Chapter 1: Chapter 1 – The New Bookkeeper
Chapter Text
Author: Becky L. Sly
Title: Dusk Till Dawn
Genre: Drama
Rating: M (there will be violence and some non-explicit sexual situations that may not be appropriate for all readers)
I just own the plot. The original TV show characters belong to Steven Knight.
DUSK TILL DAWN
by Becky L. Sly
Chapter 1 – The New Bookkeeper
Birmingham, 1919
The grey air of Small Heath filled Thomas’s lungs as he walked down the gravel of Watery Lane, heading toward the betting shop. His boots struck the dirty path with steady weight, but the sound did little to quiet his mind. Ada was pregnant, and Freddie was missing. And he’d better be out of town, since that was part of Inspector Campbell’s deal.
He pushed open the front door, stepping into the familiar living room with its faded rose wallpaper, chipped at the corners. He moved past the green velvet curtain to the back. The air changed—darker, louder. Men called out orders, shouted over one another; boots thudded on floorboards, and the smell of tobacco, beer, and ink clung to the brick walls. It wasn’t as chaotic as the day Monaghan Boy lost the race, but business was still thriving.
Polly sat at the table in the center of the shop, sleeves rolled, cigarette in one hand, counting out the last stack of notes before sealing them into the safe. She glanced up briefly as Thomas approached.
“Busy day,” she muttered, eyes returning to the ledger. “If you don’t get us into trouble… we might even increase our shares.”
Thomas stood beside her, hands in his coat pockets, flat cap tucked under one arm. He said nothing. He just glanced around.
“We’re expanding, Pol,” he said finally, voice low and even.
“Arthur put an advert in the paper,” she murmured, scribbling a figure into the column. “Said we need a bookkeeper.”
Polly snorted. “He must’ve been drunk.”
Thomas smirked. “I wonder who’d apply for the job.”
“No need to wonder. He already hired one,” Polly said, casting him a sideways glance as she took a long drag. She exhaled smoke slowly, the corners of her lips curving faintly. “He’s got an interesting eye for applicants these days.”
Thomas’s brow twitched just slightly before he turned toward the main office. The door was ajar. He pushed it open with the back of his hand and stepped inside.
Tobacco, old paper, and something faintly sweet lingered in the air. A woman was already seated—young, poised, dark-blonde hair cascading in soft waves around her shoulders, framing a pale complexion that didn’t belong in Small Heath. Like a portrait someone hung in the wrong house.
“And you are?” he asked, crossing the room without breaking stride.
She rose from her seat at once, composed but cautious, extending her hand politely. Her skirt was wool, pressed and plain, but the hem was stitched with quiet precision, like someone who meant to go unnoticed, but couldn’t help carrying a trace of grace.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Shelby,” she said. The first thing he noticed was her accent: subtle, but not local. Not Brummie. Not quite Irish. “I applied for the bookkeeping position.”
He circled behind his desk, ignoring the offered hand, and sat down in his leather chair. He reached into his coat for his cigarette case, eyes never leaving her.
“Applied, did you?” he asked, striking a match. “Already given up?”
She frowned slightly, hazel eyes catching the dull light from the windows. “No… I spoke with Mr. Arthur. He told me I was qualified.”
He raised a brow, smoke curling lazily from his mouth.
"Arthur?”
“He said I may call him Arthur.”
“He’s gotten soft, letting strangers call him that.”
Another drag. His gaze swept her up and down, sharp and slow. She didn’t flinch under it. Long lashes, hazel eyes that held his stare a second too long. Skin like porcelain, untouched by smoke or sun. Her coat was plain, but the way she carried herself wasn’t.
“We’re not hiring a bookkeeper.”
“But—”
“Not one who’s young and green. Miss...?”
“Mrs. Mary Jones,” she said, chin lifting slightly, though her fingers fiddled with the hem of her coat. She reached into her handbag, searching for something. “But I do have experience, sir. I brought letters of recommendation.”
She extended the papers toward him. He didn’t take them.
“How old are you?”
She hesitated—just a second. The papers trembled ever so slightly between her fingers.
“I’m twenty-four. But I assure you—”
“You’re not made for this job, Mrs. Jones,” he said, voice low and final. “What we do here isn’t for the likes of you.”
She flinched, her composure cracking at the edges, and slowly lowered her hand. Still, she didn’t withdraw the letters. As if the paper might speak for her if she held it long enough.
“How could you know?”
“You’re not from around here,” he said, taking another drag. “Rich girl, is it? Found yourself in the wrong town. Doesn’t sound local.”
She took a breath, steadying herself. Her fingers traced the edge of the page.
“My father owned a small shop in Cardiff. I managed his accounts. He couldn’t read or write,” she murmured, her accent coloring the words. “After he passed, I came here with my husband.”
“Jones is your husband’s name.”
“Yes. His name was Jones,” she corrected gently, her eyes dropping to the floor. “He passed away two years ago. Died in France.”
Thomas said nothing. He watched her over the rim of his cigarette, expression unreadable. Then he stubbed it out in the ashtray over the desk. The sound—sharp, final—seemed to land between them.
“And now you’re looking for work. In bookkeeping.”
“I’m a widow. And not English,” she said, calm but not hollow. “My options are limited.”
He looked at her a beat longer. No tremor in her voice, no shift in her spine. Just stillness. Polished. Like she’d practiced this version of herself.
“Why not go back to Cardiff?”
“There’s little for me in Cardiff now, sir,” she murmured. Her voice carried a trace of steel under the politeness. “And I’d rather earn a living doing something meaningful than scrubbing floors.”
His mouth twitched—amused, maybe, or skeptical. Hard to tell. He stood and circled the desk slowly, his footsteps unhurried, deliberate.
“Alright, Mrs. Jones. If you insist,” he said, taking the letter from her fingers at last. “We’ll try you. John still seals the books. We’ll see how long you last.”
She met his gaze, and gave him a small smile. Polite, but not meek. “Thank you, Mr. Shelby. I won’t waste the opportunity.”
He gave a curt nod and moved to the door. He held it open, one hand still in his coat pocket.
“Don’t thank me. You haven’t earned it yet.”
The next day, she arrived early. Her clothing was modest. At least more modest than the day before. And might’ve blended into the chipped brick and dust if she weren’t the only woman weaving through a sea of men. Arthur was beside her, showing her around the betting shop.
“That’s the blackboard—we keep track of bets and odds there,” he grunted, voice loud and hoarse as he circled the central table lined with mismatched chairs.
She followed closely, her eyes attentive but careful not to linger too long on anyone. The men cast sideways glances, curiosity on their faces, but said nothing. Not with Arthur there.
“That’s the main office,” he added, raising his voice over the shouting. “And there’s the safe. Don’t go near it unless I say so.”
He strode toward a quiet corner, where a small, dust-covered desk was shoved against the wall.
“This is your spot, love,” he said, slapping the top ledger with his large hand. A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Gets loud in here. Best not get distracted.”
“Noise doesn’t bother me,” she said, smiling faintly. “After a while, you stop noticing.”
He gave a short laugh, throwing her a quick, appraising glance. He tapped the stack of ledgers once more.
“Try not to bugger these up.”
She nudged the desk slightly forward to distance it from the damp wall, the wood cold beneath her palms, the edge splintered in places from years of careless elbows. She sat at the desk and sorted the ledgers by date. She began scanning through the first one. It was a mess.
Her mind tried to make sense of the dodgy math. Pages were missing from the ledger, and the cash vouchers didn’t add up. Some entries were penciled in, others inked hastily, the handwriting inconsistent—certain figures smudged or crossed out as if by a careless hand. The faint scent of graphite and old paper mingled with the ever-present smoke that clung to the air.
She pressed on, trying to impose order on the chaos. Matching carbon copies of receipts to ledger entries, double-checking each tally, though she knew some figures were deliberately obscured.
The day passed quickly, though by the end, a dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. It wasn’t just the numbers—it was the shouting, the thick scent of smoke that clung to the air. She kept her head down most of the time, glancing up only when Polly entered the room, her sharp gaze cutting straight through her.
The next day was easier. She was already growing familiar with the chaos: the numbers, the sloppy handwriting, the general disarray of the place. She tried to be diligent. Efficient. She never asked questions—afraid she’d sound silly or inexperienced. Especially after she once asked Arthur about the lack of receipts or the inconsistent stamps, and he’d just laughed it off, saying:
“Ah, that’s just Tommy’s way.”
Tommy’s way.
It didn’t take long to realize that was how things worked in that betting shop.
She rarely saw Thomas during her first week. Not that he wasn’t around—but she never had the time, or the courage, to look directly at him. He’d stride in, and the air would shift with his presence. And just as quickly, he’d disappear again. Off to sort things out, as she once heard a man near her say.
She came to think of him as a mirror of his books—both enigmatic.
At least the books, she could hope to unravel.
One evening, she was working late. Most of the men had gone home, and the betting shop was basking in a rare, comfortable silence. Outside, the city muttered faintly in the dark, but inside, only the scratch of her pencil broke the stillness. Her mind sifted through numbers, her fingers scribbling notes on spare paper, mentally organizing everything before rewriting the ledger.
She noticed someone approaching—the scrape of a chair dragged across the wood planks. She glanced up just in time to see Polly sitting beside her. The older woman’s dark eyes sized her up. She lit a cigarette, the smoke unfurling lazily before she spoke.
“Mary Jones from Cardiff. Quite the common name,” she said lightly—too lightly. Her voice rasped like sandpaper over silk, and her bangles clinked when she crossed her arms. She was all angles and certainty. Her voice rough, her jewelry loud, her stare louder.
The young girl offered a faint smile and returned to the page in front of her. Polly tilted her head, taking a measured drag.
“How does it feel, working with the lower class?”
The girl paused, just a fraction of a second. Then she lifted her gaze, brows drawing faintly together.
“You’re a bit too polished for this, love. Posh hands. Careful vowels. What brings you to Small Heath?”
“I’m just trying to survive,” the girl said softly, but not shy. Her eyes locked with Polly’s for a breath before dropping again.
Polly studied her, quiet. The smoke between them thickened.
“You’ve got the hands of someone who never expected to work,” Polly said, her voice low, sharp as a knife. “A misplaced girl in a betting shop.”
The girl chuckled dryly—more breath than sound. A faint, almost sad smile flickered across her lips as she met Polly’s gaze again.
“War changes people,” she murmured, voice quiet but steady.
Polly leaned back, eyes fixed on her without blinking.
“You sound like someone who’s lost more than a husband.”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t deny or agree. Just folded a receipt and murmured again:
“Like I said—I’m just trying to survive.”
Polly hummed, quiet but watchful. A silence stretched between them, long enough to press against the ribs. The girl stared at the ink stain on the receipt, willing her hands to stay steady. She cleared her throat, breaking the stillness. Her voice was soft, tentative, as if she was choosing her words carefully.
"They all went to France, didn't they?" Her eyes flicked toward the main office, where the curtain hung still and the lights were off. "I heard they even got medals."
Polly didn’t answer right away. She took a long, slow drag of her cigarette, eyes distant. When she finally spoke, her voice was lower, rougher.
"Only Tommy got medals," she said, exhaling smoke that drifted between them like mist. "He threw them in the cut."
The girl blinked. Her lips parted faintly, but no sound came. She glanced back toward the darkened office. The image formed unbidden: Thomas Shelby standing at the canal, medals slipping from his fingers into cold, black water. Not careless. Deliberate.
"They were for bravery, weren't they?" she murmured, almost absently.
Polly's eyes lifted to the ceiling. Her mouth tightened.
"Bravery. Loyalty. Killing men they told him to kill. And surviving it." Her voice had no edge to it, just exhaustion.
The girl’s throat felt dry. She looked down at her hands. “He’s a war hero,” she said quietly.
Polly gave a bitter laugh, sharp as a snapped thread.
“I wouldn’t go there, love,” she said, leveling her with a dry look. “You don’t know what he brought back.”
She lowered her gaze. “I’m not looking for another husband.”
Polly nodded. “Good,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette on the desk’s edge. “You don’t strike me as a foolish girl.”
With that, she stood and walked away, disappearing behind the velvet curtain that led to her home. The sound of Polly’s heels faded. And just like that, the silence returned—but it didn’t feel as comfortable anymore.
She was working late again. Days had turned into weeks, and the mess in the numbers was finally beginning to make sense. By now, she was certain there were missing entries, but she knew better than to question them. The books just had to look reasonable. They didn’t have to survive an audit.
The shop was quiet. The air still held the faint scent of smoke and chalk. She had begun to treat the betting shop like her own. At least in the late hours.
“We don’t pay extra for extended shifts, Mrs. Jones.”
His voice cut through the silence. She looked up quickly to find him standing there. Thomas Shelby, coat still on, cap tucked in his pocket, blue eyes sharp as glass. She offered a faint smile before looking back down at her work.
“I wasn’t expecting one.”
“Then why are you still here?”
He stepped closer, now standing at the edge of her desk. She looked up again. His gaze was expectant.
She only shrugged, glancing around the dim, mostly empty shop. “Most have gone home,” she said softly. “It’s quieter. Easier to think.”
He hummed, gaze drifting to the neatly stacked ledgers beside her. He picked one up.
“Arthur says you’re fixing the books.”
“They were a mess, sir.”
“And not asking too many questions, I assume.”
She paused, fingers absently rolling the edge of her pencil. She let the silence stretch a second longer this time. Then: “Only what I needed to understand the patterns.”
He smirked. “The fewer questions you ask, the longer you’ll last.”
He dropped the ledger back onto the pile and turned to go, but her voice stopped him.
“You’re the boss here.”
The words escaped before she could stop them. He halted, turned slowly to glance back—one brow raised. She cleared her throat.
“I mean—only that you seem to have the final word, Mr. Shelby.”
He chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “It’s a family business. We take votes as we go.”
She nodded quietly, eyes locked on him for a moment before returning to her ledgers. But he didn’t leave. He stepped forward again, slower this time. He leaned against the desk, hands in his coat pockets, watching her.
“How long have you been in town?”
She glanced up, lips parting slightly. “Not long. I just moved from Worcester.”
He hummed, still watching. “Polly says she never sees you at Sunday Mass.”
She hesitated—but didn’t look away. “I suppose I’ve missed a few Sundays.”
“That’s not very Catholic of you.”
She smiled faintly. “Guess I’m just a poor Catholic.”
“Or a disguised Protestant.”
She studied him for a long beat, her smile faltering. She tilted her chin slightly.
“Would that be a problem?”
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“No.”
She matched it with a warmer one.
“Good,” she said softly. “For me neither.”
He frowned slightly, still watching her. She was calm, composed, but never unguarded. There was something behind her eyes. Something quiet. Something he couldn’t name.
She raised an eyebrow, the faint smile still there.
“Do you think I’m lying?”
“Are you?”
Her smile deepened, soft and deliberate. “I could swear to you, if you like.” Her tone was teasing, just slightly. He caught it.
He raised an eyebrow—silent challenge. She turned her chair slightly toward him, lifted her hand, and said smoothly:
“I swear I’m not Protestant.” Then, deliberately, she made the sign of the cross. Head. Chest. Right shoulder. Left shoulder.
His eyes narrowed, a flicker of curiosity crossing them.
“That’s reassuring,” he said dryly.
She chuckled under her breath and slid her chair back toward the desk, returning to her numbers. Thomas watched her for a moment longer, his gaze unmoving, the corner of his mouth twitching with not quite a smile.
Then he turned without a word and walked away, the sound of his boots echoing across the floorboards. She waited until the curtain settled behind him before lifting her eyes, watching the space he’d left behind.
Her fingers resumed their work, steady on the page, but for a moment, just a moment, she forgot which number came next.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Comments are always welcome and truly appreciated! Even a few words go a long way. I'd love to hear your thoughts!
Chapter 2: Chapter 2 – The Russian Girl
Chapter Text
Chapter 2 – The Russian Girl
The rain battered the glass as thunder rolled low and distant. Beneath it, another sound—shovels scraping at the wall. Urgent. Louder. Closer.
Thomas' throat tightened. He jolted awake, breath sharp, sweat clinging to his brow.
The room was dark, the storm whispering just beyond the windowpane. For a moment, he couldn’t tell if it was the weather or something worse. His heart pounded like boots in mud. He reached for the bedsheets, then—
His name.
A voice shouting through the night.
“Tom! Tom! Tom!”
He threw off the blanket, stumbling toward the window, sweeping the curtain aside. Curly stood outside, soaked to the bone, hands cupped around his mouth, calling out beneath the pounding rain.
Something had happened.
Thomas moved fast. His boots thudded on the creaking floorboards as he rushed down the stairs. He grabbed his coat on the way, shoved his cap into his pocket, and flung the door open. The rain slapped his face like a fist.
“Tommy! Hurry!” Curly shouted. His short legs were already turning back toward Charlie’s Yard.
Thomas followed. Mud splashed up his trousers, rain soaked him to the bone, but he hardly felt it. A weight sat in his chest—pressing, familiar. He knew this feeling. It always came before something was about to die.
When they reached the yard, the stable loomed ahead, dull and hollow under the storm. Charlie was there, hunched on a stool, beside the white horse Thomas had earned from Johnny Dogs. His face was drawn, lined with the kind of sorrow that didn’t need words.
Curly paced, hands trembling.
“It’s cursed, Tommy!” he cried. “The Lee family put something on it. Swear on my life!”
Tommy stepped closer. The horse’s leg was grotesquely swollen, the infection already crawling up its other limbs like ivy. Its eyes rolled in panic, its breathing shallow and ragged. Curly muttered something about having seen it before. Twice. Always ended the same.
“It’ll reach the heart by tomorrow,” he said. “Nothing to do. It’s the Lee’s curse!”
Thomas stood still, rain dripping from the brim of his cap. He closed his eyes, pressed his fingers hard against them—like he could push the moment away. He already knew what had to be done.
“Everyone out.”
The words came quiet, but final. Curly hesitated—Charlie didn’t. Then they both left. Alone now, Tommy drew his gun reluctantly. The horse twitched. His breath caught.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, jaw tightening.
He had done the thing he hated most.
The horse’s scream tore through the night. Not the sound of death, but of something knowing it had no choice but to die. He’d shot men in the war with less guilt. A horse was different. It trusted you. It didn’t understand betrayal.
The walk back was slow, each step heavier than the last. Rain clung to him like guilt. The sound of shovels still echoed in the corners of his mind. Digging. Digging. No chance of sleep now.
He turned down Garrison Lane, hoping the pub would still be open. A drink might dull the edge of it all—if not the memories, then at least the shaking in his hands. But the pub was dark, shutters drawn, the sign creaking faintly in the wind.
Of course.
So he turned back, headed toward the betting shop.
There would be something to drink there, surely. Enough to carry him through until morning. Enough to make it all quiet.
His boots sloshed through puddles as he entered the house. He didn’t bother with the coat—just walked straight through, trailing water behind him, and pushed open the double doors behind the curtain to the betting shop. It should’ve been empty. But a flicker of light caught his eye.
He narrowed his gaze.
“You sleep here now?”
His voice echoed across the quiet—rough and edged. It cut through the silence like a blade. The woman at the desk startled, hand flying to her chest.
“Holy Mother—Mr. Shelby! You startled me!”
She looked like she’d been sitting there for hours, the lantern casting soft shadows across her face. Strands of dark hair had come loose from her braid, curling near her temple. Her sleeves were rolled up, ink smudged faintly on her fingers.
He stepped further in, dripping, jaw clenched.
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
She blinked once, carefully. “I—I was working.”
He scoffed, a sharp exhale.
“It’s near dawn.”
Her eyes flicked down to his coat—soaked through—then back up to his face. He looked like a man dragged from the trenches: hollow-eyed, drenched, breathing like a man who’d swallowed blood, though no fight had touched him. Something softened in her expression. She spoke carefully, voice low:
“I didn’t realize how late it was. I was waiting for the rain to pass.”
He shook his head sharply, then strode toward the cluttered main office. She watched, eyes tracking each measured step. He didn’t look back, didn’t meet her gaze. Then, cutting through the thick silence, his voice came low and cold.
“Come here.”
Not a request.
She rose slowly, her back aching after hours at the desk, and followed quietly. The office was dim, heavy with smoke and ink. He was already pouring whiskey into mismatched glasses. Wordless, he handed her one, then leaned against the cupboard, glass in hand.
Her fingers rested lightly on the rim, hesitating. She hadn’t drunk yet. Her eyes stayed on him, cautious, unreadable.
“Have a break,” he muttered, tilting his chin toward the chair behind her. “Sit.”
She lowered herself carefully, back still straight, fingers curling around the glass as if it were a lifeline. The burn of whiskey caught her off guard—sharper than expected. She glanced at him, watching as he drained his glass in a hard, practiced swallow, eyes never leaving hers.
“You look like you’ve been wading through mud all night,” she said gently, not probing, but trying to ease the weight between them. His voice low and rough with weariness.
“I shot my horse.”
She blinked slowly, the faintest catch in her breath betraying surprise. Lips parted, hesitating on a question, then closed again.
“Right between the eyes.”
Her gaze sharpened, searching, trying to trace the gap between what he said and who he really was. Her voice was careful, almost a murmur.
“You had to put it down?”
“He looked at me the wrong way.” His jaw clenched, a sardonic smile curling but never reaching those haunted eyes. “No one looks at Tommy Shelby the wrong way.”
She held the silence, letting it settle like thick dust between them. Her eyes softened, flickering with understanding deep inside.
“Sometimes death is a kindness.”
Thomas held her gaze longer than before, the usual hardness in his eyes flickering with something almost unfamiliar: hesitation, maybe even a shadow of relief. For a breath, the weight in the room seemed to lift. Then he blinked, the moment breaking like glass. Without a word, he turned away, the scrape of whiskey pouring into his glass loud in the silence. His fingers gripped the bottle a little too tightly—an edge of frustration or self-restraint.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and sharp, slicing through the fragile truce.
“You’ve got quiet hands.”
She blinked, startled. “Excuse me?”
“Quiet hands,” he repeated, returning to her, eyes sharp, fixed. “The way you sort the slips. Like the women at the munitions—steady, careful. But not Cardiff.”
Her shoulders tensed, but she kept her voice even.
“I told you, I’m from—”
“Cardiff. Right,” he said, draining his glass in a single hard swallow, then poured another. “Mary Jones from Cardiff.”
“It’s a common name.”
“Not as common as you think.” His voice dropped low, slow, back still turned.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but her voice remained smooth. “Cardiff’s not a village.”
He let out a dry chuckle, no humor in it. On any other day, it might have amused him. Tonight, it felt hollow. He turned back, glass in hand, eyes piercing.
“Don’t lie to me.”
Her breath caught—just for a moment. Her lips parted, but he cut her off before she could speak.
“Your accent’s all wrong.”
“I lived in London—”
“It’s not a London accent either,” he interrupted, quiet and deadly. “Not Irish. Not Welsh. And it’s not French. Or German. I’d know.”
He stepped closer, eyes tracing every inch of her face. She swallowed, fingers tightening around the glass, knuckles paling beneath the thin skin.
“You’re not Protestant,” he added, voice dropping. “But you’re not Catholic either.”
She swallowed again, jaw stiffening, a flicker of something unspoken passing through her eyes. He set his glass down softly, eyes narrowing as he leaned closer, voice dropping low, almost to himself.
“I met a man once,” he said, almost distantly. “Back in France. A soldier. Lost in the woods near the front. Thought he could pass as Belgian and get refuge. Didn’t speak much, but I noticed how he crossed himself.” His gaze stayed locked on her, but something flickered beneath the surface.
“Backwards. Right to left. Just like you did.”
He let the silence stretch, the room thick with unspoken truths.
“He was Russian.”
She said nothing. She took another sip, longer this time, steadying herself. Her throat moved as she swallowed. She looked away, then back. There was something bracing in her now. Not fear exactly, but resignation.
“I don’t suppose there are many Orthodox churches in Birmingham,” he murmured.
“No,” she said softly. “There aren’t.”
A smirk tugged at his lips as he lifted his glass for another drink.
“Let me guess. Ran from one fire just to start another?” His voice was low, biting. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching her through the rim. “You lot always come preaching about progress. Revolution. Like it’s something worth bringing.”
She snorted faintly—more bitterness than humor. “Believe me, Mr. Shelby,” she said, her hazel eyes dark, “I hold very little sympathy for the Bolsheviks.”
“No?” He arched an eyebrow, his voice quiet. “But you’ve got a flair for Russian subterfuge.”
A flicker passed over her face as she drew a slow breath. Something like shame. Or anger.
“I am Russian.” Her voice was quiet now, but clear, her accent lacing her words. “But I’m not a spy. Or a Communist.”
He studied her, voice deliberate and steady. “You’ve lied about a lot of things. Mary Jones isn’t a very Russian name. And you’re not married—or widowed, I’d wager.”
She blinked, momentarily caught, then sighed—shoulders slackening under the weight of it.
“I’m a woman—and Russian,” she said, voice steady but edged with desperation. “That’s all it takes. For the law, the neighbors, the people who knock on doors in the dead of night—that’s enough. They’d send me back. Or worse.”
“You haven’t told me your name.” His jaw tensed, stepping closer. He leaned in slightly, voice firm and somber. “Your real name.”
She exhaled—long, shaky. Her heart hammered in her chest. She dropped her gaze, then met his again.
“And if I told you… would it matter? Would you trust me? Or hand me over to the police? To someone worse? Would you let a word slip—and have me vanish by morning?”
She was holding on to the lie like a final layer of skin, knowing he’d already stripped most of it away.
He said nothing. Just waited.
At last, she exhaled, slow and soundless, the tension in her frame loosening by inches.
“...Nevenka.”
“Nevenka what?”
“Just Nevenka.”
Thomas said nothing for a long moment. The name settled in the room like dust—foreign, final. He let his gaze flicker to her, seeing for the first time the real Russian standing before him. A faint smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth, but it didn’t hold.
“Just Nevenka.” He took a slow drink, set the glass down—softer than expected, though the sound still echoed.
“Half a name,” he muttered. “That’s what people give when they’re hiding something.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Or when they’ve got too much to lose.”
She didn’t flinch. Just held his gaze, shoulders square, though her fingers whitened around the glass. He leaned back against the cupboard again, studying her like a man trying to decide if a dog would bite or beg.
“You’re running from something.”
She looked at him long and steady, as if she’d carried that answer with her for years.
“Isn’t everyone?” she said quietly.
That drew a breath out of him—half laugh, half something bitter. He tilted his head, voice dropping heavier now.
“Not everyone runs. Some walk into it. Call it progress.” He glanced away briefly, jaw tightening as if chewing on the bitter taste of the truth. Then his eyes flicked back, sharp but shadowed. “My sister’s one of them. Mad enough to think love makes revolution worth chasing.”
Something passed over her face—recognition, maybe confusion, maybe pity—before she drew a slow, steadying breath. Her thumb traced a deliberate circle around the rim of her glass. Her voice was softer, but no less certain.
“People only enjoy revolutions when they’re the ones holding the rifles.”
That made him look at her. Really look. The curl of hair near her jaw, wet from rain or sweat or both. The shadows under her eyes. The stubborn pride in her spine. Her cheeks were pale beneath the lamplight, but her eyes—sharp hazel, flecked with something storm-dark.
She looked like someone who had once known comfort—and lost it with both fists clenched.
There was no softness in her eyes. No innocence . But a fire that hadn’t gone out. Low-burning. Controlled. The kind that keeps a body moving long after it should’ve given up.
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. Then something else. Not interest—not quite. But a shift. A recognition.
The room felt warmer suddenly.
“We all carry ghosts,” she said, not looking at him. “The only difference is which ones we let stay the night.” Her voice was soft, but unsentimental. He didn’t answer. Just watched her for a beat longer than necessary. Then he looked away.
A silence stretched between them—dense, intimate. Then she turned her gaze back on him, sharp again. Not desperate, but searching.
“Will you tell them?” she asked. “Polly? Arthur? Or someone worse?”
Her shoulders squared—not with desperation, but with the cold calculation of someone who’d had too much taken.
Thomas didn’t answer right away.
“People who work for me don’t get handed over.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t look away.
“I already work for you.”
He huffed once. A breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.
“Not like that.”
“But I do.”
She didn’t back down. Her words hung there, brittle and stubborn. He dragged a hand down his face, swiping at the damp clinging to his collar. Finally, he stood straighter, shrugged off his coat, and hung it by the door with slow, deliberate movements.
“Good,” he said. “Because you’ll be coming to the races.”
She looked up at him, frowning.
“To work?”
His expression was unreadable again. Not quite a smirk, not quite serious.
“To work.”
A/N: Thank you again for reading! I’m so grateful for every kudos, comment, and quiet read. If you're enjoying the story, feel free to leave a comment! I love hearing what readers think, even just a sentence or favorite line. Chapter 3 is already in the works. Stay tuned!
Chapter 3: Chapter 3 – The Cheltenham Races
Chapter Text
Chapter 3 – The Cheltenham Races
Nevenka pushed through the heavy morning air as she made her way down the lane, the damp clinging to her skin like a second coat. She brushed a strand of damp hair from her eyes, still unsure why she’d come so early—why she’d come back at all.
Not after last night. Not now that Thomas Shelby knew.
And yet here she was.
Maybe it was the thin promise of protection. Maybe it was the comfort of work that didn’t mean dancing in shadowed cabarets for coins tossed by strangers—better than scrubbing floors just to afford a passage no one would remember. Or maybe it was something else entirely—something sharper, with edges she wasn’t ready to name.
She pushed open the betting shop door. The familiar creak split the grey quiet. A few men were already inside, jackets damp from the mist, voices low and lazy. She braced herself for long glances, sidelong questions—suspicion that sounded like shouting.
But none came.
Just a few nods—habit, not welcome. She moved through the room like smoke, spine straight, breath measured, letting the hush fold around her. She reached her usual spot and sat, the chair creaking faintly beneath her. No eyes lingering long enough to accuse. Only the low murmur of bets and the sound of her own breath, quiet and steady.
He hadn’t sold her out.
Not yet.
She let her gaze fall to the ledgers, numbers swimming in crooked lines across the page. They no longer felt like a test. Her hands moved with the ease of someone who had folded herself into the rhythm of this place. But her thoughts refused to settle. She kept circling back to last night.
He hadn’t said much—only that they were going to the races, and that Billy Kimber would be there. The name meant nothing to her, but the way Thomas said it made her pay attention. There was weight in it. Caution. Maybe something colder.
What he wanted from her, though, was kept deliberately vague.
For two pounds, you’ll do exactly as I say.
Charming. If only her stomach hadn’t curled when he said it.
She couldn’t name the feeling, only that it sat low in her belly like something spoiled, long left to turn. Her instincts scratched at her ribs, restless and sharp, and before the thought could bloom to its end, footsteps cut through the hush behind her.
“You clock in early,” came Polly’s voice, rough-edged and calm. “Even when you’ve got cause not to.”
She lit a cigarette with the ease of ritual, the match flaring gold before settling into a slow burn. Smoke curled around her like a shawl, softening the edges of her face. She didn’t sit. Just hovered behind her, close enough to cast a shadow.
“Trying to make a good impression?”
Nevenka offered the faintest of smiles. “I like the quiet. Before the chaos.”
Polly hummed low in her throat, not quite agreement. “Chaos finds its own quiet corners, love. Especially around here.”
Nevenka nodded—more habit than belief. She turned her gaze back to the ledger, spine straight beneath the weight of Polly’s eyes.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Polly said after a drag, eyes drifting across the shop like she was counting ghosts. “Any trouble with the lads?”
Nevenka looked up, brow drawn faintly. Her gaze slipped past Polly to the men moving in slow rhythm through the early shift, voices low and edged with yesterday’s whiskey. She’d felt it: the occasional glance that lingered a beat too long, not from curiosity but possession. But nothing ever came of it. Not when the Shelbys were near.
She gave a small shake of her head.
“You’re not stupid, so I’ll say it once.” Polly’s voice dropped, not a whisper—something quieter, more final. “If anyone bothers you— anyone —I expect to hear about it.”
Nevenka’s pen stilled. Her eyes lifted, guarded. “Do they often try?”
Polly let out a dry, knowing laugh, smoke curling between them like a veil.
“They’re men. Half-mad from the war or the whiskey. They’ll try anything, so long as they think no one’s watching your back.”
Nevenka arched her brow. Her voice was mild, but her eyes were steady, unmoving.
“And are you?”
Polly smiled, but there was no comfort in it. It was a smile sharp as a blade.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Something inside Nevenka shifted at that. A sliver of doubt, or something far more dangerous: hope. Her gaze held, flint-edged and quiet. Did Polly know? Had Thomas told her? And if he had… what did that mean?
Polly’s eyes stayed on her a beat too long. Then the silence shattered.
The door slammed open. A gust of wind curled through the room like smoke.
“Where is he?!”
Ada Shelby’s voice cracked through the quiet like shattering glass. She stormed in—red-cheeked, wind-whipped, coat soaked to the knees. Her belly strained against her dress now, unmistakably pregnant. She didn’t glance at anyone, not even Nevenka. Just cut through the shop like a match seeking dry timber.
“Where’s Tommy?!”
“Ada?” Polly’s tone shifted, firmer now. She crushed her cigarette in the wall and crossed the floor in two strides, already reaching for her.
“I need to find them!” Ada gasped, breath hitching in jolts. “Freddie and Tommy—if I don’t stop them—” Her voice cracked, thick with something between fear and fury.
“Come on,” Polly said. Her hands found Ada’s shoulders, steady and practiced. She didn’t ask questions. Just guided her, calm and decisive.
“I think they’ll kill each other,” Ada insisted, smaller now.
Polly didn’t respond. She steered her through the velvet curtain and down the corridor with the unshakable certainty of someone who had done this before. As soon as they disappeared, Polly pulled the double doors shut behind them, sealing off the betting shop from the house.
Nevenka stared at the place where they had gone. The echo of Ada’s voice still rang behind her ribs. She couldn’t hear what they were saying now—just the quiet hum of receipts and murmured bets.
She looked up as one of the men approached. Tall, broad-shouldered, with slick-parted hair and a full moustache masking his mouth. He was usually tasked with counting slips. She narrowed her eyes faintly, trying to recall his name.
He handed her a few receipts, his presence quiet, not overbearing.
“Who’s Freddie?” she asked, her fingers brushing his as she retrieved the paper.
He snorted lightly, glancing toward the closed doors behind the curtain.
“Freddie Thorne,” he grunted. “Served in France. Old mate of the Shelbys.”
“Then why is Thomas trying to kill him?”
He gave a dry laugh, shaking his head. “That’s how things go in Small Heath, dear.”
She watched him, eyes sharp, trying to stitch the name to something Thomas had said the night before. Freddie Thorne. It was familiar—half-remembered from a newspaper, maybe, or whispered between the men. Then it clicked . The wanted man. The Communist agitator. The one said to be stirring unrest among the factory workers in Small Heath. She glanced back at the closed door, the full picture falling into place like a stone.
“Freddie Thorne is married to Ada Shelby?” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
The man gave a curt nod, a faint smile playing at his lips. “That’s what they’ve been saying.”
She looked up at him again and offered a small, almost absent smile. “Thank you for the receipts, Scudboat,” she said at last, finally placing the nickname to the quiet man who counted slips.
He blinked at the politeness, surprised by the softness in a place where it rarely lived. But he nodded again and returned to his seat.
Nevenka turned back to her own stack of papers. Her pencil tapped, then scribbled a note in the margin of a spare slip. Her eyes stayed low, but her mind raced, trying to arrange the new pieces. She may have left Petrograd behind, but the games of loyalty and power still felt hauntingly familiar.
She stayed late again. It was becoming a habit—or maybe just an excuse. She told herself it was the quiet, the focus. But every time the shop door creaked open, she looked up. Just in case.
And every time, it wasn’t him.
Thomas hadn’t come all day. Long enough for Ada’s outburst to echo in her mind like a warning. Long enough for doubt to start circling. But then—
The door opened.
Thomas stepped in without ceremony, coat collar damp, movements brisk but composed. She looked up as he passed. His eyes met hers for a fleeting moment—sharp, unreadable—and then he disappeared into his office, the door shutting softly behind him.
The men were packing up, voices low, chairs scraping. She should have been gathering her things too. But instead, she found herself sorting the ledgers again—already sealed, already stacked. Her fingers lingered on the paper longer than they needed to. Then, almost without thinking, she gathered the pile into her arms and crossed the room.
She paused at his door and knocked softly.
“Come in.”
She stepped inside, quiet but composed. Thomas was seated behind the desk, cigarette smoldering between his fingers, smoke curling upward like incense in a chapel. He glanced at her—once, briefly—then returned to whatever paper lay before him, the muscles in his jaw shifting only slightly.
She crossed the room and set the ledgers down with care, aligning the edges like it mattered.
“The books,” she said softly. “Organized, balanced. As promised.”
He didn’t look up.
Her fingers hovered near the edge of the desk, brushing the wood as if tracing a thought. For a moment, she hesitated—then spoke, her voice light, careful.
“You know, I was expecting—”
She stopped herself. His gaze lifted—pale blue, precise, merciless in its stillness. It silenced her more thoroughly than any shout. She shifted as she changed her mind, spine straightening.
“Your sister came today. Looking for you.”
No reaction. Not even a blink. He reached for the newspaper beside him and snapped it open, the sound sharp as a blade through the quiet.
“So I heard.”
“She was scared,” Nevenka continued, her voice soft but steeled, her words measured, but probing. “Afraid you and Freddie would kill each other.”
Still, he read—eyes skimming the page, jaw set. She watched the tension in his posture. The deliberate calm of a man who’d trained every nerve in his body not to react.
“Freddie Thorne, isn’t it?” she added, eyes narrowing. “The one the police are searching for. The Communist? He’s the one married to your sister.”
Thomas exhaled slowly through his nose. Not annoyed, but not engaged either.
“That’s family business, Nevenka.”
His voice was flat, but her name on his tongue carried something else—a warning.
She straightened, undeterred.
“Are you sympathetic to their cause?” she asked, her accent thickening slightly—sympathetic landing harder, sharper, almost bitten off.
At that, he finally looked up. Cool amusement ghosted across his features.
“I have no sympathies of any description,” he said, voice low, dry. “And you’ve got a habit of listening at doors.”
She smiled—small, but unrepentant.
“Is that why you want me at Cheltenham?” Her tone shifted—dry, wry, edged with something daring. “To listen at more doors?”
His mouth twitched. A soundless chuckle, barely more than breath.
“I don’t need a woman to be my eyes and ears,” he turned back to the newspaper, the slow crinkle of the page slicing the silence like a dare. “Especially one I don’t trust.”
She didn’t blink. “Then why bring me?”
He said nothing more. Her fingers flexed against her skirt, jaw tightening, then loosening. She exhaled not quite a sigh, more like the quiet release of a held breath, brittle with frustration. He wasn’t going to tell her. Not yet.
“You should buy a nice dress,” he said, still thumbing through the newspaper.
She paused. Eyes narrowed faintly, chin lifting by degrees in a quiet act of defiance.
“I want ten pounds.”
That earned her a glance. A long one. His eyes lifted from the page with the unhurried precision of a man deciding whether to be amused. A corner of his mouth twitched, but didn’t quite commit to a smile.
“Ten?” he echoed, flat.
She tilted her head, the barest trace of a smile tugging at her mouth.
“You said to dress nicely. I can be… quite impressive, if I want to.”
His gaze lingered. Somewhere between disbelief and amusement, something flickered behind his eyes—interest, maybe. Or admiration disguised as irritation. He leaned back, reaching into his coat with exaggerated slowness.
“You’d better be arriving dressed like bloody royalty,” he muttered, watching her with that half-scowl that masked his amusement.
He pulled out his wallet, thumbed through the notes, and laid them out—one, two, three—until ten crisp pounds sat on the desk like a wager.
She stepped forward, unbothered by the weight of his stare. Slid the money off the desk with elegant fingers, folding it once and tucking it into her sleeve. She turned to go.
“Wear something red,” he called after her.
She paused at the door, half-turned, a gleam in her eye.
“I don’t wear red,” she said. Her voice was soft, but there was steel beneath it.
He huffed a quiet laugh.
“Political sentimentalism?”
She offered a faint smile.
“Something like that.”
Then she was gone, and for a moment, all that remained was the whisper of her steps and the curl of smoke between them.
It was Cheltenham day. He had dressed for it—suit pressed, boots shined, face clean-shaven to the bone. The guns were in place, strapped beneath his shoulder like second thoughts. His plan was clear, precise, sharp as the edge of a blade.
But there were variables. There always were. And he was driving one of them to the races.
She was waiting just where he’d told her to be, standing by the rail outside the betting shop. At first, he wasn’t sure it was her. The figure was too composed, too still—head high beneath a wide-brimmed navy hat, posture drawn taut like a blade in its sheath. But then she turned, just slightly, and the light caught her mouth—the shape of it, unsmiling—and the straight line of her nose.
It was her.
And he stared a second too long.
The dress was navy, severe in its elegance. No lace, no frill, no softness to it. Just silk—subtle, expensive—and restraint. It narrowed at the waist like it had been sewn to the curve of her ribs. Pale gloves against dark fabric, a thin veil drawn over her eyes like a secret not yet told.
She didn’t smile when she saw him. Just watched as he pulled the car beside her. Her gaze was level. Unreadable.
He didn’t speak. Just waited as she slid into the passenger seat, smooth as water over glass, her legs crossing with the kind of grace that wasn’t an invitation. Then her scent hit him—something floral, yes, but darker underneath. Violet, anise, maybe heliotrope. A perfume with presence. Old-world. The kind that lingered on skin and stayed in a man’s memory longer than he liked.
“I see where the ten pounds went,” he muttered, eyes forward as he started the engine.
“I didn’t spend it all,” she replied, her voice even. A trace of a smile touched her muted rose lips. “You’ll get your change.”
He let out a sound. Might’ve been a laugh.
“Are we going alone?” she asked as they pulled away from the Watery Lane.
“Something like that.”
They arrived at Cheltenham. The air changed the moment they stepped out of the car—crisper, cleaner, but with an edge. Something curated. She felt it like a tightening in her ribs.
Thomas didn’t say a word, just nodded to a man near the stables and kept walking. His hand settled lightly at the small of her back—barely a touch, but firm enough to steer. They went through a side gate, down narrow corridors behind the grandstand. Staff brushed past them in pressed waistcoats and white gloves, murmuring apologies, none daring to stop them. Doors opened. A corridor. Another. It felt like being smuggled.
She suddenly understood why he’d asked her to come. Why he’d given her ten pounds and said nothing more.
To perform.
To play the role of some finely bred girl, born to silk and champagne, impatient with rules. A woman who belonged in those halls but refused to wait her turn. And so—she did. Back straight. Chin high. A flash of irritation on her face as she waved away a startled steward.
“Mademoiselle Geneviève Marchand,” she said, crisp as frost, a feigned French lilt curling through her syllables. “Late, naturellement. We were told the others were waiting—do you truly intend to search me?”
She smiled sweetly and didn’t wait for an answer.
Just like that, they were in.
The music hit her first. Not ragtime, not jazz—not yet—but something orchestral and rich. A foxtrot. Polished and elegant, drifting like perfume through the domed room.
Couples circled the floor with affected grace, all gauze and hauteur. In the corners, bolder lovers tangled in stolen embraces, half-hidden by palms and shadow. Waiters slipped through the crowd with trays of gold-rimmed glasses, the clink of crystal soft beneath the swell of strings. The scent of cigars and gardenias clung to the wallpaper like old secrets.
She knew this world. Almost home.
Not the Russia of breadlines and gunfire—but the salons, the dachas, the places where ruin came dressed in velvet and pearls. Where laughter echoed like crystal before it cracked.
She smiled faintly as she watched the dancers glide across the floor. And he caught it.
“Do you dance?”
She turned to him, brows lifting with a flicker of amused snobbery.
“Waltz. Ballet. Quadrille. Mazurka.” Her voice was low, deliberate. Each word wrapped in the kind of polish that made it hard to tell if she was teasing him—or testing him.
He smirked at that, raising his hand in a quiet invitation.
“Not easy to impress, I wager.”
Her smile widened, cool and secretive. But she placed her hand in his.
He led her onto the floor, threading them through the crowd. His touch was steady at the small of her back, his posture measured, movements clean. Not flashy, but controlled—like everything else about him.
“You dance well, Mr. Shelby,” she murmured, letting him guide her through the rhythm.
His lips twitched into something close to a smile.
“You can call me Thomas.”
She glanced up at him. The blue of his eyes seemed sharper under the golden light. She lowered her gaze, hiding the flicker of warmth that crept into her cheeks.
But it lingered.
And for a moment—just one—she let herself believe she was home again. Safe, gilded, held. Guided through a crowd by the only man in the room who knew her—who saw behind the mask and asked nothing but truth in return.
But then his hand shifted. She felt him pull his watch from his waistcoat pocket, his glance down brief but decisive. He slid it back into place, and suddenly his steps quickened. His hold changed—not for closeness now, but purpose.
He steered her backward, off the center of the dance floor. She frowned, heels brushing awkwardly against another couple.
“Am I wrong, or are we running away from someone?”
He didn’t answer—at least not with words. The dance was gone. His hand moved from her waist to her wrist, guiding her firmly toward a discreet door near the service corridor.
“No running,” he said low, almost amused. “Just tying the knot on the noose.”
She arched a brow, still keeping pace with him.
“Are we hanging someone?”
He smirked. “It’s a fancy event, Nevenka.”
Whatever reply she had caught behind her teeth as he opened the door.
Arthur was already there, braced against the wall with two burlap sacks at his feet and blood slicked across one temple. Whether it was his or someone else’s, she couldn’t tell.
“We chased the Lees across the track and down the Devon road,” he said, handing the bags to Thomas. “We got every penny back.”
“Is anyone hurt?” Thomas asked, reaching for the bags without ceremony.
Arthur shrugged, flashing a grin. “Just a few scrapes. The Lee boys didn’t have time to bleed properly.”
Arthur gave her a long, lingering look, a grin spreading under his moustache.
“Well, fuck me, I knew you were pretty—but dressed like that?” He let out a low whistle. “Should’ve had you taking bets at the front, we’d be twice as rich.”
But before she could reply—or decide whether to thank or slap him—Thomas was already pulling her with him again.
They re-entered the ballroom like a knife through velvet. The music played on. Couples parted instinctively as they passed, eyes trailing after the man with heavy sacks slung over his shoulders and a woman in navy silk at his side like something out of a fever dream. As they passed the bar, he leaned in.
“Stay here.”
Not a request.
Then he strode across the floor, the weight of the bags shifting with each step, and dropped them onto the table with a thud. Coins spilled out, clinking over the wood, scattering across the floor.
“Your money, Mr. Kimber,” he said, taking a seat at the table without ceremony. “Rescued from the Lee brothers.”
She watched them from across the room, sipping her champagne with measured calm as Thomas leaned in, speaking low with two men at the table. One was young, bespectacled, hair slicked back with too much pomade. The other was older, broad-shouldered, florid, with a glint in his eye that lingered too long on her. Hungry. Possessive. That had to be Billy Kimber.
She didn’t need to wonder for long.
He rose from his seat with a swagger that reeked of entitlement, leaving Thomas and the younger man behind, and made straight for her. His gaze dragged down her figure like a thumb over a wineglass, and when he reached her, he didn’t wait—just held out his hand, crooked at the wrist like she was already his.
“Your man over there said I could have this dance,” he said, voice thick with Midlands velvet. “Billy Kimber. And you?”
She glanced toward Thomas. His back was still turned. If he heard, he didn’t show it.
She inhaled once, slow. Then gave Billy a smile—polite, practiced, with just enough charm to pass for consent.
“Mademoiselle Geneviève Marchand,” she said smoothly, the French accent no longer playful, only efficient.
She let him take her hand, let him guide her onto the floor like a gentleman might, though his touch felt more like possession than politeness. She played her part. Smiled when she ought to. Held her chin high, her posture impeccable. Ignored the way his gaze clung to her like a wine stain. Not the first. Certainly not the last.
And all the while, Thomas watched from across the room—expression unreadable, the patience with Kimber’s accountant thinning by the minute, his gaze straying toward her more often than he cared to admit.
“I think I need to refresh myself, Mr. Kimber,” she murmured after one turn of the floor, her voice smooth as glass. She withdrew her hand before he could protest, offered a smile just sharp enough to end things gracefully, and stepped away.
Kimber returned to the table, frustration and appetite etched across his face. His eyes barely grazed Thomas before drifting uninvitedly back to Nevenka.
“Looks like you two are making a deal?” he asked gruffly, though his gaze remained fixed on her.
“We’re making progress,” the accountant replied, his tone smooth, just polished enough to suggest education.
“Then let me throw a small condition into the mix,” said Kimber.
He pulled out his chair and scraped it closer to Thomas, the legs dragging loud against the floor. He leaned in too close, breath sharp with whiskey.
“I want her,” he said, low. “For two hours.”
Thomas didn’t move. His jaw tensed, but his face stayed still, blank as frost. He studied Kimber like a problem, one he’d already solved but hadn’t yet decided what to do with.
“She’s not exactly compliant,” he said quietly. “You’d have to ask her.”
Kimber barked a laugh, sharp and joyless. His voice twisted with contempt.
“As if a woman’s got anything to say in men’s business.”
He spat the words like a dare. “Two hours. Or no deal.”
Thomas held his stare a second longer, unreadable. Then he stood without a word, smoothing his waistcoat with a slow hand. He turned from the table and walked unhurried toward the bar, where Nevenka sat with a fresh glass of champagne, one elbow on the counter, her profile lit gold by the chandelier.
She didn’t look at him. Not at first.
“I almost forgot what champagne tasted like,” she said idly, voice like velvet. She took a sip, then glanced sideways at him.
He paused for a second too long. Then he cleared his throat.
“Listen. Mr. Kimber invited us to dine at his house,” he said, voice low. “I need to finish business here with his accountant. You go ahead with him.”
She was quiet. Too quiet. Her fingers tightened around the glass. Her eyes found his, and he saw the refusal already blooming behind her gaze. So he pushed further, tone flat.
“It’s only for two hours. Is that okay?”
She didn’t say anything.
He sighed. “Listen. He’s taken with you. Wants to show off. Prove himself a big man. You don’t have to do anything.”
Something shifted in her face. Something darker. Colder. Her voice dropped like a blade.
“If you wanted someone to throw in his lap, you should’ve hired a whore.”
His jaw flexed. His mouth twisted, a flicker of frustration curdling there. His voice was low, detached even.
“Everyone’s a whore, Neve. We just sell different parts of ourselves.”
That hit a nerve—not just the vulgar truth of it, but the way he said her name. Neve. Familiar. Flippant. As if that intimacy could still exist between them. It curdled in her throat like venom.
She leaned in slightly, her words coming out through her teeth.
“And what part of yourself are you selling tonight, Mr. Shelby?”
His eyes narrowed. He leaned in too—closer. Close enough for her to feel the bite of his breath. His voice cut surgical and cruel.
“I’ll pay for your time.”
Her glare flared, sharp enough to draw blood.
“There’s not enough money in the world.”
She turned, jaw clenched, movement tight with rage. But before she could take a full step, his hand locked around her arm—firm, possessive. Not violent, but controlling. A grip meant to remind. And she froze. He leaned in again, teeth gritted.
“You said you worked for me. You said you wanted protection.” His breath hit her ear like the snap of a match. “Then work for me.”
She looked up slowly, their faces inches apart. For a second, she didn’t breathe. Her skin burned beneath his touch. Her eyes flicked past his shoulder, to where Kimber watched from the table, smug and waiting. Then back to Thomas.
She had trusted him. Trusted his silence, his protection. Trusted that for once, she wasn’t being bartered.
“People are just leverage to you, Thomas,” she said, voice small and hollow.
He paused at that.
She took a slow breath, steadying, and shook her arm free from his grip. Her gaze turned from him, cool and unreadable, and she didn’t look back as she walked with her head high toward Kimber’s table.
The older man stood, face gleaming like he’d just won a bet. He cast a nod toward Thomas, all smug thanks and male triumph.
Thomas watched as Kimber slipped his arm through Nevenka’s and led her from the ballroom. His jaw tensed, his hands curling slowly into fists at his sides.
Thomas didn’t flinch when Kimber’s accountant sidled up beside him, voice low.
“He said he’ll hand over the wife for two hours, if you’d like a go yourself after. Said it like a gentleman’s offer.”
Thomas didn’t look at him.
“How generous,” he said flatly.
A/N: Thank you again for reading! I’m so grateful for every kudos, comment, and quiet read. If you're enjoying the story, feel free to leave a comment! Don’t be shy! I love hearing what readers think!
Chapter 4: Chapter 4 – The Employment Contract
Chapter Text
Chapter 4 – The Employment Contract
Thomas sat behind the wheel. The engine was long cold, shadows of trees stretching across the bonnet like long fingers. The car was parked just outside Kimber’s estate, iron gates gleaming under the last of the light. Beside him in the passenger seat, Mrs. Kimber sat rigid, arms crossed, her perfume souring in the stale air between them.
He didn’t know what was more pathetic—that he was left to drive her home, or that he hadn’t driven off at all. Still here. Waiting.
He reached into the pocket of his coat and thumbed open his watch, the gold catching the faint light.
Forty minutes.
Only forty minutes had passed since he’d watched Nevenka leave the Cheltenham ballroom on Kimber’s arm, her expression unreadable, her spine straight. Kimber’s hand curled over hers like a brand.
Beside him, Mrs. Kimber muttered bitterly, almost to herself, voice a low tremor of venom.
“He said you could have me, didn’t he? While he has her.”
Thomas said nothing. He stared ahead, jaw tight, watching the way the trees beyond the fence swayed like dancers long after the music had stopped. The house itself, hidden from view, seemed to throb with a silence that needled him.
She glanced at him again, this time louder, sharper, goading.
“She might be a whore, but I’m not,” she murmured. “The French woman. She is a prostitute, isn’t she?”
He didn’t blink, just exhaled slowly and measured, fingers tapping once—twice—against the wheel in restless silence. He checked his watch again.
Forty-two.
“Honestly… I don’t know what she is,” he said at last, tucking the watch away, the chain clicking softly. He reached for the ignition and pressed the starter pedal with his boot. The engine rumbled to life, a low, mechanical growl beneath the silence.
Mrs. Kimber turned her head, one brow arching. “Where are we going?”
“To drive you home, Mrs. Kimber,” he murmured, dry as coal dust, guiding the car toward the estate’s main gate. He ignored her lingering glances, already rehearsing whatever excuse he might have to offer.
The iron gates creaked open as the guards caught sight of her in the passenger seat. He drove through without hesitation, circling the gravel drive until they reached the front steps. As soon as the engine stilled, he stepped out, movement swift and impatient.
“It was a pleasure, Mrs. Kimber,” he said, voice curt with dismissal, already striding toward the front doors before she could respond.
And then he halted.
He looked up just in time to see Nevenka descending the front steps of the estate. Her dress was untouched. Her hair was still pinned in the same immaculate style she’d worn to Cheltenham.
She glanced down and caught him watching her from the foot of the stairs. He moved toward her, brow furrowed. She would’ve passed straight by if he hadn’t stepped into her path, blocking her way.
“What happened inside?” he asked, voice low, edged with confusion. His eyes flicked toward the doors she’d just exited—no shouting, no hurried footsteps. No sign she was fleeing.
Nevenka lifted her chin. Her hazel eyes met his—cold, sharp, unreadable.
“I did my part of the deal,” she murmured, flat and brittle.
He frowned at that.
Before Thomas could say another word, Nevenka brushed past him, her shoulder catching his as she made her way to the car. Behind them, Mrs. Kimber passed with a tight glance, suspicion etched into every line of her posture.
He cast one last glance toward the front door, then turned back to the car. Nevenka was already seated, spine straight, her expression carved from stone.
He twisted the key, pressed the starter pedal again, and drove them away from Kimber’s estate, back toward Small Heath.
The silence between them settled thick as dust.
He didn’t look at her, but from the corner of his eye, he saw she wasn’t looking at him either. Her gaze was fixed forward, jaw tight, hands still.
He tried to make sense of it, to what had happened inside. Had she let Kimber touch her? Had she bargained herself into safety or sold something neither of them could get back?
But she didn’t look like a woman who’d been touched. She looked composed—too composed. And still, he knew Kimber; he knew men like him. They didn’t let women walk away. Not unless they’d already broken something in them.
And still, here she was. Unbroken.
As he traced and retraced the possibilities, the contradictions, the awful quiet of it all, none of it made sense. Her silence sat between them like a verdict. And it was eating him alive.
He cleared his throat, eyes locked on the road.
“What’s your address?”
“I can walk home on my own.”
His jaw tensed. Still, he didn’t look at her.
“I’m driving. You don’t have to walk.”
She exhaled, long and sharp through her nose, her grip tightening on her handbag as if she were holding something in. She gave him her address, her voice flat, stripped of gratitude.
He didn’t reply, just shifted gears and drove on, the silence between them settling heavier with each passing streetlamp. By the time they reached Deritend, the night had curled thick around the narrow roads, the gaslights throwing long shadows over soot-stained brick. Rows of cramped terrace houses leaned into one another like old women whispering, their windows either shuttered or glowing faint with oil lamps inside. He pulled up in front of a crumbling three-storey building with peeling paint and rusted gutters, its front steps slick with rain. The kind of place where no one asked questions, and no one answered the door after dark.
A question had been gnawing at his chest since they left the estate, biting at the edges of his restraint. And before she could step out of the car, he let it loose.
“Did he touch you?”
She froze, fingers gripping the handle. Slowly, she turned back to look at him.
His voice was low, steady—but the question landed like a blade between them. Her throat burned with it. A lump rose that she swallowed down. She glanced away, eyes fixed on the slick, empty street ahead, her voice quiet and controlled.
“The last man who tried to touch me—I slit his throat open with a broken glass.”
She didn’t look at him when she said it. But he caught the tension in her jaw, the way her lips trembled just slightly in the wash of light spilling through the windshield.
Then she turned to him fully, her hazel eyes like sharpened steel.
“I still have the scar on the palm of my hand.”
The door slammed shut before he could speak, the sound cracking through the street. She walked away without looking back, her steps quick and certain, disappearing into the gloom of the stairwell.
He sat alone in the car, her words echoing louder than the silence she left behind.
The next morning, he arrived at the betting shop earlier than usual. The fog of coal soot still clung to the windows, the air thick with the scent of stale sweat, tobacco, and ink. His eyes swept the dust-hazed room, cutting through the din of shouting men and the clatter of ledgers and boots, until they landed on the small desk nudged forward from the corner.
It was empty.
Not just unoccupied—abandoned. The chair was pushed in too neatly. The inkwell undisturbed. A smudge of graphite lingered on the blotter where her hand had once rested.
She didn’t come late. She didn’t come at all.
The day dragged itself forward in dull, mechanical increments. He came and went—meetings, errands, whispers in back rooms—but every time he returned to the shop, her place remained exactly the same. Eerily still. Haunted.
And it happened again the next day.
He sat at his desk beneath the low-hanging bulb, a page spread before him. His eyes drifted across the words without seeing them, the ink blurring into shapes without meaning. His jaw tensed tighter with each glance toward the vacant corner, as though the desk itself had committed some personal offense—sat there smugly in its silence.
He still couldn’t make sense of it. Still couldn’t find the angle. A part of him had expected Kimber’s men to resurface. Perhaps at the Garrison. Perhaps at the shop. With clipped words and a severed deal in hand.
You didn’t deliver, Mr. Shelby.
But no one came. The deal, as far as he could tell, was intact. Kimber had what he wanted.
And she was still gone.
On the third day of her absence, Polly walked into his office without knocking. The door clicked shut behind her and she lit a cigarette in the quiet, her eyes on him the whole time—sharp, clear, the way a knife sees a throat.
“The girl—Mary—hasn’t come in three days,” she said, her voice low and precise. Smoke curled between them like a thread of unspoken accusation.
Thomas didn’t look up. His gaze stayed anchored to the paper in front of him.
“She was a good girl. Quiet. Efficient,” Polly said, flicking ash from her sleeve with an oddly delicate touch. “Arthur said she was with you. At Cheltenham.”
His jaw twitched. He reached into the drawer, took out a cigarette, and lit it with a practiced calm that betrayed nothing.
“Slipped away, hasn't she?” he muttered. “Three days, no sign.”
Polly inhaled, her brows pulling together as she studied him more carefully now, like she could smell blood through the smoke.
“What have you done, Tommy?”
He finally looked up. His expression was stiff with irritation, but his eyes gave nothing away.
“I haven’t done anything. I paid her for her time.”
Polly's mouth twisted into something between a scoff and a grim smile.
“Oh, you think I believe that?” she said, her voice gaining venom. “Paid her to dance, was it?”
She stepped closer now, not shouting, but her words cut like glass.
“You brought her to Cheltenham. And now she’s vanished. What did you ask of her, Thomas?”
He stared back at her, motionless. Daring her to say it. To put into words what he hadn’t.
Polly shook her head slowly, disgust edging the corners of her expression.
“Jesus, Thomas.”
“I didn’t force her to do anything.”
“No,” she said, almost gently. But her eyes were cold as slate. “I bet you just made it convenient .”
He didn’t reply. The cigarette smoldered between his fingers, the smoke curling upward like incense in a chapel.
Polly gave him one last look—one of those long, heavy glances that carried years behind it—then turned on her heel.
“If she’s smart,” she murmured over her shoulder, “she won’t come back.”
He watched her go, the smoke thick around him, her words still settling like sediment in his chest.
If she’s smart, she won’t come back.
He exhaled hard, then scrubbed a hand over his face, dragging it down to his jaw. He didn’t want to admit it, but Polly was right.
She was smart.
He stubbed out the cigarette with a hard twist. The ashtray rattled under his hand. Then he stood—abrupt, purposeful. Shrugged on his coat, grabbed his cap. He was halfway to the door before his eyes caught on the paper still lying on the desk. He hesitated, then stepped back, snatched it up without thinking, folded it once, shoved it into his pocket—then stepped out of the shop.
The path in his mind was already drawn.
The sky above Deritend hung low and gray, pressing down on the rooftops like a held breath. Rain clung to the gutters, fat and unmoving, soaking into the soot-caked bricks until the whole row of houses looked sunken and tired.
Thomas stood at the base of the crumbling three-storey building, its facade streaked with water stains and the faded memory of once-white paint. The wrought-iron railing along the front steps had rusted through in patches. A child's shoe lay abandoned in the gutter. He stepped over it.
He lit a cigarette without thinking, the flare of the match briefly casting light against the warped wood of the front door. No number, no nameplate. Just a narrow entryway sagging on its hinges.
Inside, the smell hit him first—boiled onions, coal smoke, damp. The air was thick with it, lingering in the cracked plaster and threadbare carpet lining the stairs. Communal living. The kind of place people disappeared into. Cheap and quiet and crowded. Just enough space to survive.
He climbed the stairs slowly, his boots echoing with each step. Behind one of the doors on the first floor, someone was coughing. Another door stood open to a room crowded with drying laundry and children huddled near a stove.
He kept going.
He reached the landing, staring at the row of doors—all of them identical, all of them closed. He exhaled smoke through his nose and knocked on the first one, sharp and deliberate.
No answer.
He tried the next.
An old woman cracked it open, peering out at him through rheumy eyes before closing it again without a word.
He knocked on a third door. A moment passed before her voice filtered through the wood.
“Who is it?”
“Thomas Shelby.”
Silence. Then the soft sound of the doorknob turning—but it stopped halfway. He could feel her hesitation through the gap, her thoughts flickering behind the pause. Finally, she opened the door just enough for him to see her face.
“What do you want?”
Her tone was flat, hollow. Her eyes were sharp and cool beneath a raised brow. She was guarded, bristling with discomfort at the intrusion. He caught the loose fall of her dark blonde hair, soft waves brushing her collarbone. There was something intimate about seeing her like this—unguarded, domestic—and yet she looked ready to bolt.
“Are you going to let me in?”
Her frown deepened. No smile. No warmth. “Why are you here, Thomas?”
He raised his hand, a folded paper between his fingers.
“I have something for you,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “Better discussed in private.”
“This is my house,” she snapped, pushing the door in, narrowing the space between them.
He caught the edge of it with his palm, applying gentle pressure to keep it from closing in his face.
“Three days without a word. I figured I’d bring the work to you,” he said evenly. “I’m here to discuss business.”
She let out a breath—sharp, weary, uncertain.
“I won’t take long,” he added.
She stared at him for a moment. Then, slowly, with another sigh, she opened the door wider and stepped aside, letting him in.
With a final drag, Thomas crushed the cigarette to the wall, the ash scattering like grit, before he stepped through the door.
The worn wooden floor creaked faintly beneath his boots. The room was small—barely enough space for the narrow iron-framed bed pressed against one wall and a scuffed wooden table beneath the window. A chipped enamel basin sat atop it, half-filled with water gone cold. Beside it, a kettle rested on a dented tin trivet above a small portable burner, as if she’d once hoped for tea and changed her mind halfway through.
To one side, a plain desk had been pushed against the wall, and a narrow cupboard stood nearby, its paint peeling at the edges, just large enough to store a few clothes or dry goods. The only indulgence in the room was a bottle of Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue catching what little light filtered through the sooty window.
It was a room that knew how to be temporary.
Nevenka stood in the middle of it, arms crossed tightly over her chest, as if she were holding herself together. Waiting.
“I brought you this,” Thomas said at last, his voice cracking through the thick quiet between them. He extended the folded paper toward her. “It’s a contract of employment."
Her brow furrowed as she took it from his hand. She unfolded it slowly, moving toward the window for better light. The letterhead at the top read: Shelby Brothers Limited . Beneath it, her alias— Mary Jones —and her role: Bookkeeper and Secretary .
She glanced up, eyes narrowing with cautious curiosity, like weighing a threat.
“We’re expanding, Neve,” he said, watching the subtle twitch in her jaw when he called her name like that again. “Arthur’s running the Garrison pub now.”
She didn’t respond, only stared. He went on.
“There’s a back office. Quiet. Away from the floor. You wouldn’t have to deal with the noise.”
She didn’t answer. Only held his stare, steady and unreadable.
“He’s already making a mess of the numbers,” Thomas added dryly, daring to take a step closer to her. “You’d mostly be cleaning up after him.”
“You don’t bring contracts to people you don’t trust,” she said quietly, a warning in her tone.
“No,” he said quietly, his gaze steady. “But you’re not just anyone, are you?”
He took another step, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped an octave, quieter now.
“I don’t trust anyone,” he added after a beat. “But I trust what I’ve seen. You fixed the books. You kept your head down. You didn’t run.”
“The Garrison needs a proper back room,” he went on. “Legitimate business, books in order. Clean on the books, at least. We’ve got money coming in from deals we can’t afford to trace. We need something that looks like structure. Like sense.”
Her brow twitched. “You know none of this’s exactly legal.”
He gave the ghost of a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“That’s why we’re trying to change it.” He stared at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Arthur’s not the man for it.”
She let out a dry little laugh. “And I am?”
“You’re the best for this job,” he said, voice lower now, coaxing. “We need someone with discretion.”
“I’m sure your men can handle the pub just fine,” she replied, her accent growing heavier, cold and clipped. Her voice didn’t rise, but the room felt colder.
“They're muscle. We need a brain.”
“I’m not an accountant.”
“I don’t need an accountant,” he said, firm but calm, taking another step closer. “I need someone who understands what matters.”
She tilted her head, frowning, wary, as if weighing whether to trust him. He didn’t let the pause breathe.
“You understand this world. You’ve got something I don’t. Class,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “The kind of calm that lets you walk through a room without making a mess of it.”
She huffed, eyes lowering again to the paper in her hands.
“Ah… there it is. You want a Russian doll. Polished face, hollow inside. Easier to bluff your way past men like Kimber.”
He didn’t rise to it.
“No. I want someone who can stand in that room and not blink,” he said. “You know these people. You were born to that life—maybe it got taken from you, but it’s still in you."
Her expression flickered. Not with emotion, but with the effort it took to bury one. She blinked hard and looked away, not letting the memory rise, not letting him see the shape of it behind her eyes.
“Did it feel good? Being at Cheltenham. Being seen—like you actually belonged?”
Her eyes snapped up, fury flaring, the memory of that night still raw beneath her skin.
“I know what working for you costs,” she said, her voice like ice breaking underfoot. She handed the paper back to him, her fingers quick, precise.
He took it without a word, eyes dropping to the page as he gathered himself.
Frustration rolled off him in waves, but when he lifted his gaze again, it was calm. Controlled.
“There’s more to this than just employment,” he said, voice dropping low as he lifted the paper again, holding it level with her eyes.
“This means you’re under my roof. Protected.”
That made her pause.
She swallowed, the hardness in her eyes flickering—just for a moment—with something almost like trust. So brief he might’ve missed it.
She lifted her chin.
“Until you change your mind.”
Her voice was low but braced, each word steady as stone. She searched his face, gaze unblinking, as if daring the lie to flinch first.
But he didn’t flinch.
“My words have weight, Nevenka.”
He stepped closer again, a final step, slow and deliberate, the paper held between them like a flag not yet raised.
“It means no one touches you,” he added. “Not Kimber. Not the police. No one.”
She looked at him, wide-eyed now, lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. His presence filled the room, almost overwhelming in its closeness.
Something sharp and aching caught behind her ribs. The fragile weight of hope tangled with sharp threads of fear and disbelief. Her fingers fidgeted at the hem of her blouse, the gesture small but betraying the turmoil inside.
For a heartbeat, the idea of protection—of safety—felt both foreign and desperately needed. A quiet voice inside whispered that maybe, just maybe, this was her chance to stop walking in constant fear, no longer glancing over her shoulder.
Her gaze dropped, her hand hovering at the edge of the paper, uncertain. Her fingers brushed it once—then closed.
She took it.
Without meeting his eyes, she glanced toward the small desk pushed against the wall. An ink stopper rested there beside a dusted notebook and a few spare papers. She set the contract down and signed her name—her alias—with practiced precision, the pen gliding smoothly across the page.
Handing it back, she turned on her heel, moving toward the door. She paused, leaving it cracked open. An unspoken invitation.
A faint smile flickered on her lips. Not warm, but deliberate.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Shelby.”
He gave a curt nod, stepping back into the hallway.
“Don’t be late.”
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Every kudos, comment, and bookmark honestly makes my day! I’m curious, what do you think happened between Nevenka and Kimber? Hopefully you’re not spiraling like Tommy, lol. If you’ve got a favorite moment or line, let me know! I love hearing from you!
Chapter 5: Chapter 5 – The Lee Brothers
Chapter Text
Chapter 5 – The Lee Brothers
The next day, Nevenka arrived at the betting shop right on time.
Her desk was exactly as she had left it—the inkwell sealed tight, the blotter paper square and clean, her ledgers stacked with careful precision. Dust had gathered faintly on the windowsill, but no one had touched her things. Not even to move them out of the way.
A few of the men nodded as she passed—habit, perhaps, or respect. Most ignored her, just as they always had. Polly caught her eye from across the room and offered a small, almost imperceptible smile before disappearing into the back room without a word.
The noise of the shop hadn’t changed—shouting, boots on floorboards, the clatter of coins tossed across counters, curses half-swallowed in smoke. But Nevenka felt a strange stillness in her chest, as though her body had already absorbed the rhythm of the place. Her fingers moved without thought, dipping pen to ink, sorting columns by memory.
She didn’t notice the shadow fall over her desk until a ledger landed with a dull thump.
She startled and looked up sharply—Thomas stood on the other side of the desk, unreadable, one brow arched like punctuation.
“I thought you were working at the Garrison.”
“You think I want to work in a pub?”
He leaned in slightly, one corner of his mouth twitching as if her tone amused him.
“It’s quieter there.”
“I doubt it.”
Her voice was dry, but her lips curved faintly at the edge. She tucked the ledger into her neat stack and kept writing.
“You’d have had a room to yourself,” he said, lingering now, hands buried in the pockets of his coat.
She glanced back up, eyebrows raised. Her smile deepened by a thread.
“Is this your way of saying you’re glad I came back?”
He didn’t smile—not exactly—but something in his gaze softened, just a touch.
“Just wondering why you didn’t take the quieter option.”
She leaned back in her chair, the pen still between her fingers. Her eyes lifted to meet his.
“I don’t like being put where it’s convenient.”
He simply studied her, his pale blue eyes narrowing slightly. When he spoke, his voice was low.
“No one puts you anywhere, eh?”
She stared at him. Her lips parted, just faintly, as if caught mid-thought. And for the briefest second, something in her gaze softened. But whatever else might’ve passed between them vanished in a blink, broken by Polly’s voice slicing through the noise of the shop floor.
“Thomas. A word,” she called, dry and firm.
He didn’t answer. Just turned from Nevenka’s desk and walked toward the back, his coat brushing the edge of her chair as he passed.
She glanced toward the back of the shop, watching Polly and Thomas speaking in hushed tones—though she couldn’t hear a word of it over the shouting. Chairs scraped. A few of the men were dragging a tall customer out by the collar, curses flying, the usual disorder bubbling under the surface. Kids darted between legs.
“No more bets! The race has started!” Scudboat barked from his corner. His voice cut clean through the clamor, firm but calm, and for a breath, the chaos stilled.
The shop began to empty. Men filed out in clusters, muttering curses under their breath, boots stomping, kicking at loose wood and dust on their way. Nevenka allowed herself a small smile and returned to her figures, savoring the sudden quiet.
She looked up when Thomas and Polly returned. Polly was already pulling on her coat, adjusting the lapels with neat, practiced hands.
“Scudboat? John’ll be here in ten,” she said, setting her hat on and walking briskly toward the back door.
“Alright,” Scudboat replied, flipping through the till, counting out the notes.
“Five,” Thomas said curtly, following Polly—but then he stopped at Nevenka’s desk, hand already adjusting the brim of his cap.
“You go home,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for interpretation.
She glanced up, pen still in hand, brow knitting.
“I’m just finishing—”
“I said you go home.”
His voice cut through hers, quiet but sharp. He didn’t raise it, didn’t have to. His gaze held her in place, making it clear this was no suggestion. She held his eyes, steady and unreadable. Then, at last, she gave him a small, silent nod.
That seemed to satisfy him. He turned without another word and followed Polly out, the back door shutting behind them.
Scudboat rose from his chair, keyring already swinging in his fingers. He crossed the floor and stopped near her desk.
“C’mon,” he said gently, glancing down at her. “I need to lock up.”
“I’m just finishing these books,” she murmured, not looking up right away.
He frowned slightly, unconvinced. “Mr. Shelby said for you to go home.”
At that, she finally looked up at him—head tilted just a little, eyes warm and steady, voice dipping low like silk.
“Just this last row,” she murmured, voice low but steady. “By the time he’s back, I’ll be gone.”
Scudboat blinked, then gave a short chuckle. A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
“On your head be the consequences, dear,” he muttered, moving off toward the back to secure the locks.
She watched him go, then smiled faintly to herself, and returned to her numbers.
Some time had passed since they were alone in the shop, she didn’t know how much. She was fixed on her numbers. It took a long moment before she registered the sound behind the double doors.
A sharp noise cracked from the back. Scudboat straightened from his desk, eyes narrowing.
“John?”
Nevenka didn’t look up at first. She assumed it was one of the brothers, arriving earlier than expected, prompting her to quietly gather her things. But then the door burst open with a loud, splintering bang.
Like a dam breaking, men poured into the shop—shouting, running, brandishing guns and knives.
Scudboat moved fast, reaching for the gun beneath his desk—but they were faster. A shotgun was already trained on him.
“Put it down! Put it down!”
He barely had time to reach before two of them were on him, dragging him down, twisting his arms. Nevenka’s chair scraped the floor as she stood sharply, heart stammering, eyes wide.
“This is for Cheltenham,” growled the one with the shotgun, looming over Scudboat. “We’re just taking back what’s ours.”
The butt of the shotgun slammed into Scudboat’s temple. He dropped with a grunt and a sickening thud.
She gasped—too loud. Heads snapped toward her. She staggered back, lunging toward the door, toward anything that might mean escape. But rough hands caught her arm, yanking her back mid-stride.
She stumbled, and another spun her around. One man gripping her arms behind her back, the other seizing her jaw in his filthy hand.
She could smell whisky and something rancid on his breath as he leaned in.
“Where’s the safe?”
“I don’t know!”
He slapped her, hard, across the cheek. Her head snapped to the side.
“Let’s try again,” he sneered, grabbing her chin again, squeezing. “Where’s the safe, sweetheart? Spit it out and maybe we won’t carve you open.”
Her vision blurred, and her breath came fast. But she glared at him—coiled, burning. She didn’t think. She just moved.
Her head smashed into his nose.
Pain exploded across her brow. Her knees buckled. But the man reeled backward with a snarl, blood streaming down his face.
“You filthy little whore!”
The other man shoved her against her own desk. Her ribs slammed into the edge, making her breath flee her lungs.
She tried to rise, but the blow to her head throbbed deep and dizzying, her vision swimming. She barely had time to blink before weight crashed down behind her, pinning her against the wood.
“Let me teach you a lesson,” the man hissed, close in her ear, his fingers yanking her hair and slamming her cheek flat to the surface.
A knife pressed cold and sharp against her skin.
She choked on a sob.
Her head was pinned. Her arms flailed across the desk, searching blindly for something—anything. Her fingers knocked over the inkwell; it shattered on the floor, ink spilling black across her skirt, her blouse, the ledgers.
The man grunted, pressing harder into her back. One hand clawed at her skirt, the other still clutched the knife tight against her cheek. His breath was hot and filthy in her ear. His fingers sank into her thigh, hard and fast.
All Nevenka could hear was the pounding in her own ears.
Then a guttural shout—raw, violent, familiar.
She couldn’t see anything, her head still pinned. But suddenly, the weight was gone, ripped off her like a jolt of thunder. Her body dropped to the floor, stumbling backward in a tangle of limbs. She twisted, scrambling upright just in time to see Thomas collide with the man, slamming into him like a beast unleashed.
They hit the floor with a sickening crack. Limbs flailed. A fist slammed into bone. Then another. And another.
The sound was sickening—wet and sharp and final. The man screamed, then choked, and then there was only the dull, rhythmic thud of Thomas’s fists slamming into him.
Nevenka pushed herself back against the wall, heaving for air. Her brow throbbed—blood was running down her temple and into her eye. She blinked, but her limbs wouldn’t move. She stayed where she was, still and frozen, watching.
She didn’t see the other men fleeing, or Arthur and John slamming fists and blades into those too slow to escape. All of it faded behind the roaring silence in her head.
All she could see was Thomas.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t speak. He just kept hitting, and hitting, and hitting.
Until at last, he went still. Breath ragged, body shaking.
He stood, looming over what was no longer a man, just a broken, bloodied shape. His chest heaved. His fists dripped red. His eyes were glassy, far away—and still burning.
And then he turned and looked at her. There was no softness in his face, just fury, and something deeper beneath it. Something she couldn’t name.
He stepped over the man’s body and came toward her.
Nevenka froze, her eyes following every step he took until he stopped in front of her.
He reached out, and when she offered her hand, he yanked her up roughly. Not gentle, just urgent. His eyes moved to the gash on her brow, the blood dripping down her temple. Then he reached for her neck, anchoring her, his fingers threading into her hair without care. For a split second, her body tensed, bracing for a blow that never came. But his hand only steadied her—unforgiving, but not cruel.
“Why the fuck didn’t you leave?” His voice tore through the air—furious, shaking. “I told you. I told you to go home.”
Each word struck like a blow, punctuated by the tug of his hand in her hair. He looked at her, hard, as if daring her to answer.
She held his gaze. Her whole body trembled, but her eyes didn’t move. There was blood on her brow, on her temple, her skirt. The lump in her throat burned, hot and rising, pushing against her ribs. She swallowed hard, her lips parting.
“I–I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice breaking with a choked breath, her tears finally spilling, slow and hot, sliding down her cheeks without a sound.
That stilled him.
His hand, still tangled in her hair, stopped pressing. His breath hitched, barely audible. He looked at her like he didn’t know what he was seeing. The fury was still there, but it had nowhere left to go.
His hands trembled. His jaw clenched. When he spoke again, the words scraped out of him—low, hoarse, barely stitched together.
“Why don’t you fucking do what I say?”
She said nothing. Just stood there, tears sliding silently down her cheeks, her lips trembling.
They stood like that—locked together in a silence louder than the violence that had just ended.
Polly’s voice came gently from behind, as she placed her hand softly on his shoulder.
“Tommy.”
His eyes closed. Just for a second.
When he opened them again, they were stripped bare. He let go of Nevenka before shrugging off Polly’s hand, and stormed out the betting shop without a word.
Nevenka’s eyes followed him, her throat still burning. She startled slightly as Polly stepped closer and righted the overturned chair.
“Sit,” Polly said, voice firm but gentle, her eyes steady. “We need to see that cut.”
Nevenka was about to protest—but she closed her mouth again. Maybe it was the throbbing in her skull, or maybe it was something in Polly’s gaze. She sat.
Polly moved off to fetch something. Nevenka turned her eyes to the rest of the room.
Arthur and John were helping Scudboat upright. His face was half-covered in blood, his clothes stained—but he was conscious, grumbling. Arthur disappeared into the office, likely looking for a bottle, while John kicked over a broken chair with a growl.
“What the bloody hell happened in here?” Arthur asked, reemerging and handing Scudboat a glass filled with something dark—whisky, maybe rum. Arthur’s fists were red. So were John’s.
Nevenka looked around, noticing the betting shop was empty now—at least, save for the body still sprawled on the floor.
“The Lees,” Scudboat grunted, breathing ragged. “All of them. Cousins. Nephews. Even their bastards.”
Polly returned with a bowl of water and a stack of cloths. She set them on the table, now crooked from the chaos. Arthur passed one to Scudboat to press to his head. Polly took another and knelt beside Nevenka.
Nevenka winced as the cloth touched her temple.
“Don’t be spoiled,” Polly murmured, dabbing again with careful precision. “If we treat it right, it won’t scar badly.”
Nevenka said nothing. Her lips pressed together. Her hands trembled faintly in her lap, and she folded them tighter.
She let Polly clean the blood in silence, her gaze drifting across the wreckage. The overturned chairs. The splintered wood. And the dark smear where the man’s body had been—John and Arthur had already dragged it outside, but she could still feel the weight of him in the room. A ghost of breath on her skin. She shivered.
“You gave them a fight,” Polly said quietly.
Nevenka scoffed under her breath.
“I gave myself a nasty cut,” she muttered bitterly.
Polly chuckled.
“Scars carry stories, love.” Her voice was gentle, though her eyes remained sharp as ever. “It means you’re still breathing.”
Nevenka said nothing. Scudboat, injured and pale, was already upright again, trying to put chairs back into place. The shop was a wreck.
“They took whatever they could carry,” Polly said, her eyes following Nevenka’s across the ruined shop.
Nevenka’s expression didn’t shift. Her voice, when it came, was distant.
“He probably despises me even more.”
Polly paused, glancing down at her. Then she resumed dabbing at the wound, tone neutral.
“Give him time. Anger’s loud, but it doesn’t last.”
“He was so angry. I don’t think he’ll trust me again.”
Polly’s hand stilled briefly, the cloth hovering. Then she gave a small, dry laugh.
“I don’t think it was only anger in his eyes, love.”
Nevenka glanced up at that—eyes narrowing slightly, trying to read her face. But Polly offered nothing but a sly smile as she tossed the bloodied cloth into the bowl.
Arthur and John strode back inside.
“Look what that bastard was carrying,” Arthur muttered, holding up a stick grenade. “Those Lee bastards weren’t just after cash.”
“We wait for Thomas,” Polly said firmly, picking up a dented metal tin from the floor and tossing it onto the table.
Arthur scoffed, dropping the stick beside it with a thud.
“Right. Like Tommy’s in any shape to deal with this shit.”
“Scudboat,” Polly called. “You and Mary should go home. Can you walk her there?”
Nevenka stood abruptly, startled by the sound of her false name.
“I can help clean this up—”
Arthur passed her, then paused. Just briefly. His eyes flicked to the bruises on her temple.
“You look like shit, girl,” he said. “No offense.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but Polly’s voice cut clean through.
“You go home. Clean yourself up,” she said, her words final. “We need you tomorrow. Not tonight.”
Nevenka stood silent, too drained to argue. Her nod was curt, resigned.
She scanned the room for her handbag—gone, vanished like everything else tonight. A low, bitter curse slipped from her lips. She grabbed her coat and tightened it around her, trying to hide the bloodstains and the state of her clothes—a thin barrier against the evening chill and the heaviness settling in her chest.
Without another word, she fell into step beside Scudboat, the worn wooden planks crunching beneath their boots as they headed toward the door.
They were just stepping out when she noticed someone approaching from down the street.
She looked up just in time to see Thomas coming toward them.
“I’ll walk her home,” he said flatly, eyes on Scudboat. “Go to your wife.”
Scudboat gave a brief nod, glanced at Nevenka once more, and turned down the road without a word.
She didn’t look at Thomas directly. Just glanced sideways, enough to see the vivid red of his knuckles, the sharp tilt of his cap low over his eyes.
She didn’t speak. Just started walking. After a moment, he followed.
They walked in silence. The only sound was gravel crunching beneath their feet. At some point, without noticing, they drifted closer—just enough that their coats brushed with every step. The sun was sinking lower, casting a long orange streak across the cobblestones.
He reached into his coat and lit a cigarette without a word, taking a drag once. Then, without looking, he held it out to her.
She hesitated, then took it. The smoke burned her throat, but she welcomed the sting.
Their fingers brushed as she handed it back. He dragged once more, then offered it again.
They passed the cigarette back and forth the whole way—saying nothing, sharing silence like it was the only thing holding them together.
When they reached her three-story building, she took one last drag and handed it back. He accepted it but didn’t smoke. His gaze lingered on the street, the crumbling brickwork—anywhere but her.
Then, at last, he spoke. His voice was low, rough.
“I’m sorry.”
He still wouldn’t meet her eyes. She looked at him, her throat tight, voice soft and unguarded.
“Thank you… for saving me.”
That made him look at her.
Their eyes met—fully, for the first time since the attack. He held her gaze for a moment. Something flickered. Then he gave a short nod, turned, and walked away without another word.
She watched him go. Then stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
She didn’t see him glance back over his shoulder once, long after she was gone.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Every kudos, comment, and bookmark truly makes my day. I’m so glad you’re enjoying the story—it honestly means the world to me. I always love hearing your thoughts, theories, and reactions, so feel free to share them anytime!
Also, I’ve gotten a few questions about socials. If you’d like, you can find me on Tumblr at @theelfsong. I answer questions, reblog stuff, and post little bits of my fics there too.
nilob (Guest) on Chapter 1 Tue 15 Jul 2025 02:02AM UTC
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Last Edited Wed 30 Jul 2025 02:25AM UTC
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