charlie’s head to scuffle his hair. Charlie whined out and stood onto his two feet. “Hungry, my darling?” he continued, widening the corners of his lips with a closed smile. 

You quietly nodded, sitting up onto your knees and weakly holding your arms out to Charlie. But Tommy picked him up instead, soothing by his ear as he grew reckless for food. Sitting him up on his right hip, Tommy held out his hand for you once more, you reluctantly took it. 

The nursery room door closed, Charlie’s toys remained scattered over the carpet. 

BEFORE

The morning after crawled in through the window like a thief — pale light spilling across the disheveled sheets, the taste of ash still on your tongue. The new reality pounding against your skull. Guilt and regret churned in your stomach, thick and sour, twisting tighter with each breath.

You barely made it to the bathroom before collapsing beside the toilet, clutching the cold bowl as your body lurched forward. Each dry heave scorched your throat, leaving tears burning in your eyes. But the shame stayed buried in you. 

A quiet shuffle behind you. Then…

“Good morning, my love”

Eli’s voice was too loud for the early hour, tone soaked in amusement. He crouched behind you, gently sweeping your hair back with one hand, the other roaming up and down your back, leaving a trail of goosebumps.

You clung to the bowl like it was the only solid thing in the world, your shoulders trembling, lips wobbling.

“What’s wrong with you, eh?” Eli chuckled. “You drank half as much as me, and I’m right as rain”

“They sell cheap gin” you rasped, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, pushing yourself up on shaky arms.

“Aye, Tom started brewing it himself” Eli grinned. “Don’t let him hear you say that”

You didn’t respond, just staggered back toward the bed. The hotel room was still dim, curtains half-drawn against the rising sun, the air stale with smoke and perfume. You collapsed face-down into the sheets, turning your face toward the wall — away from him, away from the memories still flashing in your mind like a broken film.

Eli followed with a glass of cold water, sitting on the edge of the bed. He rested a warm hand on your upper arm, rubbing small circles into your skin. The water is placed on the bedside table. 

“Am I going to have to play doctor today?” he whispered, smiling wide.

“I can take care of myself” you mumbled, voice muffled by the pillow.

“No, no…” he mused. “Haven’t seen you like this since… ever” he acknowledged. 

His fingers traced your bare shoulder, slow and deliberate. A pause.

“You’re meant to see Thomas” you muttered, silently cringing at the thought.

“Thomas?” he repeated slowly, left eyebrow raised. “You two on full-name terms now?”

A split second went by.

“Sorry — Tommy” you corrected. 

“Mmm” Eli hummed thoughtfully, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I’ll call his office and cancel” he glanced at you with a soft smile, though there was a firmness beneath it. “You need to eat something,” he added, sweet but commanding.

“No. I need to sleep” you opposed.

“Food is good” he said, entirely unbothered.

There was an instant silence. 

You heard the clatter of the rotary dial as he reached for the phone on the bedside table. You peeked at him through half-lidded eyes — too casual, too composed, as if none of this lingered in him the way it did in you. 

Of course none of it did, he was blinded. You were keeping him in the dark, it was only a matter of time until Tommy showed him the light. He was already plotting your exile, you were certain about it. 

“‘Ello, just need some room service” he said, soft and smooth. “Breakfast for two — aye, that sounds lovely… Mhm. Perfect, thank you, darling. Champagne? Think we’ll skip that today” he chuckled, squeezing your hip. 

He hung up and looked down at you with that same crooked smile.

“Doctor’s orders” he shrugged gently. 

It was quickly followed with another sequence of the rotary dial turning. Eli held the receiver to his ear, tapping his fingers on his bare knee as he awaited. 

“Ah yes, this is Elias Walsh speaking… My, my — is that you, Lizzie? How are you today?” Eli grinned, his tone light but with an edge that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

A soft, enthusiastic hum followed, but his gaze stayed distant as he glanced out the window at the grey sky.

“Good, good” he murmured smoothly. “It’s nice to be back home. Is Tom in?” He tapped his fingers lightly on the windowsill, eyes narrowing just slightly.

A pause stretched on the line.

“Ah, shame” Eli sighed faintly. “Please tell him something’s come up… We’ll see him tomorrow” His smile tightened, a shadow flickering across his face.

He shifted slightly toward you, then back to the receiver. “Will you be going to the races too, Lizzie?”

Another pause, then a quiet reply.

“Ah… another shame” Eli’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, before he added softly,

“Suppose I’ll see you next time I’m in. Bye, Lizzie. Have a lovely day”

He ended the call with a soft click, fingers lingering on the receiver for a moment before he set it down carefully.

Eli kissed your temple, soft and deliberate, like you might shatter if he pressed too hard. Your breath caught as his warmth sank into you. His thumbs brushed your arms, coaxing you toward the water glass, gentle but firm.

You drank the water, gulping hard as your stomach growled. Eli laid beside you — in silence — as the sun’s warmth blissed into the room. His eyes never left you, as you focused your sight at a random spot. 

You didn’t eat much — you couldn’t. Not that Eli ever expected you to. He happily tucked into his meal, stealing a good portion of yours too. Even the water felt like it was going to come back up. He gulped down his coffee as if it was stone cold. 

All you could do was sit still, focus on your breaths and try to clear your rattling mind. 

The sun hid behind the clouds and smoke, the curtains opened as Eli looked down at the rusting city. A stern expression locked on as he observed the working men walking below him. 

He tidied up, ran a warm bath for you, filled with lavender. Rubbing his hands together, he approached you. A smile so innocent, yet something else… It made your chest tighten — just by an inch. 

Reaching out for you, you allowed him to pick you up. The behind of your knees locked in one arm and your shoulder blades in the other. Carrying you to the ensuite, Eli gently dropped you to your feet, the cold tiles prickled at your skin.

Stripping your clothing like you were a delicate flower, Eli held out his hand for you as you stepped into the warm water. A breath of ease echoed out as you sunk in. Your eyes squeezed shut as your body relaxed in its embrace. 

But even as the lavender wrapped around your skin, your thoughts slid somewhere else. A flicker—barely conscious—of different hands helping you, a different voice calling you 'love'. The weight of someone else behind your closed eyes. And it wasn’t Eli. It was Tommy. Shamefully Tommy.

Eli’s hands held onto the waistband of his briefs when the phone rang. 

Both of you looked out of the ensuite. 

The continuous ringing filled the room. 

A moment of hesitation from the both of you. 

“Just a minute… my love” Eli said quietly.

His footsteps echoed softly as he stepped out of the ensuite. The door creaked shut behind him, and the phone kept ringing, sharp and insistent. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then picked up with a low, clipped tone.

“Elias Walsh speaking” he said — voice drained of all warmth.

From the other side of the door, muffled voices — sharp, tense — bled through the walls. Eli’s brow furrowed with every word. His jaw tightened until it looked like it might crack, shoulders locking rigid.

“Relax, Tom. Just relax, will you? Still drunk, are we?”

You caught the edge of a laugh — cold, almost bitter — before his voice turned sharper, frustration biting through. His footstops crept under the door as he paced back and forth.

“She’s not feeling well, Tom. I’m not leaving her cooped up here all day in a city she doesn’t know”

Eli’s tone held warning — that unmistakable mix of threat and disappointment.

You listened, silent. They knew each other too well. You could hear it in the rhythms of the call — the coded hostility, the unspoken history. But Eli didn’t hear the shift in Tommy’s tone last night. He didn’t see the way his eyes had locked on you like a wolf spotting a mark. Eli might understand Tommy the soldier, the businessman, the ruthless gangster… But not Tommy with you. Not with the woman who uncovered him, for a glimpse of time. 

“I’m not your dog, Tom”

Correct, you thought. But maybe you don’t know the invisible collars everyone wears in this city.

A short beat.

“Then quit barking at me like one”

He pressed harder now, his voice thick with disdain.

“Just because you don’t give a damn about women doesn’t mean I’m thoughtless too. I’ll see you tomorrow. That’s final”

The call ended with a sharp snap. Eli dropped the receiver back into its holder and ran a hand through his hair. He stared at the mirror as he needed to pull himself back together.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. 

Rolling his neck, he stepped to the door, and pushed it open. 

The smile he’d worn earlier had vanished — replaced by something colder. There was anger in his eyes, but he buried it well.

He stepped before you, quiet. 

“You can still go” you said softly. “I don’t need you to stay”

Saying it felt like opening a fresh wound—painful and raw. You wanted to stop the words before they left your mouth, but they slipped out anyway. It was like offering the knife to inevitably cut open your heart. 

“Nonsense” Eli scoffed. “Tom thinks this is his city. Thinks he makes the rules. I’m the only one not afraid to challenge that”

You almost pitied him. Because the city wasn’t the prize here. Tommy’s power ran deeper, harder to trace — a kind of leverage you hadn’t learned to see yet. But you could feel its weight, pressing down on everything, especially in the way he looked at you… Like you were already a part of a game you hadn’t agreed to play.

“You told me it was his city”

“Yes, but we’re partners” he replied. “I won’t bow to him”

You wondered about their friendship. But then you remembered — it was tied up with business. And business always pulled the worst out of people. It twisted loyalties, blurred lines, and bred a quiet kind of wariness beneath even the closest smiles. Between Tommy and Eli, there were debts unpaid and secrets kept, things spoken in half-truths and silence. You could see how the weight of it all pressed on them, shaping every glance and every word. 

It wasn’t just friendship—it was a delicate, dangerous balance, and you were caught right in the middle, like a lamb wandering between two wolves, neither of whom would hesitate to tear you apart if it served their purpose.

You were awaiting a pair of fangs, or more. 

“It sounds like you don’t even like him” you commented. 

Eli laughed under his breath.

It was always difficult, the two of them working side by side — both too proud, too hungry for control. Every decision felt like a quiet battle, every glance a contest of will, every task had to be executed perfectly otherwise they risked being told about their room for improvement. 

“He’s a bastard. Always has been. But so am I — I suppose. But we’re bound by blood — and blood keeps you close, even when you’d rather cut the vein”

His mind drifted, to the trenches, to the dirt, to the undergrounds of France. The echoes of their fallen comrades running down his eardrums. The promises shed between one another, the boundaries crossed to keep each other alive, the pain they endured together. He blinked once, twice, thrice. Pulling him back.

You spoke no words, but he noticed how tight his grip was on your thighs. Too tight. After a beat, he let go. 

You didn’t flinch. Just reached for his hands, gently. You always knew when the ghosts were clawing at him. Somehow, every time, you pulled him back.

Wanting to cut through the heaviness, he searched for lighter air.

“This trip’s not all business, remember? I still owe you that walk to the bridge…” He reached for your hand. “So you’d better be feeling good soon, darling”

AFTER

You watched the way Sarah, one of the maids, stared at Tommy as she served him his supper. Her wide eyes and agape mouth went unnoticed by him as she got as close as she was professionally allowed to do. The exact way she acted when she cleared the table after lunch. He focused on his cigarette, blowing the smoke in the other direction to keep the smoke away from Charlie. 

“Do you always smoke in front of him?” you asked, looking down to the young Shelby that sat on your lap. 

“Here and there” Tommy replied, taking in a deep inhale as if he knew what your next sentence will be. 

“I don’t think it’d be good for his lungs” you pointed out. 

“Suppose you’re right” he immediately agreed, pressing his cigarette out into the ashtray beside him. 

He looked down to his meal, Tommy hardly ate, that much you could remember from before. He merely preferred to watch, often using restaurants as a setting to organise business meetings. But today, he made a difference for you. 

Blinking at the plate full of roast lamb, a variety of vegetables, a slice of sourdough bread covered in gravy, he cut the meat and took a mouthful of delicious food he hardly indulged himself in. You smiled softly, helping Charlie take a bite of his mashed potatoes. 

“Let me feed him, love. You need to eat too” Tommy said, looking over to your untouched plate. 

“He’s comfortable” you sighed, your eyes growing tired over an exhausting day of hardly doing anything.

Finishing the food in his mouth, Tommy scooted the wooden chair back and slipped out from the table. 

“Come on Charlie, come to dada” Tommy instructed, holding out his hands for his son as he stood beside you. 

Charlie reached out for his father, you exhaled and looked down to your meal. Your stomach still felt extremely small, your appetite hidden in the shadows. The Doctor urged you to eat even if your mind didn’t desire it, but he didn’t tell you how hard it could be from time to time. 

Slowly, you took small bite after small bite. Tommy’s eyes moved from Charlie to you as he kept him on his knee. His small hands played with his food, Tommy tutted but allowed his child to explore his capabilities. 

“A few more bites, darling” Tommy ordered kindly. 

Your cheeks turned a shade of red as you stared at your food, you could hardly finish your lunch earlier. This felt like too much to achieve. The plate was still over half full, a part of you thought you’d be here all night. A few bites later, you placed the metal cutlery down and looked over to Tommy. 

“Come on son, let’s let you in the bath” Tommy stood up. 

You followed after him, the maids entered on your way out. Locking eyes with Sarah, your brows furrowed as you tried to remember your interactions with her. But she hardly spoke to you, seemed to ignore you at every chance. She forced her attention ahead, and helped clear the table. 

The two of you bathed Charlie, small sounds of laughter left both of your lips as Charlie splashed his arms continuously in the water. The tiles under your knees now warm,  sleeves rolled up to elbows, hair damp from the splashes of bathwater from Charlie’s wild delight. 

“Enough, you little rascal” Tommy ordered through a smirk. 

Of course, Charlie didn’t. He cupped the water in his little hands before letting it run over the rim. You sighed, the water soaking immediately into your fabric. 

“He likes the lavender soap” Tommy said quietly, his voice low enough that it felt like it was meant only for you. 

You glanced at the bottle sitting by your hip, the label worn and soap nearly empty. “Did I use this before?”

There was a pause. Just enough to notice the flicker in his eyes.

“You did” he said finally. “Said it helped him sleep”

You nodded, even though you didn’t remember. It was easier that way, to let the rhythm of the moment guide you instead of the questions pressing behind your ribs. Just for tonight though, to keep the high tide of emotions deep in the sea of your clouded mind. 

Tommy dipped a hand into the water and rubbed it gently over his son’s curls. The boy leaned into the touch, familiar and safe.

“He’s always happier when you’re here” Tommy murmured. “You were good with him. Still are” he corrected. 

You weren’t sure how to answer that. Instead, you leaned forward, gently rinsing the soap from the boy’s arms as he giggled and splashed at your fingers. You shook off his implications, the path he was trying to already walk you down. He still owed you answers, no matter how much he wanted to avoid them. 

Tommy watched the two of you with a stillness that made your skin prickle, not threatening, just... observant. Almost reverent towards you. For a moment, it felt like this was real. Like you had always belonged here, knees on tile, child between you, and Tommy beside you in silence. Fulfilling the vows you’d made for him. But then you remembered how those vows were supposed to be for Eli, and your stomach turned.  

Still, you smiled for the boy. Because he was real. His laugh was real. And that was enough of a distraction to keep everything at bay. The adoration you remembered for him was still there, the only person, memory in this house that made you smile, feel at peace. 

You noticed a fresh scar just below Tommy’s neck. Thin, red, and not quite healed.

“What happened?” you asked.

He brushed his fingers over it like he’d only just remembered.

“Just a business deal gone bad, my love” he said, too lightly. Too rehearsed.

You mouth opened to ask more, but Charlie squealed just then — a handful of bubbles popping in his face.

Tommy chuckled, leaning in. “Oi, little rascal”

And just like that, the moment passed. Your mind drifted.

Shortly after, Tommy pulled Charlie from the bath, the water dripped as you hurried to wrap a towel around him. Changing him into his nightwear, Tommy was indeed true to his word. The child cried as soon as you laid him down in the darkness. 

You held Charlie tight in your arms, soothing a lullaby into his ear as Tommy leant by the wall beside you. Admiring how you still were with children after everything, most importantly, his child, your Charlie. As Charlie’s cries died down, Tommy silently appeared behind you, gently stroking his son’s cheek as he fell into a deep slumber. 

“Finally” you whispered, leaning into the crib to place him down. The both of you left in silence, Tommy clicked the door shut. 

The security of Charlie was now gone, you were alone with Tommy. It was hard to look him in the eyes as you held your shivering hands. 

“Did you want to stay up, my love? Maybe read a book while I work?” Tommy offered, accompanied by a hopeful smile.

“I’m tired, Tommy” you declined, voice weak. Looking down as a yawn came out of you. He read your expression, letting the silence dance around you. 

“Let’s get you to bed then” he replied. 

But you weren’t led to your room, it was his room. At least that’s all you remembered it to be. Your eyes scanned around the large bedroom, the curtains drawn shut and fire dancing away. You felt your stomach ache, Tommy casually walked through and poured himself a drink. 

“Tommy” you spoke, he looked back at you. “I can’t sleep in here” you stated, looking to the floor. He stood there silently, drink in hand as he slowly nodded his head. “I don’t feel comfortable enough, please understand” you begged, feeling pathetic, your eyes twitching with tears.

“Of course, get dressed, I’ll prepare your old room” Tommy assured, rubbing his hand over yours. 

Leaving you alone, you exhaled, shaking your head at how timid you felt to be back here at Arrow House. Forcing yourself into the wardrobe, you dragged your fingertips over the variety of items hung up. Many pieces seemed to be untouched. Countless of styles you’d never dare to wear. Colours you hated and styles you thought were clearly out of fashion. 

You found your sleepwear and changed quickly, fearful he’d walk back in at any moment. Tying the robe tightly around your figure, you hurried down the hall, the warm lights leading you towards him. The door was open, he was on his knees as he placed pieces of wood into the rising fire. His drink of whiskey is empty on the side table. 

Approaching you, Tommy took your hands in his, looking you dead in the eye. You shuddered, feeling defenseless with him. 

“I’ll have Ruth bring you some tea, it’ll help you sleep, put your mind to ease” he whispered, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear. 

“Thank you Tommy” you whispered, forcing a small smile at him to keep him happy. 

A gentle kiss was placed to your forehead, you shivered at his cold lips. Leaving you in solitary, the door clicked shut, you sat on the bed and finally let your tears break free. 

Bee-lining to his office in a hurried pace, Tommy called out Ruth’s name. The office door flung open as he strode into the room, heading straight to his desk. Ruth scurried in, rolled her shoulders back and clamped her hands behind her back. 

“Mr Shelby” she answered, trying to keep her heaving at a low from her sudden dash. 

Opening his top desk draw, Tommy pulled out a small wrapped package. Ripping it open, he stared at the clear bag of herbal tea in his hand. Holding it up to the light, he inspected the purple substance, his face stern and eyes intimidatingly wide. Ruth’s eyes narrowed as she observed him. 

“Mrs Shelby needs some tea. Brew her this, check on her in an hour” Tommy instructed, taking long steps towards his worker. 

Holding out the bag, Ruth inspected it, daring to look him up in the eye. “What is it, Mr Shelby?” she questioned, her curiosity got the better of her. 

Letting his arm drop a few inches before she could grab it, his brow cocked, blue eyes narrowed as he stared at her. Ruth could feel her heart thump against her chest as he allowed the silence to frighten her. 

“Lavender” he clicked his tongue, shaking the bag for her to grab ahold of it. 

Taking the item, Ruth rushed out of the room and followed his orders. Carrying up the cup of hot tea, she gave a few gentle raps before opening the door. The tears on your cheeks were clear from the doorway, you sniffled and wiped your face dry. 

Following clear, strict orders before your arrival, she kept her mouth shut unless necessary. The fine china clinked on the bedside table, she gave you a soft smile. 

The scent pulled you in, warm and floral. But something inside you held still. A thread pulled tight in your chest — not fear, not exactly. Just tension, sharp and shapeless.

“Mrs Shelby” she whispered, nodding her head before departing. 

You looked over to the tea, the steam twirled above the cup, the smokey notes whispering sweet nothings through your senses. You picked up the cup, letting its heat warm your scared hands. Breathing in the scent, you felt the calming, peaceful and soothing effects already make an effort on you. You took a small sip, awaiting it to cool down enough to indulge its herbal bite. 

Tommy sat at his desk, staring directly at the clock. Watching the arms progress around the circle, over and over again. Only waiting for the small hand to complete a full run. Cigarette after cigarette, drink after drink, Tommy’s hands impatiently tapped on the wooden top. His mind growing desperate, body turning reckless. 

As an hour had passed, Tommy hopped to his feet and walked out of his office. On perfect timing, he watched Ruth climb the staircase, his footsteps silent, appearance unnoticed as he followed behind her. Ruth slipped into your room, Tommy leant on the wall beside the wall as he waited. He lit another cigarette and took a deep drag. 

You laid motionless in bed, the cup empty with the herbal remains left cold at the bottom of the china. Your eyes squeezed shut, arms wrapped tightly around a pillow as small sounds left your lips. Counting silently, you breathed in and out, she approached your side and picked up the glass, followed by flicking off the lamp. 

She took cautious steps back towards the door, hell barely touching the carpet in fear of any creaks waking you. But you didn’t move, she gave you one last look and slipped out of the room, soundlessly shutting the door behind her. 

A gasp left her lips as she heard Tommy’s foot step behind her, his cigarette in between his lips. Tommy frowned slightly down at her, slowly, he raised his hand to pull the cigarette out of his lips, blowing the smoke directly over her face. 

“I hope Mary didn’t forget to remind you of your role” Tommy hummed, leaning his head an inch closer to her. Ruth didn’t dare to say a word. “You’re the help, not her friend. I kept you here to make sure she stays comfortable. I hope you don’t make me regret that decision” Tommy continued, his words dripping of threat. Ruth gulped, keeping her chin up as his eyes inspected her. Her limbs trembled below him. “You’re dismissed, you’ve had a long day” Tommy dismissed her, a smirk crept on his lips. 

She took shaky steps down the carpet, but looked over her shoulder as she heard the door crept open again. Freezing in her steps, she watched Tommy peep his head through the crack. His recently lit cigarette now pressed into the carpet. Like clockwork, he turned his head towards Ruth. 

“Why are you going in there?” she spoke in hushed tones, but he heard her loud and clear. 

“Don’t stress about it, I’m her husband… Remember?” Tommy challenged, the smirk on his lips turning wicked. “Go to bed Ruth… That’s an order” Tommy spoke firmly, before slipping into your bedroom below Ruth could utter another word. 

Taking soundless steps, Tommy navigated his way through the dark. Dropping his knees onto the carpet, he held onto your hand and pressed his chest into the edge of the bed. He gently kissed your hand, trailing the kisses up your arm. 

Leaning over you now, he caressed your heated cheek, you murmured in your sleep.

GUYS I PROMISE THERE WILL BE SMUT, JUST BEAR WITH ME

The ground is littered with cigarette butts and spit, the markers of a successful night. You step around the mess, placing careful steps to save your satin shoes as you approach the staircase, carved in dark oak. The stairs are clean, the work of a young woman scrubbing the steps with soap and water. Her name is Amelia and she speaks with a soft creole accent, her skin smudged in places from the wood polish she uses to clean the banister. She always leaves before opening hours and you don’t blame her. You exchange a short greeting but she keeps her eyes averted to avoid any unnecessary familiarities with a woman of your work. 

You move past the stairs and enter one of the rooms on the first floor of Madame Dumont’s House, a Creole Townhouse on the edge of the French Quarter. One the first floor is the bar, a short dark oak bar with a glass back bar, smudged indefinitely with fingerprints and spirits. The walls of the bar are set with a dark green wallpaper, interlaid with mirrors for views of the whole room. The front door, kept closed, was shielded by a heavy pink velvet curtain which was pulled aside whenever a patron entered. It afforded the guests a certain level of privacy presented as intimacy. Beyond the bar, Madame Dumonte had her office and private room. The girls had the furthest room on the first floor for dressing, cleaning, and eventually- undressing. The two upper floors were reserved for paying customers, five small rooms with couches and dull oil lamps, veiled with velvet drapes, lace curtains, and frilly things. 

By the time the brothel’s doors opened at dusk, the barroom would be clean, music playing, and girls scantily dressed with their bow-lips puckered into inviting smiles. You open the door to the backroom and change from your nice, tailored dress into a corseted costume in dark purple fabric, your breasts pressed against the rim of the basque. Your skirts were ruched to the top of your thighs, showing the tremors of skin when you walked. This work has become normal for you. This was New Orleans, this was Madame Dumont’s. 

x

Thomas Shelby lit a cigarette behind his hand as he left the docks of New Orleans. The heat was nothing like he’d experienced before, the humidity so thick that he felt he could swallow it, drown in it. His meeting with a southern moonshiner at the dock had left him sour, irritable. The man’s American haughtiness made it impossible for Tommy to establish a deal, deflecting insulting stereotypical comments and low-ball offers. He hoped to find a wealthy partner in the port city to operate his whisky business in America, paying him the majority of the profits as the main operator and owner. 

He flicked his silver lighter closed and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers. He was dressed too warmly for the tropical weather and stuck out like a sore thumb against the bright pastels of the city. He ignored the looks he received from ignorant men and women huddled beneath lace parasols in the afternoon sun. His pale face looked as if it had never seen the sun, always hidden beneath the bib of his cap or under a cloud of coal smoke in Small Heath. With his natural bored expression, Tommy strolled down the cobblestreet avenues, glancing at the signs dangling from the second story balconies with lace-like iron framework. 

Horse-drawn carriages still maneuvered down the roads, forcing the city folks to step to the side, braving the sidewalks full of musicians and entertainers offering their caps for spare coins. Tommy ducked into the first hotel he came across, letting the cigarette dangle from his lips as he removed his cap and shoved it into his backpocket. The hotel manager, a thin man with more mustache than hair, looked him up and down with large, suspicious eyes. 

“Can I help you?” The man asked, his voice lacking the pleasantry he would have shown to any other customer. 

“One room,” Tommy answered, glancing around the stale yellow front room that reminded him of the biscuits he’d been forced to eat when the war was on. The manager cleared his throat and shooed away the assistant standing beside him with the room ledger. Tommy watched the young man leave, his brows set firmly. 

“I’d recommend you try one of the establishments a few blocks down.” 

“This isn’t a ‘otel?” His accent forced its way out as Tommy finally allowed a bit of his stale frustration show. 

“It is, yes, but our accommodations here are very… selective.” The man replied curtly. 

Tommy said nothing for a moment. His brows were now raised but his eyes betrayed none of the choice words which came to his mind. He cleared his throat slowly and placed his palms on the desk. 

“Selective?” He repeated quietly. 

“I’m afraid so sir, yes.” 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Tommy leaned closer, exhaling the words in a gravely voice. The manager reared his head back, shocked by the stranger's tone. 

“I must ask you to leave, sir. Respectfully, this hotel is for a certain clientele. We reserve the right to deny service to those whom we deem as… averse to our establishment.” 

Tommy inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring slightly, and slapped his palms against the desk. 

“Right, then would you be so kind as to point me to an establishment better suited to men like me?” 

The manager swallowed and shook his head. “I wouldn’t know their names but I’m sure you can find a place closer to Bourbon Street.” 

Tommy studied the skinny twig of a man and contemplated grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him across the counter. Taking another breath, Tommy nodded once, removed his cigarette from between his lips, and stubbed it out slowly on the polished counter until the wood was marked with ash. 

“Right.” 

The streets were still busy as he exited but of a different sort. The women carrying parasols, arm-in-arm with their husbands or sons were gone. Now people of the night began to emerge, slipping silver flasks from their clothes to get their spirits lightened. Tommy approached a man cleaning his trumpet on the curved corner of a sidewalk and dropped a few coins into the man’s case. 

“Know of any places to get a drink around here?” 

The trumpet player looked between the coins and the darkly clad man, obviously foreign to the port town. His pale blue eyes seemed to glow in the growing darkness before the new electric streetlamps flickered life. 

“This is New Orleans, man. There’s booze everywhere.” The trumpeter shrugged with a smirk. 

“Somewhere private then.” Tommy offered. 

“Want company too?” The man asked after a moment of thinking. Tommy pulled his cap back onto his head and considered his question. It had been a year since Grace had left Birmingham and he’d rarely paid for a whore since then, too emotionally withdrawn for even a simple fuck. Though he felt no certain way, he removed a cigarette from his case and shrugged once. 

“Fine.”

“Then try Madame Dumonte’s. Two blocks down.” The trumpeter pointed and went back to cleaning the mouthpiece. Tommy said nothing, just followed the man’s finger and started off. 

x

You down a short glass of cheap clear bourbon, not old enough to be colored from the barrel. Madame Dumonte opens the door to the dressing room and calls your name with a twinge of impatience coloring her tone. 

“Susana? Susana, get your ass out there! We’re running out of available girls. Damn busy night tonight.” She huffs but you can tell she’s pleased with the numbers. 

“Coming mama,” you answer too slowly or with too much attitude because the shapely woman with greying brown hair tuts and crosses her arms across her large pale chest. 

“Are you back talkin’ me, miss?” 

You stand up immediately and walk to the door, evading her eyes in a show of compliance. “No ma’am.” 

“Because hell! I can take you off that floor if you would rather go do somethin’ else. Honey don’t tempt me because it don’t hurt me.” She keeps calling after you from the doorjam as you reenter the barroom past the second velvet curtain that gives the working girls some sense of safety from the Johns. 

When you step beyond the curtain you clearly hear the sounds of competing instruments up and down the street. The gramophone in the barroom plays the same collection of records every night, switched and turned by a little local boy who gets paid a dollar a week to do just that. The room is busy but not too crowded where there are too many men and not enough girls to entertain them, it makes the men start competing, leads to foul language, violence, and the barman’s shotgun eventually being pulled to quell the unpleasantness. 

You’d known these men all your life, or at least the types of men who came and went. There was rarely a familiar face among the Johns who came to buy sex and a cheap drink. Travelers are your commodity, something you could expect, spot, and serve. But this evening there is a new kind of stranger. He is dressed poorly for the weather, wears his hat inside, and is too pale to be a laborer. The man sits alone at the bar, his eyes lowered and his expression disinterested in the women maneuvering around him like gracious hostesses. 

He is also by far the most handsome man in the room. 

x

Tommy keeps his eyes focused on the spirits in his glass, thinking. After all the trouble of coming to New Orleans to expand his business, his first few encounters had been anything but satisfying. Polly had thought it crazy for him to cross the Atlantic for this but America’s prohibition meant money, big money. He’d worn out the racing business, the betting business, and he wanted to sell whiskey for profit and become filthy rich- a final fuck-you to the Bourgeoisie who forced his family into the tunnels beneath the Somme. He had a week in the city, plenty of time to stir things up and make connections, making money later on. He’d only exhausted one option and as a tunneler, he knew how to make more than one route.  

He doesn’t hear you when you lean against the bar, your elbow cocked against your corset. It's your perfume that pulls him away. Bergamot, or something heavy. He turns his eyes to you and the color almost scares you: pale, pale blue. 

x

“Are you one of the whores?” He asks plainly, his hand still wrapped around his glass. You tilt your head to the side and raise one eyebrow, more tickled by his question than offended. 

“Honey, what else would I be doing here?” You smile slightly, treading lightly. 

Tommy looks you up and down slowly, his gaze lingering on the structure of your basque and the tremble of your thighs from the nerves that never seem to go away. 

“You don’t look like one,” he answers in a matter-of-fact tone and turns his head to drink. 

“No? How do I look like then?” You ask with a slipping smile, the familiar muscle memory beginning to kick in as you begin to realize he will be nothing special, nothing new, just another man, just another few dollars to pay rent. Tommy turns back to you, hearing the edge in your voice, and sets down his glass. 

“Like you’re in the wrong profession.” He answers finally and pushes the empty glass away and signals the bartender for another. You’re debating how to respond when he adds a moment later, “too pretty.”

He doesn't meet your eyes as he delivers the compliment but you can’t seem to believe it could be because the man is shy. You can’t help but blush slightly, which he doesn’t even seem to notice. 

“Are you looking for a girl?” You ask, remembering your role in this conversation- the bargaining chip. 

“Don’t know yet. Right now,” he sighs and readjusts himself in the barstool, “I just want a drink.” 

“Buy me a drink then?” You sit on the stool beside him, angling your body towards him, your back to the gramophone. The man turns his cool eyes to yours and you swear you can see a small smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. 

“What makes you think I’d do that, eh?” 

“Because I’m pretty, you said it yourself.” 

Your response seems to satisfy him the way he leans back in his chair and signals to the bartender. Joel, the old barman, smiles as he pours you and the stranger a double whiskey. You look down at your glass as Tommy sips, his lips parting in a slow seductive manner. 

“Men don’t usually just come here for a drink, you know. Our booze isn’t that good. The girls are better.” You smile, watching him drink. 

“That so?” He asks and retrieves a cigarette. You hold out your lighter before he can find his own. He nods in thanks and leans forward just enough for you to light the end. 

“Here, when someone lights your cigarette, it makes them your whore…” you smirk teasingly, snapping the lighter closed. 

Tommy sits back in his chair once again and blows out his smoke, smiling now. “Strange customs here… shitty whisky, pretty whores, and rules I’ve never heard of? New Orleans is a strange place.” 

“You’re not from here?” You ask and drink from your glass. 

“No need to play dumb, love. It’s not that hard to spot a foreigner here, eh?” 

You smile and shrug, “where do you come from then?” 

“Small Heath,” he answers without hesitation, knowing you will not know the name. 

“I need a country, honey.” You laugh and push your empty glass away. 

“England.” 

Your eyebrows raise immediately, fumbling any chance to appear unimpressed and cool. Tommy smiles further but you speak before he can make a joke of your reaction. 

“You’re a long way from home aren’t you, baby?” 

Tommy doesn’t answer, just takes a long drag of his cigarette and eyes you. He studies your face the way a confident man can without catching himself in self-consciousness. His gaze lends you some of his confidence, just enough that you feel empowered to reach for his fabric cap, something like a fisherman’s cap, and remove it. He doesn’t stop you, just watches with silent pleasure. Beneath his hat, you see dark brown hair, nearly black. He reminds you of the Roma groups who settle on the edges of town in their wagons to sell their trades and cultures to white southerners. They have the same dark hair and ancient eyes, plagued by the past. His beauty is remarkable, stunning, and you pause for a moment to look his face over. The freckles hiding in the shadows of his skin. 

“Here for work then?”

“That’s none of your business.” 

“Fine then. Running away maybe? From a broken heart?” 

He doesn’t answer but his face falls and you know you’ve accidentally found the truth, or at least one of them. 

“Honey this is New Orleans, everyone here is running from a broken heart.” You let the words sit for a moment as you study the hat in your hands. It's warm from his head but it doesn’t bother you, it feels intimate. As you turn it you find silver blades hidden in the crease above the brim. You show him with a soft smirk, one without judgment. 

“Strange customs in New Orleans? Seems like you have a few yourself.” 

You give the hat back and Tommy rolls it before putting it in his suit jacket. He’s wearing a three-piece suit in 90 degree weather from the humidity coming off the ocean. 

“Want me to take your coat?” 

Tommy, who looked away, turns his head back and raises a brow. “Well, can I trust I’ll get it back.” 

“You could buy a room upstairs, keep it safe. Otherwise, you’d just have to give it to Joel and his shotgun. No telling how safe it'll be down here.” 

Tommy grins and shakes his head. He’s sweating and you can see beads of sweat form on the shaved sides of his head. 

“You run a crooked business here, don’t yeh?”