tsreader

He was a particular man as he enjoyed things neat and in order, but he more often than not, was not a cruel man to work for. To be a maid or nanny in the Shelby household was sort of a privilege on the ladder of household jobs. She was a simple maid who clocked in and then clocked out, and no one, but Francis had ever paid attention to her. Though, the occasional time that she’d get a glimpse of the man, he’d offer a nod of kindness and politely tell her to have a good day. She wasn’t as loud as Maisy, as outgoing as Clara, and certainly wasn’t as funny as Sandra. Many of the guests coming in and out paid attention to them, offering little quips of flirting. But her? She preferred to move quietly with her broom through the shadows. 

She took her little bucket with soapy water and the mop, turning his office doorknob with her elbow. Grunting as she pushed open the door with her bottom, the person inside looked up, amused how she struggled. “Shoot, shoot, shoot,” she hissed, water droplets splashing from the bucket. Throwing down the mop, the room echoed with a little boink. 

Tommy slid back down in the chair, feet propped on the desk and smoke perched between his fingers. He watched as she worked for a while, humming, completely oblivious to his presence. But he wasn’t oblivious to hers. She definitely wasn’t as loud as Maisy, outgoing as Clara, and annoying as Sandra, he thought, but she was certainly, in his opinion, the prettiest. The most delicate, the quietest, and the most womanly. Not womanly as physically, but that she radiated a certain femininity modern day ladies lacked. In fact, out of all his girls, she was perhaps the one with the most inquiries from single men. Often partners of his. But none of them would do her justice. 

His eyes followed the curve of her body as she bent over to move an ottoman. A breath hitched, getting stuck in his throat. Kicking his feet off the desk, he slowly got up and moved over. She was attempting to move an iron sculpture, far too heavy for her. Slow, taunting strides, he moved closer until he could smell her perfume. “Let me help you,” he said, but when his hand went to touch her shoulder, she immediately swirled around with a look of horror on her face.

Her heart dropped. She was alone just two minutes ago. Who? How? When? Gripping the wet mop tightly, she let out a loud shriek. The mop at that point turned into a very reliable weapon as she raised in and whacked it across his face. Tommy stumbled back, hand feeling the wetness on his cheek. “Fookin’ ‘ell!” he cursed, putting his hand up.

When her breathing eased and her heart calmed, she took a deep breath, stick the mop in the bucket. When she realized who she hit, her face went ghostly pale. “Mr. Shelby,” she whispered, seeing not only her job, but also her life flash before eyes. Immediately, she went for her rag, dabbing along his wet cheek. Fretting, she kept repeating, “oh, I’m so, so, so sorry…I just, I had…You just…Mr. Shelby, you’re never in your office at this time.”

Sighing, he moved away a bit, softly grabbing her hand. “It’s alright, it’s alright. Just be more careful with that thing, eh?” He pointed to the mop and her eyes followed before looking back at him. “It’s dangerous, I suppose.” It took her a moment to hear the smile in his voice. When she finally understood his tone, she smiled. “I was going to help you move that thing.”

“The sculpture?” she asked, kicking at it. It was a god-awful fugly thing. Rich people often bought ugly things. “I still don’t know what it is-”

“Me either,” he agreed, handing his wet coat on the rack and loosening his shirt. “But it came with the house and I have no energy for interior design. I’m not fashionable-”

“I think you are,” she let out, her cheeks going red. She motioned to his clothing before sighing. 

“And to think I was about to give you a punishment,” he teased, pinching at her chin. He winked, enjoying the way her face reddened at anything. She flinched back slightly, her face skewing, trying to figure out if he was joking or not. “But then you complimented me.” 

She gave a soft acknowledgement of amusement and grabbed the bucket, bringing it to the farthest corner of the room. She felt his eyes linger on her before she broke the small ounce of silence by saying something that surprised her. “I heard you were good with punishments, Mr. Shelby.” 

His brows arched before he nodded, saying in his smooth, quiet voice that reeked of confidence, “oh, yes. I can be very good at administering punishments.” She whacked the mop against the floor before dragging it around in circles, watching the suds bubble and pop. He walked closer, making sure not to step on the wet bits. “What have you heard of these punishments?” He pulled up a chair and draped one leg over the other.

Without looking at him, she said, “girls like to talk, Mr. Shelby-”

“Do they? And,” his voice dragged off as his hand motioned for her to continue. “And what exactly, y’know, ah, what exactly are these words they speak? This talk.”

Her smile widened. “Just gossip, I’m sure. Right, Mr. Shelby?” Her eyes fluttered to him. “All the things they say about you. Surely, there is no reason to believe any of it-”

“Oh, but perhaps there is some truth. All gossip starts with the truth, doesn't it, eh? What do you girls talk about in your bed chambers?” Oh, so many things. The three of them chatted constantly about the Shelby men. All night sometimes. How handsome he was, how sexy that other one was. What they believe they’d be good at in bed and what they’d be bad at. She, however, was more of a listener. Sometimes they’d say things like Mr. Shelby likes to use a heavy hand when a maid acts up. They’d all sing their song, claiming his hand has spanked their bottom. But she doubted it. 

“That you like to keep your maids in check-”

“And do I? Do you feel like I keep you in check-”

“Not anymore or less than any other boss, Mr. Shelby,” she said, walking around him to get a rag. “But they do say that you enjoy a heavy hand against a lady’s bottom. That when they act out, you have no quips or quarrels about giving a good spanking.” Tommy kept his composure, but on the inside he felt quite…shocked. They said that? That he spanks his maids. Well, the thoughts may have circled his mind, he never once spanked a maid. 

He grinned in amusement, grabbing a new cigarette before deciding against it, tucking it away. “And you believe such things?”

“You said it yourself, Mr. Shelby, all gossip must have some origin of truth.”

“And you think that is what I should give you right now? A spanking?”

She froze, feeling the heat return to her cheeks. She rushed back around the chair and looked at him. Scrambling for words, she was fighting for her dignity. “No, no, no! N-no! I was just…I didn’t…Why would I want a spanking? You’re the one who scared me! I was simply acting on self defense-”

“So you want to give me a spanking-”

“No! Mr. Shelby, nobody is giving anyone a spanking-”

“No?” he snorted, grinning, quite enjoying the flustered look on her face. “And you, dear, think you aren’t deserving of one?”

In a tone of finality, she stated, “no, I do not want a spanking-”

“I didn’t ask that,” he said, casually, shaking his head. “I asked whether or not you thought you were deserving of one. Now!” He grunted, getting from the chair, pushing it back. The room echoed with a creak. Slow strides, he cornered her against a book again. Her heart beat bounded like a drum in her chest. Tommy leaned in, pinching her chin. “You wouldn’t let me ruin my reputation, now, would you?”

“Mr. Shelby,” she let out, placing her hands against his chest. His hands reached up and held them, squeezing lightly.  

“And you can go back to your little maid friends. Tell them all about how Mr. Shelby spanked you.” He walked backwards, her hands still in his as he guided them both. “Now, are you more of an over the desk type of girl or over daddy’s lap kinda naughty, eh?” Tommy answered for her as she kept opening her mouth to speak, but it only came out as choked whispers. He twirled her around and pushed her against his desk. Her hands braced herself as he pressed his body against her back. 

“This is hardly necessary,” she whined out, but didn’t fight, even spreading her legs just a tad. 

“Oh, but it is,” he grinned. “Because you and I both know that you have been a naughty girl, and most importantly, Mr. Shelby believes in upholding certain notions and ideas about himself, especially those that keep his girls in line.” It had been so long since a man touched her so closely and intimately. Her body reacted almost in a deprived, needy, desperate way. The young maid wasn’t going to argue, mumbling a surprised yes, sir under her breath. “Under or over?” She answered for him, grappling with her skirts which he ever so kindly placed over her arched back. His fingers hooked under the waistband of her tights and pulled down. 

“Shit.” Her body shuddered, feeling the cool breeze hit her back. The way his fingers felt, just teasing at her skin as he pulled down her layers, sent goosebumps over her body. 

“Language,” he  whispered, in deep thought, admiring the curves he often fantasized about. How many men pulled down her underwear before him? It was always the quiet ones that surprised him. The ones that played innocent and unknowing were the ones with the deepest, dirtiest desires. She was no different, and he knew by the time she was done working at Arrow house, he was going to pull every last fantasy from her brain. “It’s like you knew that you were going to be a naughty girl today.” His fingers traced lines along her pretty pink knickers. “With naughty lace trimming. Who was to see these today if not me, eh?”

She looked back at him, doe like eyes. “No one-”

“I think you’re a little lying slut,” he said, watching her choke on his words. “That doesn’t mind that her boss is going to take these little panties and keep them-what? Don’t look so shocked.” Slowly, tauntingly, he pulled down her panties. “And what I’ll do with these,” he trailed off, pulling them off one foot and then the other. “Is I’ll keep them for my naughty self and start a whole new reputation for myself-”

“And you’ll-”

He sent a warning glare her way, his hand raised only to spank it down with a harsh slap. She cried out as the room echoed with a lightning sharp crack. “Shut up,” he told her, leaning over her body. Grinning, he grabbed her quivering jaw with one hand as he brought her panties to her face. “And what I’ll do, while my wife sleeps next to me, is I’ll pull out my cock. Give it a few good tugs until it’s nice and hard to the thought of you.” She let out a little moan, her ass pressing up against his groin, feeling the hardness. “And you can tell Clara, Sandra, Maisy, whatever the fuck their names are…that out of all of them, Mr. Shelby fantasizes about you-”

Closing her eyes, she whimpered out, “and my panties-”

Two fingers slipped in her mouth, pressing down her tongue. “I told you to shut the fuck up,” he grunted, positioning himself so that his knee could rub up between her legs. Her eyes rolled back as she moaned, a stream of drool pooling on his desk. It’d been to fucking long because just by his taunting, she felt herself swell with pleasure. His fingers pushed deeper, enjoying the sounds of her gags. “And when I am nice and hard that pre-cum is dripping, I’ll take your cute panties and wrap them around my cock.” His mouth went real close to her ears, peppering kisses, tickling her with teasing chuckles. “I’ll rub them up and down, thinking about how they touched your wet, needy cunt.” He removed his fingers from her mouth, along her to gulp up deep breaths. “Sloppy,” he commented, rubbing the drool all over her lips. 

“Mr. Shelby-”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, the prettiest, but the stupidest, eh?” His hand raised again landing down on her ass with an even harder spank. She cried out, fingers scratching at his desk. It left a pretty red mark. “I said keep that mouth shut!” His hand covered her mouth, watching her squirm and wiggle. Her face going nice and red, he grinned, pinching her nose. Panicked, she whined, thrashing and trying to pull away. But it felt so good. So fucking good to be right under his control. He allowed her breath as he continued on. “And while she sleeps right next to me, I keep stroking my cock, softly moaning your name as I stain these pretty panties white.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he quickly slapped her cheek. “I’m not fucking done yet...and I walk myself to the bedroom where you’re sleeping, and I make you wear them-you can even show your little friends how Mr. Shelby adores you so much more than them.” He smiled, pressing a soft kiss against her wet, pouty lips. When he pulled away, she inched forward, chasing after them. “Good girl,” he complimented, meeting her. Their lips moved together as he teased at her bottom lip; licking and nibbling. Her head was swirling with confusion, arousal, and above all, desperation while his right hand rubbed down her back, grabbing her ass. “Now, you go and finish my floors. I have business to attend to.”

“B-but-”

If she came home even ten minutes late, his eyes would lift from whatever papers he was reading — a silent warning in themselves.

It wasn’t fatherly. It wasn’t quite anything, really. Just Tommy Shelby’s way of making sure the world stayed where he wanted it.

Y/N learned to keep quiet. To say yes, Mr Shelby when addressed. To eat when told, to stay out of the study, and to never ask about the men who visited late into the night. The house staff treated her kindly enough, but there was something unspoken in the air, a rule they all followed. You did not speak too loudly, and you did not get too close.

And she didn’t. Not until that one night.

***

He’d come home earlier than usual, the engine of his Bentley cutting through the still evening air. The clock in the hallway read just past ten, but the place was quiet, too quiet for that hour.

Frances met him at the door, wiping her hands on her apron. “Evening, Mr Shelby. Supper’s been left in the warmer.”

Tommy nodded absently, removing his gloves. “Where’s the girl?”

Frances hesitated for just a beat, enough for his eyes to narrow. “Miss Y/N left earlier in the evening. Around five, sir. Said she was meeting a friend.”

He checked his watch. The metal clicked shut against his palm. Five.

And now it was ten.

He gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable. “That all?”

“Yes, Mr Shelby. She hasn’t returned.”

“Go to bed, Frances.” His tone made it clear there’d be no further questions.

When the maid’s footsteps disappeared upstairs, Tommy poured himself a measure of whiskey and sat in the armchair near the fireplace. He didn’t light it, didn’t need the warmth. The chill in his chest was enough.

The clock ticked. The silence grew thicker. Every minute that passed turned the whiskey darker in the glass.

Where was she?

Birmingham wasn’t kind to naïve young women wandering the streets after dark. Especially ones dressed like her, polished, proper, and visibly sheltered. He’d seen the kind of men who prowled the pubs after hours, waiting for something soft and polite to stumble by. Hell, he'd been one of them in the past.

His jaw flexed, muscles twitching beneath the still mask of his face.

By the time headlights flared across the windowpane, Tommy had already emptied his glass. The sound of tires crunching on gravel brought his head up, and he placed the tumbler down with deliberate calm.

The door opened– clumsy, too loud and then came the sound of shoes scraping against the entry floor.

Y/N.

She tugged her coat off awkwardly, one arm stuck halfway through the sleeve, the smell of cheap gin carrying faintly through the dim hall. She muttered something under her breath, trying to balance herself against the wall.

She didn’t see him.

From his seat in the dark, Tommy’s eyes adjusted to the faint light spilling from the kitchen doorway. It was enough to see her clearly — the loosened tie, the wrinkled collar, the ripped edge of her stockings.

Her knees were scraped raw. One elbow was bleeding lightly.

His fingers drummed once on the armrest.

Five hours late. Drunk. Battered. And alone.

The anger that rose in him wasn’t loud or hot. It was quiet, precise — the kind of fury that came from fear disguised as control.

Tommy leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, voice low enough to make the silence tremble.

"Y/N." His voice, low and rough, cut through the haze of her drunken haze. She jumped at the sound, spinning around to finally notice him seated in the armchair. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms, and the faint hallway light highlighted the sharp angles of his face. The intensity in his blue eyes made her catch her breath.

Her own gaze faltered for just a moment, but her intoxicated confidence pushed through. A soft, teasing laugh escaped her lips. "Waiting up for me, Mr. Shelby?" She swayed slightly as she walked toward him, the alcohol lending a boldness that was almost reckless. "I had fun—been drinking like the lot of you. D'you like me now?"

Thomas exhaled a measured hiss of smoke, letting the moment stretch. He leaned back, calculating. He could let her words go… or he could let her realize the weight of defiance. The choice, as always, was his.

"Who were you with?" His voice cut the mockery like a knife, sharp and demanding. Obedience was expected.

Her gaze flicked to her torn stockings, the scratches on her elbows, and then back to him. Freedom, laughter, streets full of noise—it had felt intoxicating.

But here, under his watchful eyes, she felt the thrill of being caught, the heat of the risk. It took a longer moment before she managed to reply.

"I won't tell you," she said slowly, deliberately, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her nervous excitement.

Thomas's jaw tightened. He pushed himself from the armchair, knocking back the last of his whiskey before setting the glass down.

"I'm not a patient or kind man, Y/N," he warned. "Answer me before my patience runs out, and you'll be… punished." His tone carried something darker than anger: an edge of desire, of control, of possession.

She swallowed hard, shivering despite herself. "Punished how?"

Thomas didn't respond, just tilting his chin up higher.

"Last time. Who were you with?" His voice was steady, unyielding, leaving no room for evasion.

Her gaze darted between him and the room, calculating her next move. She shook her head, biting her lip, trying to hold onto a semblance of defiance.

Thomas stepped closer. The distance closed, and her heart hammered in her chest. Without warning, his hand gripped her arm, hauling her forward with strength that made her stumble. A gasp escaped her lips.

He bent her over the nearby table, pressing firmly between her shoulder blades to keep her from moving. Her body pressed against the cold wood, and she felt the chill against her skin, sending shivers through her already heated body.

Another hand went to her skirt, lifting it slowly, deliberately. The fabric brushed against her thighs, and the smoothness of her skin met the night air. Her chest heaved, breaths catching, a mixture of fear and anticipation pooling low in her stomach.

"Y/N," he growled, low and dangerous. She thrashed slightly, shouting for release, but the hand at her shoulder held firm.

His other hand came down sharply, and the first spank landed with a sting that made her gasp and arch against him. Her body jerked instinctively, the sting blooming hot across her skin.

"Fucking tell me!" he demanded, voice ragged, pressing her closer to the table.

Her cheeks burned with humiliation and desire. Her ears tingled; her pulse raced.

The sting of his hand, the heat of his control, the flush rising across her body—it was intoxicating.

"Fuck you," she spat, immediately regretting the defiance as a breathless chuckle escaped him.

"Very well, then," he murmured, bringing his hand down again, this time harder.

Spank after spank left bright, stinging welts across her bare bottom, his fingers kneading in between, spreading the sting, drawing soft whimpers from her lips.

"Did any of them touch you?" His voice was sharp, commanding, fingers pressing into her flesh as she trembled beneath him.

"N–No! No, Mr. Shelby!" she cried, her voice breaking, body quivering at the sharp sting and the pressure of his hands.

Another sharp hit landed, followed by the deliberate spread of her cheeks. Her body reacted instantly, the heat pooling between her thighs, her wetness brushing against the cool air, a mixture of pain and pleasure mingling.

"Do you ever go out without permission?" His eyes bore into her skin, pale and fiery, demanding obedience.

"No! I'm… I'm sorry!" she whimpered, already knowing she’d crossed the line.

Next smack landed on the other cheek, leaving her gasping, trembling under his control. He kept his eyes locked on her, savoring the sight of her reddening, quivering bottom, the way her body responded to his touch.

"Will you misbehave again?" he asked, voice quieter, more intimate, the desire simmering beneath his control clear in every syllable. Eyes burning with intensity she felt without even looking at him.

Another hit fell square onto her pussy, exactly where he aimed. Her slick immediately covered his fingers shamefully.

"No, Mr. Shelby!" Her answer was sudden and came in a squeal, her eyes wide with shock at the sudden touch of his rough hand on her delicate folds.

He pressed his hands harder, kneading her cheeks, fingers tracing the slick that had gathered, feeling her arousal and the flush of her shame. His jaw clenched, pulse quickening as his trousers grew taut with desire.

"Who do you belong to?" His hand found her hair, pulling firmly, tilting her head back to assert dominance before completely lifting her off the table.

"W–What?" she squeaked, startled by the intensity, pain and heat pooling dangerously low.

"Who do you belong to?" he repeated, each word punctuated with deliberate force, his fingers tugging her hair harshly.

"You… You, Mr. Shelby," she gasped, back arching, body trembling, flushed with both humiliation and desire.

He stepped back, letting her feel the sting, the heat, the mix of punishment and control lingering across her skin. He straightened her skirt over her now glowing bottom, ran a hand through his hair, jaw taut.

"Go wash yourself," he said, voice cold, businesslike. "Tomorrow, after you wake up, come to my office."

Then he heard it, a soft, breathy moan drifting from the upstairs bedroom. His heart quickened, not with fear but with something darker, hungrier. He adjusted his cap, tilting it back slightly, and climbed the stairs, his polished shoes silent on the carpet. The sound grew clearer as he approached their bedroom door, each moan a siren’s call pulling him closer. It was Y/N, unmistakably, her voice a mix of desperation and pleasure that stirred something primal in him.

Thomas pushed the door open, the hinges creaking softly. The sight before him stopped him dead. Y/N lay sprawled across their four-poster bed, her silk dress hiked up to her waist, exposing the creamy expanse of her thighs. Her legs were spread, one hand buried between them, fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles. Her head was thrown back against the pillows, her lips parted, eyes half-lidded in ecstasy. The lamplight cast a golden glow over her, making her skin shimmer like something holy, though her actions were anything but.

For a moment, Thomas simply watched, his breath catching in his throat. She was beautiful, achingly so, and the sight of her pleasuring herself without his permission sent a jolt of possessiveness through him. His rules were clear: her pleasure was his to give, his to control. She’d broken that rule, and the thought both infuriated and aroused him.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, cutting through the haze of her pleasure like a blade.

Her eyes snapped open, a gasp escaping her lips as her hand stilled. She scrambled to sit up, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson. “Tommy,” she breathed, her voice trembling with a mix of guilt and lingering desire. “I—I didn’t hear you come in.”

He stepped into the room, his presence filling the space like smoke. He removed his cap, tossing it onto the dresser, and unbuttoned his waistcoat with slow, deliberate movements. His eyes never left her, pinning her to the bed as surely as if he’d bound her there himself. “Didn’t hear me, eh?” he said, his Birmingham accent thick, each word laced with quiet menace. “Or were you too busy breaking my rules?”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her hands clutching the sheets as she tried to pull her dress down, but Thomas raised a hand, stopping her. “Don’t,” he said sharply. “Leave it.”

She froze, her eyes wide, searching his face for mercy. She found none. Thomas Shelby was not a man who forgave easily, especially when it came to the intimate boundaries they’d set. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her, and she shivered under his gaze.

“You know the rules, love,” he said, his voice softer now but no less dangerous. “Your pleasure belongs to me. You don’t touch yourself unless I say so. Yet here you are, legs spread, moaning like a wanton thing in my bed.”

“I’m sorry, Tommy,” she whispered, her voice small but sincere. “I just… I missed you. You’ve been gone all day, and I couldn’t—”

“Couldn’t wait?” he interrupted, his lips curling into a smirk that was both cruel and captivating. “Couldn’t wait for your husband to come home and fuck you proper? That’s no excuse, Y/N.”

She bit her lip, her eyes glistening with a mix of shame and defiance. “I needed you,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “And you weren’t here.”

Thomas tilted his head, considering her words. He could see the truth in them, the longing, the ache that mirrored his own. But rules were rules, and he wasn’t about to let her off lightly. He stepped closer, looming over her, and reached out to grip her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze.

“You needed me,” he repeated, his thumb brushing over her lower lip. “And instead of waiting, you thought you’d take matters into your own hands. Is that it?”

She nodded, her breath shallow. “I’m sorry,” she said again, softer this time.

Thomas’s smirk widened. “Oh, you will be,” he said. He released her chin and stepped back, his eyes raking over her exposed form. “Lie back. Spread your legs again. Let me see what you’ve been doing.”

Y/N hesitated, her cheeks burning, but the command in his voice was undeniable. Slowly, she obeyed, reclining against the pillows and parting her thighs, her dress still bunched at her waist. The vulnerability of the position made her heart race, but the heat in Thomas’s eyes made it worth it.

He stood at the foot of the bed, his gaze dark and unyielding. “Touch yourself again,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Show me exactly what you were doing.”

Her hands trembled as she reached down, her fingers brushing against her sensitive folds. She was already slick, her arousal evident, and the shame of being watched only heightened her need. She began to move, her fingers circling her clit, her breath hitching as she tried to please him.

Thomas watched, his expression unreadable, though his eyes burned with something fierce. After a moment, he stepped closer, his hand shooting out to grab her wrist, halting her movements. “Enough,” he said, his voice rough. “You don’t get to finish. Not like that.”

He leaned down, his face inches from hers, and delivered a sharp, controlled slap to her exposed pussy. Y/N gasped, her body jerking at the sudden sting, but the heat that followed was undeniable. Another slap, then another, each one precise, making her whimper and squirm beneath him. The pain mingled with pleasure, leaving her breathless and wanting.

“Tommy, please,” she begged, her voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I’ll be good, I promise.”

He straightened, wiping his hand on his trousers as if to dismiss the act. “You’ll be good when I say you’re good,” he said. He turned and walked to the armchair in the corner of the room, the one he often sat in to think or smoke after a long day. He sat down, spreading his legs slightly, and pulled a cigarette from the silver case in his pocket. He lit it with a flick of his lighter, the flame illuminating his sharp features for a moment before he exhaled a plume of smoke.

“Come here,” he said, his voice calm but commanding.

Y/N slid off the bed, her legs shaky, and crossed the room to him. Her dress was still hiked up, her thighs glistening with her arousal. She stood before him, unsure of what he wanted, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Straddle my thigh,” he said, taking another drag of his cigarette. “You’re gonna ride it, love. Since you’re so desperate for relief, you’ll take what I give you.”

Her eyes widened, but she obeyed, climbing onto his lap and positioning herself over his right thigh. The fabric of his tailored suit trousers was smooth against her sensitive skin, and she shivered at the contact. She hesitated, unsure, until Thomas’s free hand gripped her hip, guiding her down.

“Move,” he said, his voice low and smoky. “Rub that needy little pussy on me. Show me how sorry you are.”

Y/N bit her lip, her hands resting on his shoulders for balance as she began to rock against his thigh. The friction was exquisite, the coarse fabric of his trousers teasing her clit with every movement. She moaned softly, her hips finding a rhythm, her body responding despite the embarrassment of the act.

Thomas watched her, his cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes half-lidded with something that looked like approval. “That’s it,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Grind down harder, love. Let me feel how wet you are for me.”

She obeyed, pressing herself more firmly against his thigh, the slickness of her arousal soaking into his trousers. The sensation was overwhelming, each movement sending sparks of pleasure through her. Thomas’s hand on her hip guided her, controlling her pace, urging her to move faster, then slower, drawing out her torment.

“Look at you,” he murmured, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “So fucking desperate, aren’t you? My good girl, breaking my rules but still so eager to please me.”

“Yes, Tommy,” she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. “I want to please you. I’m sorry, I—”

“Shh,” he interrupted, his hand sliding up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing over her lips. “Don’t apologize. Just do as I say. Rub that pussy nice and slow now. Let me see you fall apart.”

She slowed her movements, her hips rolling in a languid, deliberate rhythm. The pressure was maddening, building low in her belly, but Thomas’s control kept her on edge, denying her the release she craved. His trousers were slick now, the evidence of her arousal staining the dark fabric, and the sight seemed to please him.

“Good girl,” he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re making a mess of me, aren’t you? That’s what I like to see. My wife, so fucking needy she can’t help herself.”

Y/N whimpered, her movements faltering as the pleasure became too much. “Tommy, please,” she begged. “I need you. I need more.”

He took a final drag of his cigarette, stubbing it out in the ashtray beside him. Then he leaned forward, his lips brushing against her ear. “You don’t get my cock tonight,” he whispered, his voice dark and teasing. “You broke the rules, love. This is your punishment. You’ll come on my thigh or not at all.”

She moaned, her frustration mingling with her arousal, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Her hips moved faster now, chasing the release he’d promised, her clit grinding against the slick fabric of his trousers. Thomas watched her, his hands resting on her hips, guiding her but letting her do the work.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Fuck yourself on me. Show me how much you want it. Come for me, Y/N.”

The command pushed her over the edge. Her body tensed, a cry tearing from her throat as the orgasm crashed through her, her thighs trembling as she rode out the waves of pleasure. Thomas held her steady, his hands firm on her hips, his eyes locked on hers as she came undone.

When she finally stilled, panting and spent, he pulled her against his chest, his lips brushing her forehead. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost tender. “You did well.”

She nestled into him, her body still trembling, the damp fabric of his trousers a reminder of her punishment. “I’m sorry, Tommy,” she whispered again.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “You’re forgiven, love. But next time, you wait for me. Understood?”

She nodded, her cheek pressed against his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding her. “Understood.”

Fury let out an annoyed exhale through his nose that made Matt grind his teeth so hard he felt the joint in his jaw pop from the pressure. Fury leaned back casually in his chair, interlocking his fingers before resting his palms on his stomach. 

“This conversation will move a lot faster if you speak in complete sentences. And speaking of conversation, you mind telling me who the hell gave you clearance to my goddamn office?”

Matt slammed his fist down on the surface of the desk and pointed his index finger towards Fury in accusation, the rising volume of his voice filling the spacious office.

“You knew what she was!”

Fury didn’t flinch, didn’t react at all to Matt’s outburst, which only pissed Matt off even more. Fury didn’t respond immediately. He took a moment to observe Matt with his good eye, noting how rigid Matt’s shoulders were, rising and falling in a rushed staccato rhythm, breathing harshly as if he’d ran up the steps to the top floor instead of taking the elevator.

“I assume you’re referring to Agent Y/L/N’s past as a Black Widow operative.”

The placid tone of his voice made Matt want to jump over Fury’s desk and unleash his anger the best way he knew how. Instead, Matt let out a dry and humorless laugh, shaking his head in disbelief as he tossed his folded cane forcefully into one of the empty leather chairs in front of Fury’s desk. He placed his hands on his hips, dipping his head back slightly before twisting it to the left to crack his neck.

“Christ, how do you manage to keep up with all the lies?”

“I didn’t lie to you about that.”

Matt scoffed, turning to face Fury again as he waved one of his hands in front of him dismissively.

“Just because you didn’t freely tell me that little secret-”

“It wasn’t my secret to tell. Besides, I did tell you it was personal for her.”

Matt rubbed his palm down his face in irritation, the coarse evidence from days of neglecting his razor scratching against his palm like a brillo pad.

“Personal.”

Matt repeated the word with mockery and disdain, practically spitting it out, eager to get the bastardized connotation out of his mouth.

“You sure it wasn’t opportunity? I mean who better to catch depraved leaders of a child trafficking ring than someone who used to be one. Is that why you put her in charge over Owens? Because she’s the one that knows how to manipulate little girls-”

Before Matt could even finish his wrathful sermon of judgment, Fury abruptly stood from his chair and slammed his palms down on his desk. The sound that echoed from the collision rang in Matt’s ears uncomfortably, cutting off his rant, but Matt was also momentarily stunned by the sudden display of anger. It was as unsettling to witness an emotional reaction from Fury as it had been with her.

“I’m gonna stop you right there before you say something really goddamn stupid, and I advise you not to speak on things you don’t understand.”

The serrated edge in Fury’s voice was unmistakably laced with a threat. Matt clenched his hands at his sides and pressed his lips firmly together, torn between the innate urge to keep arguing and the burning curiosity to uncover what had caused Fury to break his imperturbable composure. 

“Now I told you once before you can check that holier than thou shit at the door. I meant it when I said there’s no place for that here.”

“I’m not standing here claiming to be a fucking saint, Fury, but I sure as hell don’t have a history of running around abducting innocent girls.”

“And how exactly do you think she ended up in that position, you self righteous asshole? You think she volunteered?”

Fury pulled his hands away from his desk and stood up straight, rounding his desk quickly to advance on Matt. 

“Do you even know what the Black Widow program is, Murdock? What they do to those girls? Do you have any idea what we’re actually up against here?”

Matt had quickly shifted his stance, his hands clenched in tight restless fists. The way Fury had marched towards him, he’d expected the older man to actually take a swing at him. Suspicious confusion fell over Matt when Fury stopped just a few inches away instead. The rise in his internal temperature indicated he was fuming, but Matt couldn’t fathom what the hell he had to be mad about.

“Yeah, I get the gist. They train spies the way you do here, they just don’t bullshit it and say it’s for ‘the greater good’.”

Fury narrowed his eye and clenched his jaw, his voice dropping to an octave that betrayed his own threadbare patience as he took a step forward.

“People come to S.H.I.E.L.D. of their own free will, as adults. Did it seem like those girls made the choice to be in those cages?”

It was such a ridiculous question that Matt felt a whole new ember of indignation ignite within him.

“Of course not! They were kidnapped-”

“Exactly. They were taken against their will.”

“Yeah, that’s what kidnapped means-”

“And they were taken against their will to be brought to the Red Room.”

“Apparently-”

“Which is where Y/L/N told you she grew up.”

“What does that have to do-”

“So I’ll ask you again, Murdock, do you think she volunteered?”

Fury emphasized every word of the question he shouted in Matt’s face, like he was pointing out something frustratingly obvious, a connection Matt wasn’t making. He wasn’t sure if Matt’s momentary silence was from it finally clicking, or if yelling in his face had disrupted the stubborn bastard’s incessant arguing, but Fury didn’t have the patience for Matt’s epiphany to come.

“All over the world, girls are sold, or they’re taken, but they don’t get a goddamn say in joining the program. She was one of those innocent girls, Murdock. That’s why she’s running this operation. Because she knows what hell is waiting for them. She escaped it.”

There it was. The missing piece he’d been looking for, slammed into the final open spot of the puzzle with such force it nearly winded him. Finding those scared young girls in the cages last night had left him feeling horrified and nauseated. He hadn’t been able to sleep. The reality of the nightmare he’d been awake for was far worse than anything his imagination could’ve ever conjured in a terrible dream.

Knowing there was a trafficking ring in his city had been disturbing enough, but the discovery that it was girls had rattled him to his core. All he’d been able to think about in that basement last night was breaking the locks and getting them to safety. But when he got back to his quiet apartment, he’d felt the sudden sensation of drowning in the daunting reminder that the girls they’d saved were a miniscule piece of a global operation, one he had no idea where to even begin dismantling. He hadn’t even been able to find the one in his own city alone, much less take it down without help. The whole thing had made him feel revolted with helplessness and outrage that something so evil could exist, something he felt he couldn’t do a goddamn thing about.

If there was ever a night Matt should’ve gotten down on his knees and prayed for help, it was last night, but he refused. Last night he’d felt nothing but disgusted with God, resentful towards Him. How could He just stand by and allow humanity to fall so deep into an everwidening pit of wickedness? Something like this, something so incredibly vile and immoral, something that maliciously and mercilessly robbed innocence from these girls, did that not warrant divine intervention?  

And then her confession on top of the horrific discovery had shocked his already frayed and raw nerves, amplifying his abhorrence, giving him something tangible he could nail his blame to. Matt hadn’t allowed her to present an explanation. He hadn’t stuck around for one. He’d condemned her without mercy, he’d crucified her with the sharp judgement of his tongue and the fiery wrath of his temper. Tarasov, Constantin, those were just names that slipped through his fingers like smoke. But the verity that linked her to the atrocity of the scene gave him something he could wrap his fist around, something that could take the brunt of his anger and his hatred which he lashed against her without a second thought. Without trying to understand what she’d been begging him to.

Standing there with Fury, he suddenly remembered the rage that had radiated off of her during the interrogation with Dimitri. How the name he’d spoken in Russian had straightened her spine with fear. Matt thought back to last night in the basement, how he’d smelled the precursor to her tears when they found the girls, and how hard she’d fought not to let them build along her bottom lash line. Swallowing down her own emotions for the sake of the girls, because they were scared and they needed someone to tell them everything was going to be okay. 

No one had come to free her from a cage. No one had put on a brave face and told her she was safe. No one had saved her. All at once, he finally understood everything, and the guilt that followed this revelation was immense and unrelenting like the Great Flood. Matt turned his back to the desk and sank against it, his shoulders sinking under the weight of his colossal fuck up. He wasn't sure he even wanted the answer to the question he was about to ask.

“How old was she?”

The quiet and remorseful tone of his voice made the tension in Fury’s shoulders dissipate, and he let out a deep exhale to expend his lingering frustration before moving to lean against the desk just a few inches away from Matt.

“She doesn’t remember.”

A conversation he’d had with her after their first mission together abruptly surged towards the forefront of his mind, and he turned his head towards Fury.

“She told me she had these…glimpses, of a woman and a…a place with trees? Something about cherry blossoms. She wasn’t sure if they were memories or dreams. She said she thought the woman was her mother?”

“Not cherry blossoms. Jacaranda. They look similar, but they’re more purple. Cherry blossoms don’t grow well in Mexico.”

Matt instantly sat up straighter, angling his body more towards Fury as his brows knit in puzzlement.

“She said she didn’t know where she’s from-”

“She doesn’t.”

There was something in Fury’s voice that almost could’ve been construed as apologetic. He let out a quiet sigh and leaned back further against the desk, resting his palms against the surface on either side of himself.

“Five years ago, we were…on opposite sides of the fence. We were in Italy to interrogate a diplomat about conspiring to purchase a biomedical weapon, and she was there to kill him to protect the seller.”

“What happened?”

“She’s a hell of a shot.”

There was a hint of fondness in Fury’s tone, and he even let out a dry chuckle at the memory.

“She shot through one of my agents. Bullet went right through his shoulder and into the diplomat’s heart.”

Matt tracked the way the ghost of the smile that had twitched at the edge of Fury’s lips slowly faded as he sank further into his reminiscence.

“She should’ve gotten away.”

Matt titled his head to the side, perplexed by the statement and the way Fury said it.

“What do you mean?”

“She had a head start. She was in the building across the street from the hotel. And I know she had an escape plan. But she didn’t even make it to the intersection.”

“What happened? Did she get hurt?”

“No. She just…stopped running.”

Matt was thoroughly confused now. Why would an assassin, who had just taken out a target, not follow through with their escape route? Especially when she knew she was being chased?

“We found her in a garden by a cemetery, halfway down the street from the hotel. She was just…standing there, staring at something. I thought it was some kind of trick. But when I got closer and saw her face…it was like she wasn’t even there. I don’t know why, maybe because she reminded me of…someone, but I called out to her instead of sneaking up on her, and when she looked at me, it was like she’d just woken up from a dream but didn’t remember falling asleep. The first words out of her mouth were ‘help me’.”

“Help me?”

“Turns out the Red Room got a little creative when they realized magic words weren’t working anymore.”

“What are you talking about, what magic words?”

Breaking out of his own memory induced trance, Fury turned to look at Matt and arched one of his brows.

“You think Bucky Barnes was the only victim of brainwashing?”

Brainwashing.

A trickle of dread cascaded down Matt’s spine in tandem with a pit opening in his stomach that his soul seemed to plummet through. 

“That’s how they control them.”

“That’s how it started. One in twenty girls survive the program. They’re beaten down, physically and psychologically, so they can be molded into the perfect weapons. But after Rom-”

Fury paused for a moment, pushing himself up from the desk. He rubbed his palm down the lower half of his face as he rounded the desk to go stand in front of the large floor to ceiling windows, staring through the glass as if searching for a ghost.

“After Natasha escaped, they turned to alternative methods. One of their top scientists created a specialized biochemical agent, a synthetic neural control mechanism. Chemical mind control that completely eradicates free will. One command, and the girls would even obediently stop breathing.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Mind control, on top of physical and psychological torture. He felt sick at the thought of what she must have suffered, being manipulated and stripped of her autonomy, but mainly he was sickened by how he’d spoken to her. Calling her a monster because of something that wasn’t even her fault.

“You…you fixed it though. The mind control-”

“We didn’t do anything.”

Matt stood up from the desk, following the path to approach where Fury was standing at the window, his brows knit in puzzlement.

“What do you mean you didn’t do anything? She…she’s not under their control anymore, you broke it somehow-”

“She broke it herself.”

Fury clasped his hands behind his back and turned around to face Matt.

“Jacaranda.” 

Matt’s features twisted up in confusion.

“What?”

“That’s what she was staring at in the garden.”

Understanding seemed to soften the contortion of Matt’s expression, and he tilted his head to the side faintly.

“The glimpses aren’t dreams. They’re memories. You think seeing the flower helped her break through the chemical control, by triggering a memory?”

“Could’ve been seeing it, could’ve been smelling it, but that’s the only explanation I have. Besides her being more stubborn than a goddamn mule.”

Matt’s lips twitched in a faint smile. It wasn’t entirely implausible to think her unyielding nature could’ve broken through anything, although he suspected the truth was that the sight or the smell of the flower sparked something in her brain. A memory powerful enough to combat complex chemistry. As he processed everything Fury had just divulged to him, he realized the discrepancies between her version and Fury’s. She thought they were dreams, Fury knew they weren’t.

“She doesn’t know they’re real memories.”

Fury let out a deep exhale that dropped his shoulders and his head along with it.

“They told her that she was given away. She never tried to look into her own past. But I had a…professional curiosity. It took a lot of digging to figure out where she came from, but it didn’t lead to anything useful. Her mother was killed when she was three. There was no other family. Even if there had been, no one would’ve been able to claim her. The records of her birth were destroyed so there was no evidence her mother even had her. No record of a child, no child to look for.”

“Wait, you didn’t tell her any of this? You don’t think she deserves to know she was taken, not given away?”

“Murdock, she’s suffered her entire life. I didn’t want to add to it.”

“She deserves to know.”

Matt’s head was pounding with everything his brain was struggling to process. He was trying to make sense of it all while his guilt compounded about how he’d treated her. This woman who had been a complete mystery to him had been a mystery to herself this entire time. He hadn’t been able to figure out who she really was beneath the spy persona because she didn’t even know who she was. She was still trying to figure it out. She’d been stripped of her own identity and autonomy at such a young age, important pieces she had only gotten back five years ago. 

“I need to talk to her. Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? You’re her boss.”

“And?”

“Are you really standing here telling me that you, Mr. I-know-and-see-all, don’t keep track of your employees?”

“You really think she would allow herself to be found if she didn’t want to be?”

Matt pursed his lips in annoyance. She wasn’t the kind of person who would consent to being tracked, and she’d outsmart anyone that even tried. Fury turned to face the window once more, keeping his hands clasped behind his back. 

“I think you need to go to church, Murdock.”

“I’m a little preoccupied at the moment.”

“That’s not a very good Catholic boy thing to say.”

Matt rolled his eyes behind his red tinted sunglasses, turning to walk back over towards the chairs in front of Fury’s desk, bending to reach for his folded cane abandoned on the cushion of the one on the left.

“Yeah, well, God and I aren’t on good terms right now.”

“Understandable. But I still think you should go. Maybe you’ll find another lost soul, looking for the same answers to the universe you are.”

Matt was halfway towards the elevators when he abruptly paused. There was something about the way Fury insisted that he go to church that caught his attention. Why was he pushing so hard for Matt to-

Letting out an irritated exhale, Matt turned around to face Fury, clicking his tongue against his cheek.

“Is it a requirement to be a spy to constantly speak in fucking riddles?”

“Nope. Just for fun.”

»»———　　———««

Matt had been standing outside the front doors of his church for the past ten minutes. He could sense that she was inside, sitting in one of the middle pews to the right. He couldn’t figure out why she was there. She hadn’t moved once, not even a twitch of her finger. The sanctuary was completely empty except for her. He wanted to go inside, wanted to talk to her, but he didn’t know what to say. He’d been cycling through different versions of apologies, but none of them felt adequate enough. He didn’t think his tongue could possibly string together any words that could fully communicate his remorse. But he couldn’t stand here all night either. Letting out a deep breath, he quietly pulled open the door and slipped inside.

If she heard him approaching, she didn’t react. She didn’t even look in his direction when he sat down next to her, not that he blamed her. A moment of uncomfortable silence passed for him as he tried to figure out how to right his wrong.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He sounded as pained as he did desperate when he turned his head towards her, his fingers aching to reach out and take her hand.

“Would it have made a difference?”

The hollowness of her voice gutted him as much as her defeated body language. This wasn’t her. Or maybe it was. Maybe this was what was really beneath that carefully crafted composure. Either way, he hated it. He’d rather her argue with him until he took his last breath than witness her fire diminish into ash. But the subdued resignation in her tone had confusion creasing his forehead.

“Of course it would have. Why would you think it wouldn’t?”

“Because you were right.”

He heard her try to swallow down the emotion that had gotten stuck in her throat, thickening her voice with solemn submission that sent a pang through his chest. Matt shifted closer to her, nearly on the brink of dropping to his knees to beg her to forgive him for how cruel and unfair he’d been.

“Sweetheart, everything I said-”

“Was true.”

She finally turned to face him, a waver disrupting her cadence as swells of tears that she struggled to maintain blurred her vision.

“I did those things, Matt. I’ve done so many…terrible things. I am a monster-”

“You didn’t have a choice-”

“But I did them. And I remember all of it.”

The way her voice cracked broke him. Matt immediately closed the gap between them and put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her as close as physically possible against his side while his other hand cradled the back of her head. He closed his eyes, pressing his lips against her hair, wishing he knew how to exorcise all the demons that held her soul captive. 

“It wasn’t your fault, honey. You know what they did to you. You can’t blame yourself for what they made you do, that guilt doesn’t belong to you.” 

“But I have it, and I don’t know how to balance it out. I thought…I thought after joining S.H.I.E.L.D. that I could be better. That saving people would make me better. But I still can’t sleep. Nothing feels good enough. And there’s this…this endless pit of loneliness inside me, and I don’t think anything will ever fill it.”

“I know, I know. I feel it too.”

He was forced to loosen his embrace when she pulled back to look at him in complete bewilderment.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re not the only monster, Y/N.”

“Don’t. Don’t even compare yourself to me. You are not-”

“A saint.”

Matt gave her a tiny sad smile.

“Do you remember what you said to me when I woke up in that room after our first mission together?”

He heard the intake of breath as she parted her lips, and the hesitance that preceded her answer.

“I didn’t mean any of that-”

“No, you did. Your heartbeat was steady. I mean it was a little elevated because you were pissed at me, but you weren’t lying.”

He sensed her pressing her lips together in an attempt to hide her quiet amusement at his retelling of the moment, and he moved his hand down to gently squeeze her thigh.

“I don’t put on the suit to be a hero. I mean, I do it because the system is broken and I can do things other people can’t, but that’s not the only reason why. The truth is…God put the Devil in me, and I like letting him out. The broken bones, the blood, I don’t have to go that far, but I do. Not because I need to, but because I want to. Because it feels like justice. Most of these guys I try to put away, I know the reality is they’re gonna wind up back on the street, some of them don’t even serve any time at all. But I know they remember what I did to them, and honestly, beating the shit out of some asshole in an alley trying to rob or assault people is a lot more fucking satisfying than hitting a punching bag.”

“That doesn’t make you a monster, Matt.”

“It does to me. Because I choose to do these things. No one forces me. No one is controlling me. It’s all my own doing.”

“But you aren’t hurting anyone innocent. You save people-”

“That doesn’t make it right. And it doesn’t…fill that void for me either.”

The top row of her teeth sank down into her bottom lip, and her brows knit in thought as she glanced away for a moment. He stayed quiet, giving her a moment to process whatever was going on in her head.

“Do you think we should find therapists?”

The deadpan delivery of her question caught him off guard, and it tore a laugh from his chest that echoed in the empty sanctuary.

“Probably. But I think we might have a hard time finding one we won’t scare off.”

Her hand found its way to his, and he interlaced their fingers immediately, squeezing her hand three times in succession for reassurance.

“So what now?”

Matt let out a deep breath as he leaned back in the pew.

“We keep looking for Constantin. He’ll lead us to who’s actually calling the shots. What did Dimitri call him?”

The second she stiffened, Matt turned his attention directly back to her, alarm bells going off in his head.

“отец.”

Matt hesitated for a moment, trying to remember what she’d told him that word meant.

Father.

She’d called it a moniker, a way to protect the mysterious man’s identity so he couldn’t be incriminated, but an uneasy feeling settled in Matt’s bones that she’d known exactly who Dimitri was talking about. It dawned on him then that since she’d grown up in the Red Room, she’d known exactly who was leading the new operation this entire time. 

“You know who he is.”

The air suddenly felt colder, and he detected that same fear in her that he had that day in the interrogation room with Dimitri. She clenched her jaw, gripping onto his hand tighter, and Matt brushed his thumb against her skin gently in an effort to soothe the sudden havoc on her nervous system that only a deep rooted nightmare could evoke. She took a deep breath, as if speaking his name out loud would make him suddenly appear like some dreaded urban legend. 

“Dreykov. He ran the Red Room. He…took a special interest in me.”

The implication behind her words didn’t escape him, and his mind instantly filled with every harrowing thing they could mean, each one worse than the last. Every sickening possibility slithered beneath his skin and simultaneously had white hot rage searing his veins. His arm around her shoulder tightened possessively, and he spoke with firm resolve.

“Then we find Dreykov, and we take him down. Cut off the head of the snake.”

“I’m assuming you mean figuratively.”

“I’m assuming you’d prefer literally.”

The edge of her lips quirked up in wry amusement, and she turned her head to look up at him.

“And then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“After we tear it all down. What happens next? Retire to suburbia, settle down with a quiet life, the whole marriage, dog, white picket fence package?”

Matt’s lips split in a grin, delighted she was back to her usual dry sarcasm.

“I mean, you could at least take me out to dinner before proposing to me, but sure. Although, I’m not much of a pet guy. We could probably just skip straight to kids.”

The way she went abruptly rigid next to him made him feel like his banter had been misunderstood, but before he had a chance to explain he was only joking, she looked down at their joined hands and spoke quietly.

“I can’t have kids.”

Matt’s face softened at how crestfallen she sounded, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“Hey, just because of your past doesn’t mean you’d make an unfit-”

“No, I mean I can’t get pregnant.”

The perplexity must have shown on his face when she looked up at him, his brows furrowed and his head tilted to the side. She swallowed thickly before looking down at their hands again.

“When you…graduate the program, they sterilize you. It…prevents the one thing that could matter more than a mission.”

All at once Matt was filled with fury and despair. God, they’d truly taken everything from her. He was left speechless, uncertain of what the right thing to say was, or if the right words even existed. His mouth parted and closed a few times before he finally spoke gently.

“There’s…other options. If you want that.”

“Do you?”

Matt hadn’t really considered it. Ever since he’d become Daredevil, he’d been prepared to die a martyr, simply accepted the improbability that he’d ever have a normal life. But a lot of time had passed since he’d first become a vigilante, and he hadn’t revisited that conversation with himself.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

He sensed the way her face softened when she turned to look at him with an almost tender smile.

“What, you’d wanna suffer through PTA meetings with me?”

“We don’t have to suffer. We could sit in the back and shit talk all the other parents.”

That drew a genuine laugh from her, and the sound loosened something in Matt’s chest.

“I think we’d get kicked out.”

“I’d find a legal loophole.”

“Of course you would. You know, I can see it now. The hot shot lawyer with his own successful law firm that all the other dads are jealous of, but can’t be rude to, because it’s far too impolite to be rude to a blind man. But they all secretly hate you anyway because they suspect their wives want to sleep with you.”

“Mm, and the retired ballerina turned ballet instructor that all the other moms are totally envious of and gossip about, but still pretend to be friendly towards in public, even though they despise you because they know their husbands all want to sleep with you, and they don’t even bother to hide it.”

A smirk tugged at the edge of her mouth as she leaned her head against his shoulder.

“I think we’d be a hit at career day.”

“Imagine if we showed up in costume.”

Matt grinned as he hugged her close to his side and pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“The Devil and the Widow.”

tags: @the-swift-escape @lambmurdock @lunakkey @Lfdybadgirlsdiw @devilmurdock64 @moonyinthestars @suits-and-smirks @day-dreaming-goddess @natashasotherhalf @rebel13lion39 @pixelfaery @ebsmind @mattmurdocksscars @ahhhhhhhydbhdg @ayupcap @thepassionatereader @awenthealchemist @zomtart @superrbffun @buckypops @snicksbabe @redroomproperty @angel113431 @18raven @a-sunflower-in-bloom @shadypaperwitch @lizziela @givemylovetoall @dreadfulxives18 @jjprxntiss @bigratbitchsworld @s1xthirty @daisy-the-quake @raven18 @hipwell @scorpiovelaryon @yiiiikesmish @mel-thefrog @ponyosmom35 @daisydark @xoxabs88xox @punkshyteee @abbyhaslongshorts @wolvierinee @snowflames-world @yomnajir @fries11 @groovycass

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The sour smell of sweat mingled with the bitter haze of cigarette smoke.

It might as well have been another pub. Only here, the sweat was stronger than the smoke.

Thomas pulled the collar of his overcoat a little higher and adjusted the fedora on his head. Just enough to look anonymous, with the brim casting a shadow over his eyes while leaving his jaw visible. Not too suspicious, but inconspicuous enough — exactly how brothel patrons usually tried to appear.

Tommy knew he was taking a risk.

"She's waiting for you in here," announced a short, round woman who somehow managed to move much faster than him despite her tiny steps.

Tommy didn't need to answer.

The door groaned open. Like a porter, the woman held it aside for him, granting passage into a small room crowded with furniture. He stepped inside without a word, not even sparing his guide a passing glance.

The arrangement was fairly standard.

A desk against the right wall. A large double bed against the left. A window ahead, veiled by lace curtains and, for now, open drapes.

Everything plain and cheap.

And on the bed, facing him, sat a woman in a short nightdress.

Wheat-blonde hair. Greenish eyes.

"Mr. Shelby!" she greeted, rising from the bed.

"Stella," he returned with a brief nod.

She seemed surprised he remembered her name. He almost smirked.

But she recovered quickly and stepped closer, slender fingers already beginning to play with the buttons of his shirt, fastened all the way to the throat.

Her eyes lowered. Her hands moved automatically, following a well-rehearsed script.

"No."

He gently removed her hand and walked past her.

Pulling out a chair, he sat down instead of taking a seat on the bed.

He kept his coat on. Kept his hat on, too.

"I came to talk," he added before she could worry she'd done something wrong.

But his next words frightened her anyway.

"About Madame."

Stella visibly swayed and lowered herself onto the edge of the bed.

"We're all mourning—"

Tommy couldn't help snorting.

"Don't talk nonsense."

The sharpness in his tone silenced her immediately.

"We had an arrangement the night she died. But you weren't at the house." Tommy's voice evened out again.

Stella twisted her hands nervously.

"It wasn't me, I didn't—"

"I know. Why weren't you there?"

Thomas looked her directly in the eye.

Perhaps for the first time in all their "meetings."

"I arrived at the appointed time, but there was a woman there..." Stella began.

"In a black dress?"

"Y-yes." She wiped her damp forehead. "She seemed nervous. Said Madame was furious and gave me a note with an address. Said Madame wanted me to go there instead and that the client had already been informed..."

Tommy leaned back in his chair.

"And does Madame often send notes?"

"Actually, yes." Stella nodded eagerly. "No signature, no addressee, but we all knew her handwriting."

No signature. No addressee.

So the mistress had become so tangled in her own schemes that she'd overlooked an important detail.

The note you'd handed Stella to redirect her from the house could have worked on practically anyone.

It wasn't difficult to guess that Madame had originally written the address for you, and you'd simply passed the scrap of paper to the prostitute as though it had been meant for her all along.

"At first I was scared. I thought about checking with Madame so I wouldn't get punished if that girl had lied to me. But after hearing that Madame was angry, and seeing the address..."

Madame had been a vicious woman. That much was clear.

And you'd used her subordinate's fear against her.

"I had a bad feeling about the whole thing, honestly..."

And for good reason.

Tommy leaned forward.

Resting his elbows on his knees, he folded his hands before his face.

"So I decided not to argue and just leave."

"Do you know this woman? Had you seen her before?"

The girl nodded.

"Not that we ever really spoke. But I'd seen her with Madame a couple of times."

Tommy rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

And this was where his questions for you began.

You'd worn black so blood wouldn't show on your clothes.

You'd fired through a pillow so the shot wouldn't alarm the neighborhood.

But you'd left a witness behind.

Had you not known a whore and her client were on their way to that cat house?

It wouldn't have been surprising. Madame was greedy enough to deal with you quickly while refusing to change or cancel a paid appointment.

She could already have been dead when Stella arrived.

Or slowly bleeding out in the next room.

Tommy had probably missed the prostitute by only a matter of minutes.

But you could have killed her.

If you had, he wouldn't be speaking to anyone now.

Yet you hadn't.

Had the coppers investigated the case, they would've reached you easily enough and named you the prime suspect.

"Do you still have the note with the address?"

Stella nodded, rose from the bed, and crossed to her handbag hanging from a hook on the wall.

Why hadn't you killed her?

Perhaps if Tommy himself hadn't become your problem, you would've found her later.

Convinced her to leave.

Maybe frightened her.

Maybe paid her.

But he had entered your life and disrupted every plan you might have made.

Tommy carefully accepted the tiny scrap of paper from her hands. There was barely enough room on it for a few lines.

Sure enough.

No names. Nothing.

No unnecessary words beyond the address itself.

Tommy stood, and the girl rose with him.

He folded the note and tucked it carefully into an inner pocket of his coat.

From another inner pocket, he withdrew a thick roll of cash.

"One last question. Do you know who K. is?"

Stella's gaze fixed on the bundle of banknotes, but she shook her head weakly.

"No. But we've heard that initial before... Madame always called them simply K. Funny, isn't it?"

She offered a nervous smile. Tommy didn't return it.

He merely nodded.

"Funny indeed."

He held out the money.

"Forget this conversation. And forget this place. Pack your things and leave. Today."

Stella's eyes darted anxiously across his face. She parted her lips to speak, but Tommy gently touched her chin with two fingers.

His grip was soft. But firm.

The gesture wasn't meant to intimidate.

"It's a dirty story, and I can't guarantee your safety."

A pause.

"Can't guarantee anyone's."

The words carried a double meaning, but Tommy knew Stella wouldn't see Grace's reflection in his eyes.

"You'd be better off getting out of here. What I've given you is enough to start over."

His gaze lingered on her for a moment.

"Without having to sink in filth."

Then he let her go.

And walked out without another word, waiting for neither thanks nor farewells.

***

You occupied the most visible spot at the bar in «the Garrison».

The sun had dipped below the horizon, surrendering its post to the lamps and streetlights whose glow caught on your new jewelry and makeup, bathing you in amber light.

Your dress, also new, gleamed against your body, drinking in the evening glow.

You sat in a carefully practiced state of ease, surveying the room through lowered lashes, trying to catch how often people looked your way and what sort of patrons surrounded you.

The best-dressed and most pleasant-looking among them received your smiles.

All while you hid your exhaustion and concentration behind that feigned languor.

"Yeah, the Shelby brothers stopped coming around here a long time ago."

But most of your attention remained fixed on the barman's words.

"No idea what happened between them. None of my business," he said with a polite smile, though his tone betrayed a reluctance to involve himself in the owners' darker affairs.

"Tommy doesn't talk much about it..." you nodded.

Truthfully, you knew almost nothing yourself, but you were trying to learn whatever you could, twisting and weaving through conversations, choosing your words carefully.

"I can imagine. He's not exactly a talkative bloke." The barman nodded as well.

He never looked directly at you, remaining intensely focused on polishing glasses.

Almost conspicuously so.

As if he feared that if he wasn't visibly busy while speaking with you, you'd report it to Tommy. As if he couldn't refuse to talk to you, but couldn't stop working to do so either.

Of course, there was always a chance you were imagining it...

"You'd be better off asking Harry Fenton about that. He knew them better than most. Trouble is, he quit."

You memorized the name.

"And sailed off to Ireland."

...Apparently for nothing.

You could ask whether the barman had a telephone number for him, but that would probably seem too suspicious.

Gradually, you told yourself. You could always ask later.

Yet something inside you remained uneasy.

Anything could go wrong.

At any moment, the barman might tell Tommy you were poking around in his secrets.

"A bottle of gin, please!"

You flinched sharply.

Lost in thought, staring down at the stained wood of the counter, you'd relaxed without noticing, and the sudden voice of a woman appearing beside the barman made your entire body jump and tense.

The newcomer dropped onto the stool beside yours without ceremony, and your skin prickled at once.

"Right away, Mrs. Thorne!" the barman replied dutifully, turning toward the towering cabinet of bottles behind him. The woman pointed out the label she wanted.

"I'm Ada, by the way," she informed you, lounging comfortably on her barstool. "I've heard quite a bit about you."

That statement immediately captured your full attention.

"Interesting," you replied with a smile, carefully studying the newcomer.

Her clothes. Her jewelry. She looked very well-off.

"Seems you're well known around here," you added, nodding toward the bustling barman.

"Something like that." The woman released a weary breath.

Despite her lively introduction, she showed little interest in idle chatter.

"And what exactly have you heard about me?" you pressed, gently steering her toward revelations. She seemed worth studying.

"Only good things, don't worry," she smiled.

A predictable answer. And a frustrating one.

You sighed as well, feeling the conversation slipping through your fingers, and took a sip from your glass.

"For example, your influence on Tommy Shelby," Ada suddenly added. "People say he's changed since meeting you."

Interesting choice of words, you noted.

"It's mutual," you said, forcing a bashful smile.

"He's very secretive, isn't he?" she asked, and you immediately perked up.

"Yes. Sometimes..." You spoke carefully into your nearly empty glass, your voice echoing faintly off its sides. "Sometimes I think he doesn't fully trust me."

You glanced up at her.

"Are you a friend of his?"

This time you studied Mrs. Thorne more openly.

Bright blue eyes. Thick dark hair. Fair skin.

And most importantly, a direct, unwavering stare.

The physical similarities could have been coincidence, but the way she looked at people—

That, you instinctively attributed to family.

Ada pulled a crooked smile.

It was the only answer you got.

She was studying your behavior too, and you realized she was reading you just as carefully as you were reading her.

"You'd be better off heading home. It's already too dark and too dangerous for a woman. The workers will start pouring in soon, and after a hard day's work they don't tend to think with their heads," she said.

It wasn't a threat.

But apparently she'd learned what she wanted from you, even though the entire conversation had consisted mostly of circling each other with words and taking each other's measure.

Ada grabbed her bottle and slipped easily off the stool.

She gave both you and the barman a nod, then headed for the exit.

She neither hurried nor lingered.

Which was curious, considering her warning —

She clearly wasn't afraid of dangerous men herself.

You watched her go, sighed, and reached for your purse.

But the barman raised his hands.

"Mr. Shelby said it's on the house," he informed you.

You nodded and decided not to linger.

If Ada Thorne was who you thought she was, it was easy enough to understand why she wasn't afraid of the dark.

But you still hadn't found any powerful, important friends who could strengthen your position in Birmingham.

People whose names alone would keep trouble away from your door.

No matter how hard you'd tried to find them today within your “fiancé's” territory.

Well.

The evening hadn't been a complete waste.

You would remember Ada.

And Harry Fenton.

And the looks from the patrons that would turn into rumours by tomorrow.

Pulling on your coat, you offered the barman a polite goodbye.

Irritated at the waste of time and frustrating loss of sleep, especially since you had work in the morning, you shoved your phone away from yourself along the nightstand in annoyance. With an exasperated huff, you grabbed the sheets and finally flung them off of yourself before sitting upright in bed. As a resigned breath passed from between your lips into the darkness, you turned and placed your feet along the floor. Maybe if you gave up on quieting your mind and gave into the odd craving you currently had for orange juice, you might have more luck falling asleep afterwards.

Padding barefoot out of your bedroom, you shuffled down the hall and towards your kitchen while rubbing a hand against your tired eyes. You wore nothing but an oversized shirt and a pair of panties beneath it since today had been an unseasonably warm day for mid-spring, making it far too warm to sleep dressed in multiple layers. You’d wondered if it was the heat in your apartment causing you to struggle to fall asleep tonight, rolling back and forth in an attempt to get comfortable. Though you knew that if you were being honest with yourself, that wasn’t really the reason.

Flipping on the lightswitch as you stepped into your kitchen, you squinted at the abrupt harsh light that flooded your apartment. Dragging your tired feet over the worn wood floor, you walked over to your fridge as thoughts of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen began to flood your mind again.

You were certain your offer to become friends with benefits had been the cause of the sudden ending to your unexpected friendship with the Devil. Nearly three weeks had passed since that night you’d suggested the idea and you still hadn’t seen him since. You continued filling the Devil’s Pantry for him every single night with snacks, bottles of water, and simple medical supplies, faithfully intending to keep him fed, hydrated, and safe. Yet every morning when you pulled the container back inside, it was clear that he hadn’t stopped by your place. Nothing had been touched. 

It’d been over a month and you'd only had that single encounter with him, the one in which you’d opened your big mouth and permanently sent your favorite stray back out into the night. There was no mistaking what his absence meant–whatever had been going on was over. You’d gotten too close to him, pushed too hard for something he’d made clear that he wasn’t going to give, and now he was gone. Your life had returned to being the same boring, monotonous thing that it’d always been, and you cursed the snowstorm which had brought the Devil into your world in the first place.

You grabbed the jug of orange juice out of your fridge and closed the door before turning and taking a few steps further into your small kitchen. Reaching your free hand up, you opened a cabinet and pulled out a black coffee mug, too tired to care about grabbing an actual glass. You set it down on the counter and untwisted the cap on the jug. Tipping the container over the cup, you filled it about halfway with orange liquid before screwing the lid back on. 

After returning the orange juice back to the fridge, you picked up the ceramic cup and brought it to your lips, sipping at the sweet, tangy juice. Your aching, tired eyes slowly lowered shut as you leaned forward, resting your forearms along the kitchen counter and stretching your back. Your mind temporarily went blissfully blank amidst the quiet of your apartment and the relative calm of the city so early in the morning, but you were still left with that heaviness lingering in your chest.

This was your life again. Working Monday through Friday at a boring, thankless office job and staring at a computer screen all day every day. Coming home to change into comfortable clothes before making dinner and eating it while having no one to share the details of your day with. You spent your nights watching television shows and movies cuddling pillows on the couch before eventually crawling into your big bed only to fall asleep alone. Then you woke up to do it all over again. Sometimes on the weekends you’d meet up with friends for a bit, or go out to run errands, or curl up with a book on your couch, but otherwise your life was just a string of the same things repeating themselves over and over. 

You’d been content with the way things were until you’d met the Devil. Now everything seemed so bleak and mundane, and you'd come to realize exactly how lonely you'd been beneath all that routine. The thrill of getting an unexpected visit while you were cooking dinner or beginning to fall asleep on the couch always had you rushing to get home after work, trying to put yourself together just for the Devil. And whenever he did visit, you replayed that brief encounter over and over in your head until he slipped back through your window again another night. 

You had inevitably fallen into like with the Devil. Not love, certainly not that. But feelings definitely placed themselves into the equation against any level of reason. Which was strange considering you technically didn’t know much about him. Though you supposed that while you didn’t know his name, his career, or what he looked like beneath the mask, you had gotten to know the deeper parts of him. 

You knew the Devil had a big heart which encompassed the entirety of Hell’s Kitchen, and you knew that he was fearless and headstrong, still running out into the night to protect the city even with the possibility of multiple broken ribs. He was selfless to the point that he never properly took care of himself, and you were positive that he spent his nights with only the company of criminals. You knew he could throw himself off your fire escape and be just fine, and you knew beneath all that grit was a witty, charming man who made you laugh. 

During his last visit, he’d made it clear that he didn’t harbor any feelings for you and that all he felt was purely attraction. But at this point, you’d take whatever you could get if it meant he'd return to your fire escape. You’d find a way to be content with only his battered body and a few random nights of pleasure if that’s all he’d share with you, because there was no denying the intense attraction that drew you to him. He plagued your thoughts all day at work before haunting your dreams most nights.

You missed him.

With your eyes still closed, you continued sipping at the juice in your mug, still hunched over your kitchen counter. Running your other hand across your forehead, the tips of your fingers pressed firm circles into the space between your eyes. You really hoped the orange juice would somehow magically quiet your thoughts, otherwise you’d be miserably exhausted at work all day tomorrow from not getting any sleep. 

“I don’t know how many times I've said this, but you really should keep your window locked.”

Your entire body tensed at the deep, familiar voice suddenly behind you, your fingers pausing their circles against your forehead. The saliva in your mouth dried instantly, leaving your tongue parched and heavy where it sat. You were too afraid to open your eyes and turn to look behind you, not entirely certain if you’d reached a new low and begun hallucinating the Devil or if he was actually here after weeks of his continued painful absence. 

A long, weighted silence engulfed your apartment as you stood half-slouched against the counter, so uncertain whether he was real that you were barely breathing. The longer the quiet stretched on, the more you’d started to convince yourself that you hadn’t actually heard him, your mind beginning to play tricks on you. Until he spoke again and your fingers tightened around the handle of your mug.

“Suppose I deserve the lack of greeting,” he mused, his voice sounding closer now. “I haven’t exactly checked in with you in awhile.”

Sucking a deep breath into your lungs and holding it, you opened your eyes and braced yourself. But as you stared at the dark tile backsplash on the wall in front of you, you weren’t entirely certain what you were bracing yourself for. A fight? Him returning only to officially end the friendship? To turn around and realize you were hallucinating disembodied voices now? Or to brace yourself against the hope that you felt tickling its way through you because he’d returned, and that meant maybe you might not have scared him away as permanently as you'd believed.

“Angel?” he hesitantly called out. “You're uncharacteristically silent tonight. Usually when I stop by you have plenty more to say.”

Exhaling the breath you’d been holding, you let go of the black ceramic mug and turned around to face him. But seeing him actually standing there merely three feet away had you stumbling backwards into the counter behind you. The Devil was not only really here, but he was standing so very, very close to you. You attempted to swallow the lump forming in the back of your throat, but your mouth was far too dry to accomplish the task.

Your eyes began roving over him in a rush as if you were taking stock of him, committing him to memory after the weeks that’d gone by without him. His face was still mostly covered with that ridiculous black fabric which was always pulled down to just past the tip of his nose, leaving his beautiful full lips and that angular jaw covered in delicious dark stubble visible. You had forgotten exactly how tight his black shirts were, clinging to him in a way which further accentuated each of his muscles beneath the dark fabric. While you had never forgotten just how well he filled out those black pants from that time you'd pulled him out of them, you had forgotten the way they seemed to strain at the seams on the sides because of how thick his thighs were. Noticing that little detail again had your heart thundering in your own ears. 

But besides all of that, he looked entirely fine. There was no sign of limping or bleeding, no reason as to why he might’ve disappeared for weeks. Not that you hadn’t already heard him featured in multiple news stories in the days that'd passed since you'd last spoken with him. You knew he was still venturing out into the city at night, he just hadn't ventured to see you.

The Devil’s covered head tipped to the side, his lips curving downwards at the corners. You realized you’d just been standing there staring at him in your kitchen for a long, drawn out minute without having said anything yet. But instead of feeling embarrassed or uncomfortable, the question that had been scratching at your mind ever since that last time he’d flung himself over the railing of your fire escape flew off your tongue.

“You disappeared for weeks. Why?” you demanded.

His lips pursed in response, a few of his fingers twitching at his sides inside of his black gloves. Another silence dragged itself out between you both, and you continued to grow increasingly aware of just how close he stood to you in the kitchen. Leaning further back against the counter behind you, feeling the edge of it press into your lower back, you tried to maintain your distance as if that would somehow help contain the tumultuous onslaught of emotions now coursing through you just from seeing him again. 

“I thought it was for the best,” he finally answered. “I was afraid you might be getting attached, and I can’t exactly have attachments. Not doing all of this.” He raised a gloved hand, gesturing it at his chest and implying his nightly vigilante activities. “I’m not the guy you should be interested in, angel. So I thought it would be better if I stopped intruding on your evenings and gave you space, but–.”

“It wasn’t better,” you shot back, cutting him off. 

The words had come out a bit harsher than you'd intended, so you paused, pressing your lips firmly together while you took a second to rein in your emotions. Telling him off would probably just send him back out onto your fire escape, and that was the opposite of what you wanted.

“I thought we’d become friends after all those times I helped you,” you tried again, managing to keep your tone even. “I thought you would have at least given me some sort of an actual goodbye instead of just ghosting me if you weren’t planning to come back.”

The corner of his lip twitched, guiltily tugging to the side. “You're right, we did become friends over these past few months,” he agreed softly. “And I’m sorry for my absence. I shouldn’t have just disappeared on you like that, but I wasn't necessarily intending to never come back.”

It wasn’t much of an apology, especially considering this wasn't the first time he'd disappeared on you after your strange friendship had begun, yet you couldn’t deny the way the frustration and hurt began to ease its way out of you. He was acknowledging his actions at least, and maybe he was truly sorry. He certainly sounded like it. While it still upset you that he’d just ignored you for weeks, not even leaving you a note or stopping by to take something from the Devil’s Pantry which you dutifully set outside solely for him every single night, you couldn’t deny how elated you were that he’d simply returned to you.

But that begged the question as to why he was here tonight.

“So what brought you back then?” you asked, brows furrowing together. “I thought what I said last time freaked you out after you stopped visiting. It's been weeks since I've seen you, why show up now?”

The Devil took a half step closer to you, shrinking the already small distance between you both, and your reaction was immediate. Your pulse sped up, your heart thudding like a drum inside your chest as he drew even closer. The remaining space between your bodies grew thick and heated as something settled in it, something that had your stomach dipping anxiously as if you’d just jumped over the railing of your fire escape yourself. 

The Devil's heavy boots came to an abrupt halt along the floor, his lips twisting into a grimace as his hands curled into fists at his sides. You wondered what that was about, curious to know if he could somehow feel that same tension in the air that you did.

“I came because of what you said last time,” he admitted, sounding oddly pained. “I've been…wanting to know if you really meant it.”

Your heart gave a sharp, unexpected jolt as if it could somehow fling itself from your chest at him, so you grabbed onto the counter behind you to steady yourself. Had he really just spent all this time thinking about your offer of sleeping together? Conflicted over it for weeks instead of being completely put off by the idea? Was that why he'd disappeared for so long? Because he’d actually been considering making that sort of arrangement with you?

“You mean about being friends who are sometimes more than that?” you hesitantly clarified.

“Yes,” the Devil answered. 

He took another half-step closer to you, and you swore every nerve-ending in your body sparked to life. His tongue slipped out between his lips, making you acutely aware of how you were currently dressed right now–in just the oversized shirt and panties. Panties which were quite honestly growing a bit damp with the way you could feel him staring at you beneath that mask.

“Do you truly think that's something you could do?” he questioned huskily. “The physical without anything more than friendship? Especially with someone you know so little about?”

“I told you I already know enough about you,” you replied. You’d caught the breathlessness of your own voice, his proximity having a strong effect on you considering the topic of conversation. “I know enough about your character even without your name. I imagine you could say the same about me.”

He shook his masked head from side to side slowly, taking another step closer as he did. There was less than a foot of space left between your bodies now, and you could smell the sweat and the city on him. Your hands curled tighter around the kitchen counter behind you, nails digging into the stone as you leaned against it, fighting the growing lightheadedness as your breaths came in sharper.

“That wasn’t what I asked,” the Devil pointed out. “I asked if you could do the physical and only accept my friendship in return.”

It was impossible not to stare at his lips with him standing as close as he was, your eyes drawn to them when he'd spoken, watching the way they formed each word. Your breathing was coming in short and embarrassingly ragged, and you were certain he could hear the way it’d changed.

Something about the Devil had you constantly wanting more from him. More nighttime visits, more conversations, more touches with or without the gloves, more personal facts accidentally slipping out of his beautiful mouth. You wanted more than friendship because you'd certainly gone and developed feelings for him, but that wasn't what he was offering. 

If it was a choice between friends who fucked or nothing at all, you knew the answer. You'd shove down every scrap of feelings you felt for him if it meant he kept climbing through your window at night. And if you got to have just a fraction more of him in the process, you were willing to deal with the emotional fallout later. Maybe all it was between you two was sexual attraction in the end, just like he'd said before.

“Yes,” you told him. “I can handle it.”

Which was true, because you knew that was the only way you'd ever keep the Devil. And right now, you’d have agreed to anything to make that happen.

His head tipped to the side as he fell into quiet contemplation, apparently mulling over your response. You remembered once that he’d mentioned he could tell when people were lying, and you wondered if he was somehow using that ability on you now, however the hell it worked.

While he stood silent, your eyes dropped to the line of his jaw. It was even more exposed beneath the overhead light in your kitchen with the way he’d tipped his head to the side, and you desperately wanted to run your tongue along the length of it. You wanted to taste his skin, to feel the sharp rasp of his stubble, and to hear what sounds he might make. You wanted to twist your fingers into the little brown hairs that peeked out beneath the back of his mask and kiss him until you couldn't breathe.

Having grown so absorbed in the fantasy playing out in your head, your stupid mind only making you more aroused than you already were seconds ago, you were taken by surprise when the Devil abruptly moved. A startled gasp slipped out of you the moment he lunged forward, his rough gloves grabbing onto either side of your face. He closed the remaining distance without warning, and his impossibly soft and warm lips crashed onto yours before your brain had a second to comprehend what was happening. 

It took you a moment to register that he was kissing you, that after months of fantasizing about this exact scenario, the Devil was finally kissing you. Your hands released the counter and grabbed onto the thin fabric of his shirt along his chest, your fingers twisting into the dark material. Moving your lips against his, you kissed him back with the hungry determination you’d been holding back for months. Every part of you became hyper-aware of the Devil, because for once you were touching him and it wasn't with the sole intention of helping him. 

You could feel the hard planes of muscle beneath your palms, the muscle you’d known was there because you'd seen it before, but now you didn't have to hide how incredibly attracted you’d always been to him. So when he took another step forward and pressed himself against you, trapping you between him and the counter, all of the blood in your veins rushed to a singular point between your thighs. His solid chest brushed against your peaked nipples poking through the thin cotton of your shirt, and you audibly moaned at the sensation. Seizing the opportunity, the Devil’s tongue slid right into your mouth, his gloved hands still firmly holding your face steady in his grip. 

With each sensual lap of his tongue against yours, you could feel a bulge straining against the front of his pants. Fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt, you reacted without thinking as his erection pushed into your thigh. Your hips bucked forward against his, desperate for more contact–for more of him. But instead he abruptly broke away from your lips with a long, deep groan of pleasure as if somehow it was all too much, and you swore the sound lit your body on fire. 

You stared at his kiss swollen lips beneath the harsh lighting of your kitchen, your breath coming in ragged, harsh bursts. Not quite ready to have ended such a heated moment, you inched forward towards him, eager to continue what had been easily the hottest kiss of your life, but you were stopped as the Devil’s hands fell away from your face and he took a partial step backwards.

“Wait,” he hoarsely ordered. His own chest rapidly rose and fell as if he was struggling to catch his breath, one of his hands raising in the space between you. “We should–should discuss things first. Boundaries.”

Still utterly breathless from the kiss, the air rushed in and out between your parted lips. You felt as disheveled and undone as the Devil currently looked, his shirt rumpled and his cheeks flushed. Your panties were noticeably wet, something that was impossible to ignore now. So was the throbbing between your legs that was beating in sync with your pulse. 

He huffed out a breathy laugh while nodding his head. But as the grin lingered on his lips, you caught the hard swallow with the bob of his throat before he turned, moving with barely a sound in his heavy boots as he navigated through your kitchen and headed straight towards your couch. Disappointment crept through you, his retreat the equivalent of someone spraying you with a garden hose. Talking was the last thing you were in the mood for after that frenzied kiss you'd both just shared, but you followed after him anyway. Somewhere in your lust-filled mind you knew he had a point, there were details to discuss if this were to work. 

“Boundaries,” you repeated. “That–that makes sense. If we’re, you know, doing this.”

“If we are doing this,” the Devil began, voice still tight as he settled onto the couch, “then I need to set some rules.”

“Rules, right,” you agreed breathlessly, making your way through your kitchen. The abrupt switch from wanting to tear through his clothes with your nails to needing to discuss boundaries for this ‘relationship’ had your head spinning. “I can do rules.”

“Even if that means my mask can never come off?” the Devil questioned.

“Maybe I’ll develop a mask kink,” you teased back, bare feet padding towards him. “Or maybe I already have one.”

As you stepped around the side of the couch, about to make your way to sit down beside him, you were caught off guard when he leaned forward. His hand shot out and latched onto your wrist, gently yet firmly tugging you towards him. You stumbled forward a step, letting him guide you down onto what you assumed would be his lap, but instead he settled you down to straddle one of his thighs. 

You became exceedingly aware of the length of thick muscle along the top of it, the thin layer of your damp panties not creating much of a barrier between your aching cunt and that heavenly muscle. Your traitorous pussy clenched around nothing as you sat there, silently begging for you both to shut up already and give into the desire burning through you. As if the Devil could feel your impatience, his hands roughly landed on your hips as a throaty hum rumbled in his chest, the sound vibrating through your entire body before heading straight to your cunt.

“You know I can’t ever give you my name, either,” he continued in a lower, huskier tone. “I need to remain anonymous.”

Placing your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, you felt his gloved fingers digging into the flesh of your hips through your shirt. He nudged you slightly forward along his thigh, dragging your cunt over him just enough. The sweet, delicious friction that resulted elicited the softest whine from your lips and you visibly quivered. The Devil’s grip tightened even further on your hips, his nostrils flaring sharply beneath his mask.

“We don’t–dont need names,” you whispered.

Another low, pleased noise vibrated deep in the back of his throat. He tipped his head back against the back of your couch, staring up at you from beneath the mask as one of his hands released your hip, gliding up the top of your thigh before disappearing beneath your shirt. The coarse material of his glove dragging its way tantalizingly slowly over your ribs caused the muscles in your stomach to twitch. 

“This can only ever be sex,” he stated.

Your eyelids fluttered as his hand continued moving further upwards, teasing you with its unhurried pace until it inevitably came to palm your breast. He cupped the weight of it in his hand, the corner of his lips curving upwards as you involuntarily shifted along his leg. The hand on your hip urged you to move against him again, causing sparks of heat to dance under your skin as he encouraged you to grind along his exceptionally solid thigh.

“I have a feeling tending injuries and–and feeding you might also be involved in this arrangement,” you murmured, half-distracted from the conversation by pleasure. 

The softest chuckle tumbled past his lips as he looked up at you, a cocky smirk playing along them. “Then I suppose you should get your fair share out of this arrangement too, angel.”

His voice was a low purr that had your eyelids falling shut and your nails digging into his shoulders. Your body started moving in a rhythm all on its own, your hips rocking back and forth along his thigh as the hem of your shirt rode higher up your legs with the movement. The ridge of his thick quad was perfectly slotted between your thighs, allowing you to grind yourself along him at the exact angle that already had your stomach knotting up in pleasure. 

Everything else melted away as you straddled his thigh chasing after something to soothe the ache you felt for him between your own. It no longer mattered that he’d been gone for weeks, or how hurt you’d been over his silence, or that it was incredibly late and you were absolutely exhausted and needed to sleep. You’d never felt so good before and you weren’t even fucking him yet. Because there was something there between you both, something that made your pulse pound and your brain go hazy, something that you’d never experienced before.

“Is this what you think about when I'm not around?” he asked.

As your eyes gradually fluttered back open, you were met with the view of the Devil still casually watching you. His lips were parted as his hand beneath your shirt continued kneading your breast. Beneath the black mask, his cheeks were still somewhat flushed, and you could feel the tension in his shoulders beneath your palms, as if all that dangerous power was being held back while he let you ride his thigh.

“Yes,” you breathed out. “This and…other things…”

Releasing your grip on his shoulder, you dragged your nails softly down his chest, letting them skip over his belt buckle. But the second you palmed the tented fabric of his pants, the Devil’s teeth clamped together and a sharp hiss of air passed through them as he arched against the couch. Your tongue slid out, wetting your lips in delight at his reaction to simply being touched. You wanted more of it, so your hand inched upwards towards his belt buckle with every intention of freeing him from the confines of his pants so that you could take care of him.

But when his hand left your hip to abruptly grasp your neck, you froze in place beneath his grip. Your hips stuttered to a stop along his thigh as your hand lingered on his belt buckle, wondering if somehow undressing him was crossing one of his boundaries. While he wasn’t gripping you hard enough to choke, he'd certainly grabbed you with enough pressure to feel his gloved hand pressing against your windpipe. 

The Devil gave a single shake of his head. “No. Not tonight,” he said. “Only this.”

There was something laced in those few words that felt like a warning. Apparently sex wasn’t on the table tonight, and while you were moderately disappointed that you’d have to wait even longer for that, you could hardly remain disappointed when his hand beneath your shirt pinched your nipple, rolling it between his fingers.

“Keep going,” he ordered. “You’re not finished until you come on my thigh, angel.”

You needed no further encouragement, your body once more resuming its motion along his leg. His hand remained wrapped around your throat though. The pressure was not enough to restrict your airflow, but it caused little white spots to appear in the corner of your vision. 

Being choked by the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen had a thrill tingling its way up your spine. How many men had been strangled by these exact hands? And now here he was holding himself back with you. He could squeeze just a little more, press his fingers into the delicate skin of your neck hard enough to block your breath until you passed out like he’d no doubt done countless times with so many others, but you trusted him completely. Because you knew the Devil wouldn’t cross that line with you.

And the thought of that had you panting and whimpering on him in a matter of minutes, your slick panties leaving wet stains along the top of his dark pants. You could feel yourself inching closer to a release, your stomach tightening with each roll of your hips as you rutted against him like a pathetic, single-minded animal. 

“That’s it, angel,” he husked. “You’re turning into such a mess for me.”

With one hand braced against his shoulder, nails digging into him so firmly that you were surprised you hadn’t torn his shirt, your other hand was curled over the top of his pants, palm flat against his belt buckle that he'd stopped you from undoing. Your thighs were trembling around his as pleasure surged its way through your body like a wave cresting against the shore, and you ground against him until finally reaching your breaking point. 

Your head tipped back over your shoulders, your eyes clamping shut as a low moan barreled straight out of your mouth, the sound vibrating against his palm. His fingers tightened around your neck as you came on his thigh, your entire body quaking with pleasure. You thought you heard a throaty groan rumble out of him, but your brain was too muddied to know for certain.

Shuddering against him, your hips eventually slowed to a stop, your panties significantly damper than earlier. You were breathing hard, your heart pounding in your chest like a battering ram. Eventually the Devil released your neck from his hold, his hand finding its way back to your hip to steady you on his leg as his other reluctantly ceased toying with your nipple beneath your shirt. Still loudly gasping for air, your head rolled forward and your gaze landed back on him, catching the rather smug smile beneath the hard line of his mask.

“What’s–what’s that look for?” you breathed out.

“You have absolutely no idea how beautiful you sound to me, angel,” he murmured.

His hand lightly patted your hip, the smug smile remaining drawn across his lips. Your brows dipped together in confusion as you stared down at him, heat creeping its way up your neck. Was he talking about the sounds you’d just been making when you’d come? You’d never been complimented on that before. What another odd thing for him to say. But you were far too tired now to question much about his strangeness as your body began to slump forward against his.

“Think I should get you to bed,” the Devil teased. “Seems like you’re up well past your bedtime, angel. I don’t think my visit helped with your energy levels.”

“Mmm,” you hummed back, leaning forward towards him and wrapping your arms loosely around his neck. “On the contrary, Devil, I think your visit helped tire me out so that I can finally fall asleep.”

Simply because you could–and because once wasn’t enough tonight–you leaned in the rest of the way and pressed a kiss to his lips. He returned it, though this time it wasn’t as heated as when he’d cornered you in your kitchen. This kiss was softer and slower, with something almost sweet and hesitant about it. When you pulled back, you smiled down at where you thought his eyes were hidden beneath his mask.

“You sure you’re good tonight?” you asked. “So far this arrangement seems a bit uneven.”

His lips quirked into a mischievous grin, and you fought the urge to lean back down and keep kissing him. That was going to be difficult to stop doing now that you’d been allowed to start.

“I’ll collect what I want next time,” he promised you. “But you sound far too exhausted and I’m sure you have work in the morning, so I think this is where I see myself out and let you get to bed.”

Reluctantly disentangling yourself from his thigh, you maneuvered yourself off his lap and stood back onto your feet, readjusting the oversized shirt that had ridden up. The Devil pushed himself up from the couch after you, and while you weren’t certain in the dim lighting that reached the living room from your kitchen, you thought you saw a damp patch not just on his thigh but also near his zipper. Maybe the Devil had enjoyed himself more than you’d realized.

“So is this how it’s going to be now?” you asked curiously, watching him readjust his pants as he headed towards your window. “We fuck and then you disappear from the fifth floor?”

The Devil slid open your window before he paused, his masked face turning over his shoulder towards you. “Tehcnically we haven’t done that yet,” he pointed out. “But sometimes I suppose that’ll be the case. I’m usually on the go. Things are always happening in the city. And since this isn’t anything more than just two friends who’re attracted to each other, we shouldn’t make it anymore complicated than that.”

“Right,” you agreed, nodding your head. “Just…two friends who want to fuck each other. Really badly.”

His grin grew wider before he tipped his head at you. “Goodnight, angel.”

Before you could say more than a goodnight in return, he turned and slipped out onto your fire escape through the open window. He closed it after himself before walking over to the railing, grabbing it in both of his hands and then gracefully flinging himself over it just like he’d done so many times before.

“I can definitely do uncomplicated,” you told yourself, staring at the place he’d just been standing outside, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. “That absolutely will not be a problem.”

The House Arrow still echoed.

Every footstep seemed just a little too loud, every cupboard just a little too empty. There were curtains now, a proper table in the kitchen, and enough furniture that the place no longer felt abandoned, but there was still an unmistakable feeling that the house was waiting for its family to grow into it.

The kettle whistled softly on the stove.

You carried the teapot to the table just as Chloe wandered lazily through the kitchen, tail swishing contentedly before settling beneath your chair.

A knock sounded at the front door.

"I'll get it," you called.

When you opened it, Polly stood on the doorstep dressed elegantly as ever, one gloved hand holding a small paper bag.

"I brought raspberry jam," she announced matter-of-factly.

You smiled brightly, “Hello to you too, Polly.”

She kissed your cheek before stepping inside, “Thought you might like it, since you're eating for two now.”

She glanced around the enormous entrance hall before raising an eyebrow.

“It's still bloody empty.” she noted.

“We've only just moved.” you said apologetically. 

“So I can see.” Polly noted, glancing around the place again.

Thomas's voice drifted from the kitchen, “Morning, Pol.”

She walked in to find him already seated at the kitchen table, one ankle resting across the opposite knee while a cigarette smouldered lazily between his fingers. 

Sunlight poured through the large windows behind him, making the smoke curl in pale ribbons through the room.

He looked entirely at home.

Polly looked at him for a moment before sitting opposite him.

She accepted the cup of tea you placed before her and dropped one sugar cube into it.

Thomas watched her over the edge of his newspaper.

“So,” Polly finally said as she began stirring her sugar into the tea. 

“So,” Thomas repeated, putting down the big paper.

She continued stirring, “Would you like to explain yourself?”

Thomas tried to suppress the smirk quirking on his lips, “What is there to explain?”

Polly stopped stirring promptly, looking up at him with the faintest smile. 

“Oh, Thomas.” she sighed, leaning back, “You secretly marry the poor girl. You secretly knock her up.”

Thomas inhaled from his cigarette.

“And?” he asked.

“And,” Polly continued calmly, “the rest of us are expected to simply wake up one morning and discover we've acquired another Shelby.”

Thomas shrugged, “Saved time.”

You couldn't help the laugh that suddenly escaped you, you tried to hide it behind your hand. 

“You've got nothing to say for yourself?” Polly asked.

“I married the woman I love.” Thomas said in his only defense.

Polly held his gaze for a long moment, then sighed, “At least you did something right.”

Eventually Polly turned towards you instead, and her entire expression changed.

Her eyes softened immediately, “Now.” she began, reaching across the table, “How are you, dear?”

You smiled a bit, tilting your head, “I’m well.” 

Polly nodded, “No sickness?”

“Just a little.” you let her know, your morning sickness wasn’t too bad at least. 

“No cravings yet?”

“Not really.” you answered.

Thomas spoke without looking up, “She does like marmalade biscuits.”

You turned to him, narrowing your eyes, “I had them once.”

“You cried because we didn't have any.” he reminded you, no ill intent in his tone but just quiet amusement. 

Polly laughed quietly, taking a sip of her tea, “Hormones, love.”

Thomas nodded solemnly, “Terrifying things.”

You kicked him lightly beneath the table, but to your frustration he barely reacted.

Polly looked between the two of you with obvious amusement before her gaze drifted lower.

Your dress rested gently over the small swell beginning to round beneath it.

It wasn't large yet, but it was still there. 

“May I?” Polly asked after hesitating for a moment, she gestured carefully towards your stomach.

You looked down at your small bump and your smile softened, “Of course.” you said.

You stood and stepped beside her chair.

Polly's hand rested against your bump with great gentleness.

“There you are,” she murmured quietly, “Our newest little Shelby.”

She smiled to herself, “You behave for your mother.”

Thomas watched the moment without speaking. There was something strangely peaceful about seeing Polly like this.

When she let go of your stomach, you sat down again.

Polly picked up her tea once more, “Did you think about names already?”

You exchanged a glance with Thomas, “We've talked about a few.” 

Polly took another sip, “Oh?”

You nodded, “If it's a boy…” you began, counting them on your fingers, “Edward, Charles, William, and Adam.” 

Polly nodded along as she listened intently to your list of names, “You've only thought about boys?” she asked, curious about your lack of girl names. 

You gently hummed, only now realising it, “Yes… mostly.”

But before you could continue, Thomas spoke, “Lily.”

Both you and Polly turned to look at him, he hadn’t looked up, simply continuing smoking as though he hadn’t interrupted at all.

Polly tilted her head, “Lily?”

Thomas nodded once, “If it's a girl, I like Lily.”

Polly smiled faintly at that, “I would've thought you'd be hoping for a son, Tommy.”

Thomas was quiet for a moment, then he gently tapped ash into the tray beside him.

“I've got a feeling, it'll be a girl.” was all he said, his voice carrying such quiet certainty that even you found yourself believing him. 

Polly smiled warmly at that, “Good, this family already has enough bloody men.”

You let out a soft laugh, Polly looked thoughtfully between the pair of you before settling back comfortably in her chair.

“A little girl might do this family some good…”

─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

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For Tommy was not only hellbent on finding his wife, he'd be heaven-bound, born again into believing anything if it meant you returned unscathed to the safety of her walls and his arms. 

And as I sit here, watching his tyres tear up gravel and grit as he flew back down the drive, functioning on fury and a bottle of John Jameson finest Irish, there's not a shred of doubt in me that your husband wouldn't run headlong right into hell and fight the devil one handed, heart on his sleeve just to get you back.

“ I want men on every street. On every road out of the county, from here to Hadrian's wall” Tommy's voice boomed through the foyer as the Shelby siblings followed a foot behind looking worse for wear after a night of carrying the grief-stricken gangsters orders out. 

It was unfeasible. Impossible. It was bloody madness.

And now, it was his brother's job to follow through, or face his fury. 

“ We've got everyone out there, Tom” Arthur ran a hand down his face as he came to a stop, watching his brother march towards the pile of maps that had driven him into an obsession over every ridge, bridge and overpass. 

“ Our boys have their orders. Been called back from the search for Arney. Everyone's out there looking for her, you hear me? ” Arthur's jaw worked tight against the bone, slowly losing patience with his brother who wouldn't listen to anyone, wouldn't answer to anyone but the rabid worry in his own head.“ Tom?” 

“ Every town, Arthur. No excuses. No exceptions” Tommy remained locked on the map of the River Trent, eyes unable to tear themselves away from every route leading out of the West Midlands. 

“ They're looking, Tommy. Been looking. Every night for three days straight” John attempted to reason with a man rapidly losing all sensibility, a man fueled by every fear that tired head of his had ever conjured. 

“ Then look harder” Tommy's voice took on something dangerous, daring his brothers to talk back, daring them to breathe even a single syllable against his orders.

“ Hadrian's wall. Go” 

He was ready to snap. 

He was gonna bloody snap.

And of all the idiots in Warwickshire, the perfect prat stepped forward and gave Tommy every reason to erupt. 

“ Here to Hadrian's wall? We don't have enough men” Finn, the youngest Shelby scoffed. Yes, scoffed, at a man that was rapidly losing his mind in search of the woman he'd married, warred with, and widowed all in the space of a mere month.

“ What did you just say?” your husband's voice dropped into a low gravel, eyes fixed on the twenty something year old.

Brother be damned. Blood be fucking damned. 

“ Shut the fuck up, Finn” Arthur growled, half way to pulling the posturing pup out of Tommy's warpath before he got bit. 

“ I said, we don't have enough men” Finn's final words of foolishness came with contempt, ignoring every chance he'd been given to get out of dodge before Tommy lunged at him. 

“ It's mental. You're fucking mental” 

The youngest Shelby barely had time to move before Tommy whirled on him, slamming him into the foyer wall with the strength of a dozen men, with an anger that had been simmering to a boil for three days straight. 

“ Then I'll call in every favour…” Tommy's voice dropped to a whisper against Finn's ear, fist curling into his shirt as Arthur and John moved towards him before he murdered their baby brother. 

“...on every bastard that owes me his life” his voice twisted, face turned into something dangerous as Arthur's heavy hand yanked him away. 

“ Starting with you, Finn” Tommy pointed, breathless, every muscle straining against the quiet fury coiling around his spine like a death grip as he was dragged backwards. 

“ Starting with you…” 

Half mad, half gone, Tommy’s exhausted mind had been tricked into conjuring every possible image of you without a flicker of mercy, without even an ounce of sympathy for his slipping sanity. 

Dead body. Beaten body. Body in a ditch. Body degraded. Body missing.  

Every minute that passed was another without you.

Every order unanswered was another attack against his authority.

He'd lost it. 

Arthur knew it. John knew it. And Tommy, God help him, knew it too. 

“ Enough, brother. That's enough” Arthur hauled him aside, straining to snap him out of it, snap him out of grieving a wife he believed he'd already lost to his own way of life. 

Breath coming heavy, chest heaving hard, Tommy scrambled to regain control, to reign in that sharp, calculating composure that had kept him alive for so long. 

“ Do as I say. The lot of you” he pulled free, dragging a hand down his face as he forced the madness behind something manageable. 

“ Or start picking out your funeral suits” The threat had been made. His body already retreating. Boots carrying him to the only place where you still lingered. Where you'd let him hold you like a husband should. Let him be the one you grieved for your uncle against.

Bedroom door swung open, he was met with nothing but silence. No sharp words. No witty woman staging a coup against his whiskey or weary mind. Just a strained silence, and a silk gown laid crumpled across the bed. 

Body finally giving in, Tommy sank heavily onto the mattress, tired eyes red raw as he tried to focus, tried to think through the thick fog clouding his mind.  

If he didn't find Arney, he'd have to live with the guilt until his dying breath. 

And if he didn't find you…

…it would kill him before he ever drew that last lungful. 

Fist clenched around your muddy dressing gown, Tommy released the pressure from his knuckles, thumb turning his signet ring around and around again, twisting every tortured worry into the worn gold until a quiet prayer finally found its way from his lips. 

Not to God. Not to some otherworldly realm beyond his reach. But to you. Just for you. 

“ Come home to me, darling. Come home”

It was bold. It was brazen. Frankly, my dear, it was exactly how your own husband operated. 

Because while Tommy was running himself rabid, thinking big, thinking beyond the county's borders, you had been hauled away and hidden right there. In the belly of the beast. 

See, you weren't just in the West Midlands. Weren't just in Warwickshire. You were a mere four fucking miles away. 

It was wicked. A cruelty you were feeling the full force of as you sat shivering in the groundkeeper's hut in the neighbouring farm’s field, Arrow House lighting up like a beacon in the fading evening light through the weathered slats of wood. 

Three days, going on four, you had sat there in nothing but a cotton slip, cold to the bone as your three captors drank themselves halfway to an early date with the Devil down in ol’hell.

“ Got nothin’ to say today, lass? Nae smart-arse remarks for us, eh?”one of the Glaswegians drawled, digging deep in a battered crate for another bottle of whisky next to a sprawled-out, sleeping Scotsman. 

“ If I did, you wouldn't understand it anyway” you muttered, hauled up in the corner of the hut, looking like some wild thing that had run straight out of England's muddy moors. 

“ Are ye callin’ me thick?” he spluttered, swaying where he stood, all six feet of him looking, well…thick as a bloody brick. 

“ Away with ye, Fraser. Sit yeself down” McConnell, the one who was seemingly in charge barked. The same one who had slowly been drinking himself into oblivion, while he waited for the Billy Boys to find a route into Warwickshire your husband hadn't blocked or barricaded. 

“ Wasn't slow when I gave ye that wee little mark to yer face now, was I?” Fraser's face flashed with a smugness that made you feel sick, the sting to your cheek, where he'd struck you for one remark too many, throbbing hot with hatred. 

You'd been riling them up. Winding them up.

And I would say, hammer them to hell with every witty concoction of words imaginable, darling. 

But I'm worried, you see. Fearful that the fuel feeding your resilience was about to snuff itself out. 

Because that head of yours, that traitorious noggin, had started thinking too much. And thinking too much made for false thoughts. Thoughts I could hear loud and clear...

He'd given up. Given you in. He'd abandoned the wife he'd been burdened with to save his business. 

And as you shrank in on yourself, watching the Scotsman slump in front of your only way out, you didn't think of your husband who was supposed to save you. Your thoughts turned to the man who was supposed to always keep you safe. 

Arney.

Dad.

“ Where is my father?” your voice came quieter now, careful not to rouse the emotions you'd choked down with every spent tear for your uncle. 

“  Dinna fash about that deadbeat dad o’ yours, lass. He's long gone now” McConnell murmured lazily, limbs loosening after the near liter of whisky he'd consumed within the past couple of days. 

“ Life's dealt ye a rotten hand. Da sold ye out. Uncles dead. Husband dinna care” he lifted the bottle in his hand, as Fraser, the fucker with a problem for women who knew their worth glared at you like he wanted to give you another wallop for good measure.

“ The bastard is long gone, lass. They're all gone” 

Gone. Was that it? Was that truly it? 

Every call for justice unheard? Every demand for retribution unanswered? 

For every life story came with a villain. Be it drink. Be it drugs. Be it the mind. Be it yourself. Or the ones that claimed to love you. 

Some would be conquered, some overcome. And some…some just simply slipped away. An anomaly in life where everything felt like fate. 

“ Aye, yer a misfit of misfortune, lass. We've all been there” McConnell murmured as he watched you swallow back the bitter realisation that awful Arney, dad, was one of the ones who got to slip away. 

“Sleep. The telegrams been sent out. McCavern is coming for those Liverpool lines” he muttered before the whisky took him and he slumped back against the barn, eyes shut and off guard, leaving you with the woman hating wanker. 

“ He who can't handle his liquor, makes for merrier men” Fraser, Franky, whatever the fuck he was called nabbed McConnell's bottle, guzzling it down his gullet like some show off to his own stupidness. 

“ Well done. You're almost house-trained” you praised the prick, sarcasm slipping through the fatigue of four nights locked in limbo. 

Civilised, darling. I think your best bet was the word civilised. 

Though if your intention was to insult the fool, then house-trained appears to have struck a nerve.

 Because would you look at that? The Six foot tall Scotsman was halfway to murdering you.

 Splendid work, dear. 

“ Ye callin’ me a beast now?” He slurred,  stumbling forward from the door, clearing the way for an escape. 

“ I dinna care for yer words, lass. I weren't a bairn born in a barn” he puffed out his chest, words coming out…wobbly.

Christ. 

Clearly, domestication, barns and being born in one were a touchy subjects for the drunk Scotsman who was now slumped against the wall, glaring at you like he could send your royal Arrow House arse straight to the gallows. 

So be it. 

Two down one to go. 

Drink up you devil. Drink up. 

Lined up. One by one. The staff of Arrow House had been herded into the foyer looking as though they were about to face the firing squad for acts of treason against the Crown. 

Because standing before them was a man who looked every bit the executioner. Down to his waistcoat, shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms, face filled with nothing but fury.

Tommy was a King. A battle weary King without his Queen.

And he was pacing. Prowling. Looking for a fight. Looking to pick on anyone that showed even a flicker of disloyalty. 

“ You” Tommy turned on the groundskeeper, boots marching across the foyer floors towards the fifty year old stood, cap steady in his hand. 

“ A week ago. No…two weeks…” your husband interrogated then corrected, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes squeezed shut, trying to fight through the fog of exhaustion that had clouded his memory. 

Christ. He was exhausted. Arthur stood in the shadows, exhausted. John, head lowered, leaning against the door, exhausted. 

Everyone. Every connection. Every debt owed. Every man who had ever promised Thomas Shelby a favour. Exhausted. 

“ You were seen. Walking the grounds with my wife's father” Tommy stood there waiting, like the next words out of the grey-haired man's mouth would be the ones that brought you back to him.

“ Speak” 

“ Aye, sir. A fortnight ago. He was enquiring as to how many acres Arrow House holds” his Black Country accent came out thick, without pause, without so much as a flicker of that disloyalty Tommy had gone full bloodhound in search of sniffing out. 

Before the groundskeeper had even drawn another breath, your husband had already moved on, turning his attention to the maids stood trembling under the tyrant's temper.

But Frances, with ten years of dealing with angry gangsters on her résumé, wasn't about to let Tommy bully the youngest of the household staff into saying what they thought their master wanted to hear simply to ease the pressure. 

“ Yes, sir?” she dutifully stepped forward, unblinded by the fear that had etched its way into every line of his face when came the last voice your husband wanted to hear. One that made far too much sense, far too often.

“ Thomas” 

Polly. Polly Gray. 

With something that sounded close to a growl, Tommy spun on the heel of his boot, outright ignoring his aunt in favour of barking more orders. 

“ Arthur. John. With me” the words had barely left his mouth before he was already in motion, already out the foyer and onto the steps, when a lad, no more than three foot tall came hurtling down the drive with another telegram clutched within his hand. 

McCavern. It had to be Jimmy McCavern. Finally making his demands, finally giving Tommy something he could work with. 

“ Telegram for you, Mister” the young messenger skidded to a stop, the very picture of youthful innocence with muddy knees and dimpled cheeks, blissfully unaware that the Glaswegian group had used him as nothing more than a paper boy, unknowingly putting his own life at risk.

Seal torn beneath Tommy's thumb, his eyes raced across the page then widened in complete and utter horror as the second verse to the nursery rhyme sat staring back at him. 

Last night as I lay on my pillow. Last night as I lay in my bed. Last night as I lay on my pillow, I dreamt that my Bonnie was…dead.

The telegram slipped from his fingers, feather-like to the ground where it settled once again, without fuss, without fanfare as your husband stood silent. Still. 

“ Tom…?” Arthur carefully ventured as he stepped forward, eyes searching his brothers face when Tommy suddenly turned, took three unsteady steps towards the stone pillar beside the door, and retched. 

Nothing came.

Four days of whiskey, cigarettes and sleeplessness, had left nothing to give. Nothing to quiet the terror. Nothing to loosen the grief that had gripped him by the throat. 

And as panic rose behind him, the muffled voices of his brother's insisting McCarvern was playing games, playing with Tommy's head, feeding the paranoia already eating him alive, your husband lifted his eyes.

And there, beyond the gates, a lone figure stood stoic amongst the low-lying miss rolling across the fields of Arrow House. 

Greatcoat buttoned high. Service cap pulled low. Hands clasped neatly behind his back. A soldier, taking the watch.  

“ Richie…” Tommy stumbled forward, trembling hands finding the cold stone as it guided each faltering step, boots dragging across the grit of the drive.

“ I've got her. I’m standing watch…” his voice cracked, the promise he'd made beside your uncle's body, to you, no longer sounding like the unwavering pledge of a soldier. But the desperate plea of a broken man. 

“Rich…I've got her” he muttered, eyes red raw and unblinking as Richie turned into the mist, into No Man's land, where promises either died, or were delivered at the break of dawn. 

“ Thomas…” the steady voice of Polly pulled him from the depths of despair, her firm hand guiding him away from the dead man's silent judgement. 

“ Tommy, you're no good to her like this” she followed his gaze to the empty fields of Arrow House, thick with morning mist and frost bitten dew. 

“ You must rest. You must sleep” 

Sleep. 

A foreign word. A word that finally, after four relentless days, made Thomas Shelby snap before his aunt, his siblings, his men and staff who'd never once seen their master so completely undone as he stormed back into the halls of his great home. 

“ I will not sleep until my wife is in bed with me!” 

True to his word, Tommy found no sleep. No slumber came to ease his exhausted mind. 

He'd searched through the night, and when nothing came of it, when no trace of you turned up, he stayed awake on whiskey and willpower, searching through endless rolls of maps until dawn steadily broke over the hills of Arrow House, where he sat slumped on the edge of your bed, head buried in his hands. 

He could feel himself slipping closer to madness with every minute that passed. Roused only from the limbo he'd been living in for five days straight, when he heard your voice. 

It was a whisper at first. Then louder and louder, a torturous taunt from a mind pushed beyond its limits. 

“ Stop…” he mumbled beneath his breath, to himself, to his own thoughts, as the muffled call of his name began to break through the morning mist. 

“ TOMMY!” 

It screamed for him. Screamed for help. 

“TOMMY, PLEASE!” 

There It came again. Louder now. Loud enough to make him lift his head, for his brow to furrow, his spine to straighten as every instinct in him violently snapped awake. 

“ HELP ME!” 

It cried, you cried. Sprinting down Arrow House's long drive barefoot in nothing but a thin slip against the winter morning, hair wild in the wind as you ran like you'd never run before.

Shooting to his feet, Tommy grabbed his gun as he flew from the bedroom bare-chested, barefoot, suspenders hanging low against his trousers. 

“ RUN TO ME!” his voice tore from his throat as he raced out the front doors, down the drive to your frantic figure running through the morning mist, headlights burning behind you. 

“ DON'T STOP!”

“Tommy…” your cry broke, as your head whipped over your shoulder to see your captors gaining on you, windows rolling down as Arthur and John tore out the house behind their brother, guns already raised. 

“ No…” your husband's eyes widened in horror, as the barrel of a gun appeared from the car window. "NO!”

“ GET DOWN!” Tommy's roar ripped across the grounds, face twisting in fear as shots fired from both sides, tearing through the crisp air as you raced towards each other. 

You didn't listen, didn't stop, couldn't stop. Not when you were running towards the place your heart had finally found its home. Not when you were running towards your husband, now meters away. And not when you finally collided into his arms, a strangled sob breaking against his chest. 

“ I've got you” his voice broke against your hair, eyes squeezing shut as his arms wrapped tightly around you with relief. “I've got you, darling”

The men still shouted. The sound of tyres still screeched. The sharp whistle of bullets  passed through the air, still, after everything you'd survived. Every mile of distance, every wounding word, every quiet goodbye. 

Surely, surely now the world owed you a moment's peace? 

And to anyone else it may have seemed impossible, but somehow, in and amongst the chaos, it was only him. Only you. 

Only the two of you sharing one breath after believing there wouldn’t be another. 

Every tender touch slowed beneath the steady beat of his heart as he cradled your face in his hands, pressing a soft kiss against your lips until your heavy breaths settled into rhythm with his. 

And there, in the arms of his wife, forehead pressed against hers, as chaos raged around them, Tommy understood something he'd spent a month running from. 

If he was ever granted another dawn. Another chance to leave words behind on paper. 

It would not bear his initials. Not be signed with the coldness of a man who kept the world at arms length.

It would carry the only words he had left. The only ones that mattered. 

Love, Tommy.

The End. 

* A huge thank you to every one who stuck with me throughout this whirlwind series. Every read, reblog and show of support kept me going through all twelve chapters. I'm very sad to say goodbye to this story, but I hope you'll stick around for my next Tommy series. I'll be posting its trailer and masterlist very soon! Thank you once again for all your love and support 🖤.*

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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.

Sunday morning should’ve been quiet, allowing him time for his family. Just one day. 

Tommy had been in London for the last three days. Instead of staying in that city for one more night, he travelled home overnight, arriving in Birmingham in the early morning hours. Unable to sleep after that and not wanting to wake his wife and baby son, he came down to his office to get some work done. 

Tommy had been working at his desk for about an hour when the door opened with no preamble. He was hoping it was his beautiful wife, already smiling.

But it was Rory who stepped in. 

“He’s here,” Rory said meaningfully. 

Tommy didn’t need to ask who. Somehow, he knew Alfie Solomons would turn up soon. Just not at his home. 

Reluctantly, he said, “Bring him in.”

Only a moment later, Rory returned with Alfie at his shoulder.

He wasn't sure if Alfie was an ally or an enemy. The man took one step into the room before stopping, measuring the place. His hat was still atop his head, his cane tapping the floor as he walked.

“Right,” he muttered, glancing around. “So, this is where you do your thinking, yeah? Bit tidy for my liking, Tommy."

Tommy had no intention of rising to it. “I'm sure you’ve seen worse.” Gesturing to the chair on the other side of his desk. “Sit.”

But Alfie didn’t sit. Turning ever so slightly, he glanced back towards Rory. Tommy's new business partner took his time, sizing up his brother-in-law, the young man who had earned a reputation for himself as one of the most deadly men in Birmingham. 

Rory stood by the door, too calm and still for a man his age. His gaze didn't leave Alfie for a second.

“Interesting one, that,” Alfie said, almost to himself.

Rory didn’t react at all. He just stood there, motionless and waiting.

Alfie smiled faintly. “Go on then. You can leave us. I promise I won’t rob him blind in the next five minutes.”

Rory still didn’t move, his gaze shifting to Tommy. 

When Tommy gave him a small nod, Rory left without a word, closing the door behind him.

And in the silence of his exit, Alfie watched the door a moment longer. Letting out a slow breath, he turned his attention back to Tommy as he finally took a seat in front of his desk.

“Bloody hell,” Alfie muttered.

Tommy lit a cigarette. “Problem?”

Alfie shook his head, making himself comfortable in the leather-backed seat. “No, no problem. Just didn’t expect him, is all.”

Tommy didn't answer. Alfie kept talking. 

“That one’s cold, Tommy.”

Tommy didn’t answer.

“I’ve met lads like that,” Alfie went on, his hands moving as he spoke. “War leaves ‘em like that, yeah? Takes everything soft out and leaves… something else.” Alfie frowned faintly now. “Thing is, I’d usually say war did that, yeah? Seen it a hundred times. But he’s too young for that, isn’t he mate?”

Tommy exhaled smoke, letting Alfie work his way through it. “He’s seen enough.”

Alfie gave that a moment. “Right, so it’s not war.”

Tommy watched him nod to himself, like he’d just solved a puzzle he didn’t enjoy solving.

“Because war, yeah?” Alfie continued. “War’s simple. You know what did it. You know where it came from.” Tapping his temple, he said, “But when it’s not that. What's in that lad was built. Bit by bit.”

Tommy just waited while Alfie’s gaze shifted to the door again.

“Which means,” he said, almost conversational now, “he didn’t end up like that by accident. No, he chose it.”

Finishing his cigarette, Tommy crushed it in the tray. “He’s loyal.”

Alfie let out a short breath through his nose. 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Looking back at Tommy, he went on. “Until he isn't anymore. What happens then?"

Tommy wasn't about to engage in the conversation. Alfie was posing the question of what would happen if Rory ever turned on him, went against him. It wasn't impossible Rory would ever challenge him, just not in the way Alfie was thinking.

Finally, Alfie straightened, realizing Tommy wasn't going to take the topic up.

“I like him,” he added, lighter now. “I don’t trust him, obviously... but I like him.” A faint grin. “I wouldn’t turn my back on him, mind you.”

Tommy’s voice was flat. “No one asked you to.”

Then Alfie clapped his hands once, like shaking it off. “Right. Now we’ve done the introductions, let’s talk about London.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair. Finally.

“Camden’s not Birmingham,” Alfie said slower now. “You don’t just walk in and take a piece, yeah? You negotiate the air before you breathe it.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair, another cigarette between his fingers. “I’m not asking permission."

Alfie grinned. “Course you’re not. That’s why I’m here instead of sending someone else to tell you you’re wrong.”

Before he could say anything else, his study door opened again. No one knocked, and Tommy’s head snapped up instantly.

And there she was. His stunning wife was smiling and happy to see him. with the soft light from the hallway catching on her hair as she crossed the threshold. 

“You came back last night,” she said, already moving toward him. “You didn’t wake me—”

She stopped short when she saw the man sitting across from her husband. A stranger in his black clothes and hat, running a hand over his beard as his gaze swept over her. 

Tommy was already on his feet, but it was too late. There was a single moment of silence as Tommy walked over to his wife.

That's when Alfie lit up.

“Well now,” he said, slow and delighted. He was already out of the chair, stepping forward. His manner wasn't threatening as much as it was just inevitable.

Tommy moved, subtle but firm, placing himself just enough between them.

“This is my wife,” he said, tone controlled.

Alfie nodded like he’d expected nothing less. “Yeah. I can see that.” To her, his smile widened. “Though I'm not so sure I expected Thomas to find a wife that could put up with him and that looks like... you."

At the faint smile on his new partner's face, Tommy tried to guide her quietly from the office with a hand at her lower back. It was bad enough Alfie had gotten a look at her. He certainly didn't want her to linger. 

“And there it is," Alfie said loudly. "You’ve got the lad's eyes.”

Tommy cut in, sharper now. “Alfie.”

Of course Alfie didn’t stop.

“No, hold on,” he said, lifting a hand. “Because now I’ve got it, yeah?” Gesturing loosely toward the door, he said, "That one, Rory, cold as winter, barely says a word...” Back to her. “Then you walk in smiling... Brother and sister, right?” he asked with no small amount of satisfaction. 

Tommy didn’t confirm it, but his graceful wife nodded at his side. 

Alfie was pleased with himself. “Right,” he said. “That makes sense now.” When he glanced at her again, he said, “You’ve got his way of standing your ground. You just look a lot better.”

That had her smiling. Goddamn it.

Tommy stepped in fully now. “That’s enough."

She didn’t shrink away from Alfie or retreat. She wouldn't. His wife had held her own alone with Luca Changretta. It wasn't really a surprise she wasn't intimidated by the latest stranger in front of her. Still, smiling, she met Alfie's gaze calmly.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to interrupt. I just wanted to welcome my husband home.”

Alfie’s expression shifted just a fraction. He remained respectful. “Yeah, I imagine you did.”

Tommy wasn’t smiling, steering her towards the door. 

"I'll find you as soon as I'm done here," he told her quietly, willing her to leave the room. Now.

Alfie just chuckled under his breath. 

“Right, right. Business first,” he said, moving back toward his chair. “I’ll behave. Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Shelby. I have to say you're a strong reminder of why men make poor decisions.”

Tommy glared him down, but Alfie just grinned.

Nodding, she quietly made her way out of the office, leaving the two of them to talk business. The door closed behind her, but Tommy didn’t move right away. For a moment, he just stood there wishing his wife hadn't come looking for him.

And wishing he'd been alone so she could have. She would have kissed him, pressed her body against his like soft fire. He wouldn't have had a problem with it becoming more. All the way home last night, he'd considered that he'd only ever had her once on his desk. He was thinking he wanted a repeat of that...

Later.

Behind him, Alfie let out a low whistle. “Right, that’s… something, that is.”

Tommy got himself under control, slowly turning to face his unexpected guest. “Say what you came to say.”

“So,” Alfie said as he returned to his chair, his cane tapping. “Let me get this straight, yeah?” Gesturing toward the door, he said, “You’ve got that walking around your house. And then you’ve also got that cold little bastard for a brother-in-law.”

To Tommy's annoyance, Alfie was mapping out his family. 

“Now I’m trying to work out, who came first?” He paused. “The beautiful wife? Or the cold lad?”

Tommy’s voice cut in, low and lethal. “Enough, Alfie.”

Alfie stopped, just looking at him. His smile was faint, but deliberate. “Yeah, you don’t like that, do you?”

Tommy moved closer now, slowly and quietly. There was nothing casual about it.

“My wife isn't your concern,” Tommy finally said.

Alfie let out a soft, almost amused breath. “No.”

The silence dropped like a weight, as Tommy regarded him coldly. Internally, he was cursing the bastard for just showing up to his home. His home was his private life. Not business. She was not part of his business. 

Alfie held up a hand before it went any further. “I’m not after her, Tommy. I’m not suicidal. But I can't unsee a woman who looks like that."

Tommy didn't blink, still staring Alfie down.

“Didn’t you realize what you did, Tommy?” Alfie asked. “You went and married a woman who looks like that. Now you're building everything around her. And your son. I hear you have a boy with her.” 

When would the man realize, he wasn't going to discuss his family and bloody get on with it?

Alfie’s voice dropped, sharper now. "Now I understand something I didn’t before.”

Tommy’s gaze lifted to his.

“Luca Changretta,” Alfie said.

Tommy exhaled loudly. He didn't want to talk about the Changrettas. He wanted to move on to any subject that didn't involve his family. Her.

“All that noise. All that obsession.” Alfie shook his head. “The stories got really fucking loud, yeah? Territory, revenge, some girl your lot didn’t want near Angel Changretta. Some other girl.” His gaze locked onto Tommy’s. "That wasn’t just about business, was it? No, it was her.”

 The man's words hung there, ugly and true. 

"Luca Changretta is dead," Tommy said quietly.

Alfie didn’t argue that. “Yeah. And a good thing that is. But he won’t be the last man who notices her.”

Tommy stepped back then, just enough to reclaim the space. He lit another cigarette with steady hands.

Alfie watched him, but he wasn't smiling now. “That’s the problem, Thomas. It appears you’ve got something real. And men like us? We don’t get to have those things without someone trying to take ‘em.”

After one long, tense moment, Alfie clapped his hands, snapping the moment in half.

“Right,” he said, voice lighter again. “Now that we’ve established you’ve made your life unnecessarily complicated…” A smirk. “Shall we get back to discussing London?”

Tommy walked back to his desk and sat in the chair behind it. Finally. 

“Sit down, Alfie.”

But the man's warning lingered in the back of his mind.

***

Since your husband was busy, you decided to tend to your roses while Malachy was asleep upstairs. You'd been trying to make time for days, but something else for you to do always arrived whenever you remembered. If you didn't do something about them soon, they'd be out of control. The men of your house could care less about the garden outside. Tommy would always tell you to leave it to the servants. 

But when you'd been a girl, you loved books about fairytale princes and their castles. The princess who spent her days in beautiful gowns, wandering her garden and sipping tea. It had been fun to dream about anyway.

Now? Tommy was certainly not a prince, nor you a princess. But you'd never expected to live in a house like this, with so many rooms and staff to help maintain it. Only they weren't really staff to you. They were your friends. You certainly never imagined having a huge, beautiful garden either. But you were grateful, spending time there each day when you could. You were particularly fond of the roses and had, over time, taken over their care. Sure, you could have asked the gardener to do it for you. But it wasn't the same. 

You loved the silence of the garden, an escape from the voices, footsteps, and constant movement of the house. Kneeling in the dirt with your sleeves pushed back, you carefully worked around the stems. The blooms were coming in strong in deep reds and soft pinks. There were white blooms but not many this year. Clipping one branch cleanly, you leaned back to inspect your work.

“Delicate work, that.”

You stilled at the sound of that unfamiliar voice, turning your head slightly to see a man standing a few feet away. You hadn't heard him approach, and that was something. 

The man your husband had just been talking with didn't look like someone from Small Heath. The cut of his coat, the way he held himself, was deliberate and commanded authority. In that regard, he reminded you of Tommy. 

But Tommy had just been talking business with him in his office. What was he doing out here? He was studying you.

With the shears in your hand, you slowly rose to your feet. “I suppose so,” you said, keeping a polite tone. “It took me a while to get the hang of it.”

That got a flicker of amusement from him. “I imagine it was the same with your husband.”

Oh, it was. But that was a little too familiar from a man whose name you didn't know.

You met his gaze fully now. “And you are?”

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering how much to say. “Someone your husband’s been spending time with."

"So you're curious about me, but you won't tell me your name," you pointed out. 

He was fighting back a smile, trying to hide something that looked suspiciously like approval bleeding through his expression.

“You're a sharp one, yeah?” He shifted his weight slightly, hands casually gripping his cane before him. “Names are a bit of a commitment, aren’t they?”

You didn't answer right away. You'd watched Tommy do it enough times. He'd wait until the other person resumed talking just to fill the void. You started working on another branch.

“Alfie Solomons,” he said a couple of moments later like it really didn’t matter. 

You introduced yourself.

“And you’re right. I am curious.” Another moment of silence, and there was mild tension in that quiet. Alfie moved closer but still kept a respectable distance. “You don’t seem particularly concerned, Mrs. Shelby."

You kept pruning. You weren't dismissing him, but you were hardly welcoming him to stay either. “Should I be?”

He paused behind you. “Depends."

You worked on clipping another stem. “On what?”

“On whether you know what kind of man your husband is,” he replied.

You were smiling now. Turning around, you met his gaze again. “I do know.” 

“And what kind of man is that?” he asked.

You considered him for a moment. "Not the kind who allows strangers to wander into his garden."

Alfie smiled properly then. “But here I am.”

“For now," you said, still grasping the shears in your hands.

Interest sharpened his expression. “You’ve got a way about you. Like none of this troubles you.”

Glancing down at your hands, at the dirt under your nails, you spotted a small thorn mark along your finger. You thought about how you wanted to answer. “It does. But there's little point in letting it show.”

“That’ll either serve you very well,” he murmured, “or not at all.”

You looked back up at him. “I guess that depends on the day.”

That was when you heard Tommy’s voice. “Step away from her.”

His tone was calm, but for you, it only made it sound more menacing. 

Turning, you already knew what you would see. You husband had entered your space as silently as your visitor, every line of him was braced and locked in. He wasn't looking at you, but the man a couple of feet away. And that told you everything.

For whatever reason, the man mattered. Was he dangerous? Was he trying to do business with your husband? Did he intend to harm him?

Glancing back at your unexpected visitor, you said, "Excuse me.”

Alfe inclined his head slightly. “Of course.” Then, as if he couldn’t resist, he added, "Didn’t mean to overstay my welcome.”

You stepped forward, passing Tommy. You were close enough to feel the heat of him and the tension he held just beneath the surface.

“Inside,” he said, quieter but no less firm. "Now."

You didn’t argue. You just nodded and kept walking. And as you crossed the threshold into you home, leaving the garden behind, you realized that you hadn't been afraid. But Tommy's reaction made you wonder if that was the wrong response.

reaction made you wonder if that was the wrong response.

***

Tommy's attention focused on Alfie even as the door shut behind her. For a long second, neither man spoke. 

“You don’t listen very well, do you?” Tommy's tone was low and even.

Adjusting his coat, Alfie looked like he had all the time in the world. “I listen fine. I just don’t always agree.”

Tommy stepped closer. “You don’t come to my home and make yourself comfortable.”

Alfie glanced around the garden. “Comfortable’s not the word I’d use. Bit tense, if I’m honest.”

"You were supposed to have left. Now I find you still at my home, in my garden, with my wife. So why are you really here today, Alfie?"

"Just wanted to see exactly who I'm doing business with," Alfie said simply. "That's what we do in our world, innit?"

Unmoved, Tommy continued to stare him down. His wife was not part of his business. He'd already ended the Changrettas for her. He wasn't above making that list longer. 

“You won’t speak to her,” Tommy told him, "or come near her again."

Alfie looked at him then, really looked. "I know what I needed to know.”

It was then that Tommy realized exactly what that meant.

Taking a step closer, Alfie looked him in the eye. “Your reactions say a lot about who you are.”

Tommy’s voice dropped another degree. “You’re done here.”

Alfie gave a small, humorless smile. “I am.”

Finally stepping back, Alfie adjusted his hat. “Nice garden, by the way. Worth protecting.”

Tommy didn’t respond, just watched Alfie turn and walk away.

***

You were quietly looking through the cabinets for Polly's emergency bottle of whiskey. You knew she probably took it with her when she moved into her new house, but it was worth a try. You'd just checked on Malachy who was still napping. Now, you just needed something to calm your nerves. It was rare for you to turn to spirits to do that, and you weren't proud of it. 

You didn't immediately realize your husband was silently watching you from the doorway. As you closed the last cabinet, you noticed a slight tremble to your hands. You blew out an exhale, trying to center yourself.

“That bad?” Tommy's voice alerted you to his presence. 

You didn’t turn right away. "Oh, I'm okay."

“Yeah,” he replied. “I can see that.”

You really hadn't sounded very convincing. “I just... need a minute.”

When you turned to face him, Tommy's gaze was intent on you. 

It was all very odd. A man he was doing business with showed up at your house unexpectedly. That never happened. The same man found you in the garden by yourself. You'd handled yourself well enough, at least you thought you did. But you had to wonder how their second conversation went after you were told to go into the house. Tommy didn't look furious just now. But, as you knew well, that didn't necessarily mean anything.

“If it’s a drink you want,” Tommy said, calmer now, “come with me.”

The way he'd so easily guessed your intentions stopped you cold. His office door shut behind you once you reached it. You watched as he moved to the cabinet and pulled out two glasses. His hands were perfectly steady, unlike yours, as he poured even measures. It was the whiskey he favored, and it was a bit strong for you. But when he handed you a glass, you took it. You took a couple of drinks right away, closing your eyes as it burned its way down into your stomach. 

Tommy's gaze stayed on you. “Sit.” 

Taking a seat in the same chair where Alfie Solomons had been sitting, you took another drink. For a moment, neither of you said anything.

“What did you think of him?” Tommy asked.

That got your attention. Tommy wasn't asking if you were okay or if you were scared. No, he was asking what you thought of the man.

Looking down into the glass in your hand, you could only be honest. "I wanted to like him. But he made me uneasy."

Tommy didn’t react. “Why?”

Taking another small sip, you continued. “I mean... He was polite and charming... It's hard to explain." 

Tommy crossed in front of you, sitting on the edge of his desk as he drained his own glass and placed it next to him. Then his attention was right back on you, watching you closely.

And you knew, you knew, Tommy used small silences like that to prompt you into saying more. To expand on what you were saying. And damn it, you did it anyway.

“I just felt like there was something under all the charm and conversation,” you continued. 

Tommy pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking his time. “And what was that?”

You considered that carefully. “The only thing I can say for sure is that it was really about you." Draining your glass, you leaned forward and placed it on the desk next to his. "Now when I think about all the questions he didn't ask..."

Tommy exhaled smoke before grabbing your glass with one hand, bringing the cigarette to hold between his lips with his other. "And what did he learn?" he asked, refilling your glass and bringing it back to you.

You took the glass back, meeting his gaze solidly. "There are things you care about. Your family."

Your husband's expression didn't shift. "And does he view that as a weakness?"

The whiskey had eased the tension in your body that the man's visit started. You took another sip.

"It's not a weakness." You shook your head. "The way you protect your family, Tommy? It's you at your most dangerous."

"No, I asked if he viewed that as a weakness." 

Your husband's cool blue eyes took you in as you took another drink. The burn was less now, and warmth spread through your body.

"I don't know for certain what the man was thinking," you had to say.

Exhaling slowly, Tommy held your gaze for a moment. "Exactly."

You frowned. "I don't understand."

"No, you don't, and you can't." Tommy leaned back slightly, cigarette balanced between his fingers. "That's the point."

You watched him carefully. 

"I held my own with Luca Changretta." Folding your arms across your chest, you said, "And despite that, he was civilized with me."

"Civilized?" Tommy actually laughed. A short, disbelieving sound. "Changretta wanted you."

Where was he going with this? "Yes, but—"

"No." His voice remained even. "He wanted you."

The room fell quiet. 

You lifted your chin. "He never laid a hand on me, Tommy."

Tommy leaned forward, his gaze locked with yours."You were less than a month from having a babe. He threatened you, ordered his men to hunt a pregnant woman. Laying a hand on you is the only thing he didn't do because he never got the chance."

You opened your mouth and closed it again. Was he right?

Tommy's expression softened slightly. "I need you to adjust your beliefs when it comes to our world."

Our world now?

Your answer came immediately. "I guess you're right. I'm your wife after all."

A corner of his mouth twitched. 

"That's only one aspect of it." Your husband took a final drag on his cigarette, taking his time to expel a plume of smoke. 

You drained your second glass of liquor, realizing it was spinning your mind. The drink went straight to your head, making your skin warm. 

"Solomons wasn't interested in me, Tommy." You shook your head, but the movement made you a little dizzy. Your hands gripped the arms of his heavy leather chair to steady yourself.

And your husband watched you like a predator the entire time, catching every movement.

"It doesn't matter. You don't understand how men like him, like me, think." The intensity of his gaze froze you to the spot. "You don't understand how we evaluate risk, how we choose targets... I need you to be smarter in how you handle yourself. I need my wife, and Malachy needs his mum.”

While your heart squeezed in your chest at that last thought, Tommy was still studying you in a way that set your nerves on edge. 

Snuffing out his cigarette in the tray on his desk, he turned that high-powered perception back on you. “You will not be talking to anyone I do business with from this point on. Not unless I'm there and only if necessary.”

You tilted your head slightly. "How is that going to be possible, Tommy? I get the feeling that you didn't know Mr. Solomons was coming to our house today. I'm supposed to just hide when something like this happens?"

Tommy shook his head, still entirely focused on you.

You frowned. "What?"

Tommy sighed, looking at you like he was trying to decide how to explain something impossible. “If you were a man, you’d understand it.”

Understand what?

Tommy’s gaze held yours. "You look in the mirror every day and you don't see it.”

"Really?" That pulled a nervous laugh from you. But it was false bravado and he saw right through it. “Luca was one man."

“His brother Angel was another.” There was no humor in his expression now, and all you could do was stare at him. His gaze dropped to your lips, slowly roamed over the rest of you. “There will be others. The Changrettas weren’t even the worst.”

Confusion had your brow furrowing. "Who was?"

Something darker bled into his eyes. “You married him.”

His words settled heavily between the two of you. You married him.

Your breath caught at that. But Tommy continued before you could answer.

“I remember the first time I ever saw you,” he said quietly. “I had a coat that needed mending. Arthur gave me the address of your mum's shop. Said the girl on Gray Street could fix it proper.”

You remembered that day. It had been terrifying enough when Arthur Shelby started bringing his mending to your mother's shop. Still, from his first visit, Arthur had been kind to you. In time, he became just another customer.  Until the bet...

Tommy Shelby had been another story. You'd recognized him standing in your doorway with his expensive clothes and unreadable expression, light winking off the razors sewn into his cap. The energy in the entire room changed the moment his gaze found you. 

You'd been polite and brief, trying your damnedest not to draw more of his attention. But he'd lingered, his gaze intense on you. Much like it was right now.

“I saw you,” Tommy went on. “And I wanted you.”

His admission had your heart racing in your chest. He wasn't even trying to soften it or paint himself in a better light. 

“I put Arthur up to that wager with Sean O’Grady,” Tommy admitted. "I gave him the idea of making a night with you his prize."

You knew the entire story now. But the two of you had just never talked about it before. The dark greed in his gaze sent just a hint of fear racing through you.

“I knew Arthur would win. I also knew I'd never let him claim that prize." Tommy straightened, taking the glass from your hands just like he did that first night, and placing it on the desk behind him. “I took Arthur a bottle from the Garrison that afternoon and I made sure he wouldn't be upright for long.”

The room felt smaller now. You remembered John Shelby and another blinder, Liam, escorting you from Gray Street to Arthur's apartment that night. You hadn't been there long when Arthur passed out cold. Hope had swelled in your chest, had you thinking you could run from the most dangerous men in Small Heath.

"I knew you'd run." Your husband's icy blue eyes stayed locked on yours. “All I had to do was wait.”

You remembered that too. The fear and panic you felt darting out of that apartment, praying that no one saw you. You'd planned to claim that the deed was done, praying Arthur would assume you had since he'd been so drunk. 

But you'd run right into Tommy. He'd caught you so easily.

"You remember that night." His voice dropped lower. “I caught you. Then I took what I wanted.”

The honesty of his words hit harder than if he’d tried making excuses. 

Your gaze searched his face. Yes, you remembered all of it. He'd taken you that night just because he could. But to have him lay it out so baldly?

“I'm no different than the Changrettas," he said, "or any other man who will take one look at you and make the same decision."

Slowly, your husband pushed off from the desk. Planting his hands on the arms of your chair, he invaded your space. Crowded against the back of the chair, your heart hammered away in your chest so loudly he could probably hear it.

His gaze never left yours. 

"Look at you. All alone with me and a locked door." His gaze shifted to the whiskey bottle on the desk and back. "You've had two glasses now, sitting here proving my point."

The silence between you felt electrically charged.

"If I weren't the man you know," he said with unbearable calm, "well, you've already given me every advantage. You trusted me enough to follow me in here, to drink with me. You've allowed me to get this close to you." He skimmed a hand up your arm to cradle the side of your face in his warm hand, his thumb brushing covetously along your cheek. "You don't have your brother here. You don't have Polly... You don't even have a clear head anymore."

Just like you had that first night with him. You had more experience now than the scared girl you'd been in that quiet apartment. Yes, your stepfather had put you up as a wager in a bet, an agreement you hadn't consented to. Even though it was hard to push thoughts through the haze of the whiskey you drank, you understood now. You'd just gone along, assuming you had no other choice than to allow Tommy Shelby to just take anything he wanted from you. And he had.

"That's what concerns me. Because there are men in this world who would see every one of those things as an opportunity... They don't even have to force their way in." Tommy's face was mere inches from yours when he leaned in. "You're trusting and kind. But those are qualities dangerous men know how to exploit. And I need you to be more aware of that."

You swallowed hard. The words felt like the ending to his lesson. So why was he still staring at you like he was ready to strike any second?

"You took me home with you after that." Your voice sounded as small as it had that night. "After you got what you wanted. Why?"

Tommy didn't back away, his expression didn't soften. "Before the war, I wanted what any lad did. To find a pretty girl to marry. Start a family, have a simple life."

His kiss was slow and deceptively careful.  But you could feel the restraint behind it. 

"But I came home from the war a different man," he whispered against your lips. "I'd watched soldiers become corpses and I'd watched officers make decisions that buried entire sections alive. I saw men who did everything right but died anyway. Good things didn't just come to good people who waited their turn... I watched good men die waiting their turn."

Tommy very rarely spoke so intimately about the war, how it changed his views on life. You didn't dare interrupt.

"If the world wasn't going to play fair with me," he went on, "I was going to respond in kind." 

Anyone who didn't know him would think Tommy's greatest desire was power. He'd built so much from pure ambition, from the betting shop and street gangs to the expansion and all the violence holding it together. But now, looking into the haunted depths of his eyes, you realized power was never his goal. It was security. Everything he'd done was to protect his family, to keep all threats away. To ensure Malachy never in his life faced the fear his father knew.

You were now part of the family he worked so hard to protect. You'd given him a son. And in rare moments like this one when he opened up just a sliver, you realized Tommy would never crown himself king. Your heart ached to realize that scared young soldier who returned from France was still in there, believing that if he became powerful enough, he could protect those he loved from tragedy.

"I rejected that simple life I once wanted." His plush lips pressed soft kisses over your forehead, over your mouth. But you felt the raw need just beneath the surface. "Until I saw you."

Lifting a hand, you smoothed it over the back of his arm. The lean muscle beneath his crisp shirt shifted powerfully beneath your touch as you kept listening.

"I knew you were scared of me," Tommy said in a deeper tone. "I knew I didn't deserve you. But that didn't stop me. All I could think about was how you'd look sleeping in my bed, walking the halls of my house every day, waiting for me to come home."

When he kissed you again, there was heat and need. You welcomed it. 

"I took you home with me. And the next morning, there you were, sleeping away." His lips blazed a trail over your jaw, seeking out all the spaces that made you tremble, the way only he could. "You were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. You'd never learned a woman's artifice. You'd never known another man's touch."

His tongue tasted the salt of your skin, his lips teasing your flesh in a way that left you shivering.

"I promised myself another night with you," Tommy explained. "Then another. But it was never enough."

His palm was rough and warm as it skimmed over your face and hair. Slowly, it dropped to the front of your blouse, undoing each tiny button efficiently.

You sucked in a desperate breath, making no move to stop him.

"I convinced myself that I wanted to send a message to Small Heath," he said finally. "I wanted everyone to know what happens when you cross the Shelbys. But the truth was... I just wanted you. Guilt pushed at me every day to give you back. But I left selfishness win."

Faster than you could blink, Tommy snatched you out of the chair. He roughly dropped you onto the hard surface of his desk, sending one of the empty glasses flying off the desk to shatter on the floor. Your breath came out in a rush when he pushed you onto your back, his impatient hands grabbing your blouse and ripping it open. The tiny white buttons he hadn't undone flew everywhere.

When your husband ripped open your chemise, you just stared up at him in alarm, excitement running through your veins. 

Tommy's expression was dark and feral. One rough hand slid possessively over your breast before sliding up to wrap around your neck, squeezing lightly.

"This is what men like me want," Tommy whispered, pinning you in place. "To claim and take... And you're so fucking beautiful."

You knew you should have been embarrassed to be as turned on as you were in that moment. The flesh between your thighs was slick, your body was literally humming in need. 

"I took you that night," Tommy whispered, dropping quick scorching kisses over your skin. Teasing your nipple with his lips and tongue. "And I'm going to take you again now."

The moan his words pulled from you was a desperate plea. You were pushing yourself into his palms, up for his mouth. The hand on your neck didn't move, even when his other hand yanked up your dress until it could slide into your drawers to find you wet and aching for him. 

"Please, Tommy," you whispered.

"You survived Luca Changretta because he underestimated you." Your devilish husband chained more kisses over your chest, blazing a trail down your body.

"I survived you." You could barely breathe to talk, taking all the challenge out of your statement. You just writhed under him in need.

"You survived me," Tommy's words were muffled against the warm flesh of your tummy, "because I fell in love with you."

And you could read the truth of his words in the deep blue of his eyes. You felt it in the possessive way his hands explored your body like it was his as much as yours.

"No other man will ever touch you," he said heatedly, tearing your drawers away from what he wanted. "No one touches what's mine."

All you could do was nod, everything else was forgotten. You were struggling to breathe, focusing on the devilish touch of his fingers on your clit.

The hand at your throat slid down to play with your breasts as he buried his face between your thighs. Your hands scrambled for something, anything, to hold onto as he took you apart in the most intimate way. While his tongue twisted in your folds, lashed at your clit, your hands grabbed at the edge of the desk, his strong shoulders, and the short black locks of his hair. Pleasure rose fast and intense, he was relentless. Your high cries filled his study when you came on his tongue, his tight grip keeping your hips immobile.

Those blue eyes stayed on you, enjoying the sight of you drowning in pleasure. Tommy lifted his head, triumph bleeding into his expression as you lay there trying to breathe.

"As much as I enjoyed how needy you were when you carried my boy," he said, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, "I forgot how much I love watching you scream for me like this."

Your husband dove back in, this time wrapping his arms around your thighs to hold them open for his torment. With the whiskey still running through your veins, you were somewhere between trying to escape his sensual torment and pushing yourself at him, begging for more without words. The second time you came with his fingers sliding against your front wall and his tongue a barely-there flutter against your clit that had you begging for me. 

Tommy left you wilted on the desktop as he stood, his hands fumbling with his fine leather belt. Once he'd pushed down his trousers, he took himself in hand, red and swollen. Your gaze was riveted on the movement of his hand, the sight of his cock. You needed him so much.

He let go of himself only long enough to grab your thighs and drag you to the edge of his desk. Pulling your thighs over his hips, he positioned himself at your entrance. Tommy roughly grabbed your hips with his hands. You weren't sure if he was thrusting roughly into you or working you back and forth on his cock. 

All you knew was that you craved being filled by him, and he gave you what you wanted. You arched your back, pleading like a mindless thing atop his desk as he fucked you like he never meant to stop. Your thighs clamped around his slim hips, your slick inner walls trying to grab him with every pass. You moaned and pleaded, an indecent chorus that kept in time with the rhythmic sound of slapping flesh. 

Tommy kept shifting his thrusts until he found that space inside you that shattered your sanity and sent you sailing over the edge. At some point during your release, your husband captured your hands, pinning them to the desk on either side of your head. Now he hovered over you, watching your face as he fucked you harder and faster. The expensive fabric of his waistcoat was a cool slide against your breasts. The chain of his pocket watch was a cold shimmer against your heated skin. 

"Want you to feel me for days," he whispered hotly into your ear as his lips seared the side of your neck. "I want to keep coming in you until my spend is dripping out of you."

You wanted to grab him, to hang onto him, but his hands held yours to the desk. His thrusts came harder and faster as he chased his own release. 

"Want you full with my child again," he whispered as his lips and tongue teased the shell of your ear. "Swollen and beautiful... needing my cock to split you open every night. You begged me so sweetly..."

His eyes squeezed shut as he came, pumping into you with everything had. His lips parted as he struggled to breathe, furiously pushing into you over and over until he gave you everything he had. Until he had you trembling under him, making you take everything. All of him.

***

Ledgers lay open across his desk, untouched. The fire had burned low and the midday sun was dimming as clouds began to gather in the sky beyond his study windows.

Tommy sat in his chair with his six-month-old son asleep against his chest, one impossibly small fist wrapped around the fabric of his waistcoat.

For once, business could wait.

A quiet knock at the door drew his attention. 

"Come."

Frances stepped inside carrying another stack of correspondence, but paused when she saw them, smiling. The older woman he'd hired to help run his house was more than capable, but she was also caring. 

"I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You haven't," he said.

Her gaze drifted toward the ceiling. "Mrs. Shelby is asleep."

Tommy glanced upward instinctively.

"She usually isn't at this hour," Frances added. "I hope she's feeling well."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "She's tired."

Frances smiled knowingly. "The little master keeping everyone awake?"

Not the little one. Tommy looked down at the sleeping boy. "Something like that."

The woman hesitated. "I could take him if you've work to do."

"No." Tommy shook his head. "He'll stay with me."

Frances nodded, leaving the correspondence she brought where she always did. "As you wish, Mr. Shelby."

Once she left, the room settled back into silence.

Tommy watched his son sleeping. Malachy stirred, making a tiny dissatisfied sound before settling again.

With a hand smoothing against his son's back, he said, "You've no idea where you've landed, have you?"

Another sleepy sigh.

"You'll meet dangerous men one day," he explained, watching the tiny fingers flex against his waistcoat. His thumb absently stroked the boy's back. "Men like Alfie Solomons. They'll make you laugh. That's the first thing."

His smile faded as he thought about Alfie catching him off guard today. Showing up at his home, getting an eye full of his wife.

"Never mistake a sense of humor for harmlessness," he continued, shifting the baby higher on his shoulder. "Men like Alfie want you comfortable because comfortable men stop paying attention."

Tommy watched the dying embers of the fire for just a moment. 

"He'll tell you a story, and half of it will be true. The other half's there to stop you asking the questions that matter."

Malachy's eyes fluttered open, gazing up at him for just an instant before closing again. Eyes that looked much like his own.

"If a clever man starts talking too much..." He quietly chuckled. "...listen to what he isn't saying. And don't underestimate him. The moment you do, you've made a mistake."

Tommy thought of his wife sleeping in the safety of his bed. The moment he had with his son, knowing the devils were far from his gates. For now. That security was earned through hard work and calculation. He'd teach his son what do and he'd adapt to whatever path life took him on. 

"Respect dangerous men, Malachy," he said slowly. "Never admire them."

Admiration clouded judgment, and he'd seen men become fascinated by power, reputation, and charisma. Alfie Solomons possessed all three.

"You'll like him," Tommy went on. "Most people do."

His wife had although she'd also feared him on some level. Not enough. But he'd teach her too. 

"That's what makes him dangerous."

A long silence followed. 

"But you'll learn," he told his son with quiet certainty. "I'll teach you."

Tommy chuckled under his breath. "You'll think your father's suspicious, probably tell your Mum I'm impossible. And she'll agree with you."

His wife still believed there was good to be found in most people and somehow married a man who searched every room for exits.

Tommy sincerely hoped he inherited his mother's heart. But he intended to give him his eyes.

He sat there without moving for a little while longer, the warm weight of his son in his arms, something he wanted burned into his memory. His ledgers remained untouched.