The Arrangement ~ Chapter 8
Series Masterlist
Words: 10.4k (I'm SO sorry)
Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F
Warnings: Angst, shaming someone with religion, oppressive historical views on women, pregnancy, arranged marriage to a stranger, references to depression, more angst, references to graphic violence, reference to arson and slaughter.
The stage has been set for your wedding to a farmer you've just met and you're on the edge of despair. Will Rory show up to save you? Will anyone?
You hadn’t slept in days. Even now, standing in the cold little room at the back of the church, you weren’t entirely sure you were awake. Everything felt insulated, blurry around the edges. Like you were watching it all happen to someone else. Just a few short weeks ago you were back at home, working for your mother and just trying not to get on the bad side of your stepfather’s temper.
Your wedding dress clung heavy against your skin. It was adeep burgundy satin, carefully fitted and it did nothing to hide your swelling belly. It had been deliberately chosen. It was burgundy, not red. No, that would be too bold. It was deep and dark, a shade chosen deliberately, like a stain you weren’t allowed to wash away. Your mother had made you a flower crown of wild flowers with a small bouquet to match, tied in white ribbons. It was small but you were grateful for that small sign of dignity she’d given you.
Your uncle said it was appropriate and it suited a girl with “experience.” Mature. He said white would’ve been mockery.
You’d wanted to be sick.
But you weren’t arguing. You were too tired and ill to fight much anymore.
But as your shaking hand slid around that slight bump of your tummy, you took a deep breath. You would fight for him or her. If you did nothing else with the rest of your life, you wanted to see to it that your son or daughter came into this world to do more than have a miserable existence. Especially if it were a girl. You were being married off to a farmer and expected to bear him sons and help work the land. How would he treat the child of a gypsy? The child of a gangster?
As sad as it made you, you would almost consider trying to get a word to Polly if the day ever arrived that your new jailer said a harsh word or raised a hand to your child. You’d give your child to the Shelbys and be parted from them if you knew they would be safe and loved. And they would be. You had thought more than once that Polly would likely kill someone she caught harming a child. And Tommy…
No, you couldn’t think about him right now.
Your hands trembled as you adjusted the hem of your dress in the mirror, your reflection gaunt and unfamiliar in the small, cracked mirror. Was this really happening?
Feeling dizzy again, you took a seat on the edge of the chair, your stomach churning. You hadn’t been able to eat. You hadn’t even kept water down that morning. The nausea hadn’t let up in weeks, but this was something else. Panic, or maybe despair. Looking back, night of the wager didn’t seem so bad compared to this. You’d do that all again if you could be spared this wedding you didn’t want. And…
No, I can’t think about Tommy… Now you knew for certain he was done with you.
There had been no word from Rory. No note or knock on the door. Nothing. You’d thought he’d come. You’d honestly believed, with everything in you, that your brother would find a way to save you.
But as the morning slipped away and the minutes blurred together, those thoughts came back to prey on your mind… Did Rory tell Tommy? And if he had, did Tommy forbid him from coming? You wouldn’t have been surprised. Not with how things had been left between you. He’d said it was your choice, but maybe he’d meant it like a punishment. Maybe this was the cost of walking away from him. It was all your own fault.
You swallowed the tightness in your throat and smoothed your hands down the front of the dress.The deep red caught in the light, casting shadows across the room like old blood. You would walk yourself down the aisle because your uncle refused. He said he wouldn’t escort a fallen woman. He said it would “send the wrong message.”
As if any of this sent the right one.
You were blinking back tears when the door creaked open softly, and your mother slipped inside. She didn’t say anything at first, just closed the door behind her and looked at you, eyes full of quiet worry. Looking up into her eyes you saw that same heartache you were drowing in. You stood when you saw her, hands still trembling slightly at your sides. She crossed the room and took them gently into her own, her thumbs brushing over your knuckles like she had when you were little and scared of storms.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said softly, for what felt like the hundredth time.
You closed your eyes. “Uncle’s not going to stop it, nor let me out of it.”
She didn’t argue because she knew you were right.
“I tried,” she whispered. “I begged him. Told him this wasn’t the answer, that this wasn’t you. But he wouldn’t hear it. He said what’s done is done, and this is how we make it right.”
“Make him feel better, you mean,” you muttered.
Her mouth pressed into a sad line. “Yes.”
You stepped away from her just enough to breathe. Your dress felt too tight suddenly, the room too small. It was hard to breathe.
“I don’t know if I can walk down that aisle,” you said, your voice breaking. “Not like this, and alone.”
She stepped closer again, brushed a hand over your cheek. “Maybe you won’t have to,” she said gently. “Maybe Rory will come yet.”
You looked at her. “Do you think Tommy told him not to?”
Her eyes softened with something like pity. “I don’t know. But I know Rory and so do you. And if there’s a way to be here, love, he’ll find it.”
You looked away, trying to hide the sting behind your eyes. “Feels like the world’s already made up its mind about me.”
“No,” she said, cupping your face, her voice trembling now too. “Just the wrong people. That’s not the same.”
You tried to hold onto her words. You were losing hope that someone, anyone, might still stop this. But the minutes kept ticking by and you were still wearing burgundy. You may have well just pinned a a scarlet letter to your dress to complete the look.
"Did you see him?" your mother asked.
And you knew who she meant. The farmer. You nodded.
You’d seen him, just briefly. A huge, burly man with rough, callused hands and a weathered face that made him look closer to fifty than the thirty-two your uncle claimed. He’d smelled like earth and pipe smoke, nodded politely without meeting your eyes. And all you could think was those hands were meant for labor, not tenderness. Not for you. Not for anything you still had left to give.
She hesitated. “He’s… polite enough, I suppose. Looked like he was trying very hard not to look at you.”
You glanced at her, and she gave a faint, apologetic smile. “He’s nervous. Said very little. Just nodded when your uncle introduced you. Didn’t even try to make conversation.”
You felt your chest tighten. “That’s the man I’m supposed to marry.”
She didn’t try to correct you nor did she tell you it wasn’t too late. She didn’t offer hope she didn’t have. She just reached for your hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I don't get the impress he’s a cruel man,” she said softly, “but he’s not for you.”
That single sentence hit harder than all the rest. You already knew it and you weren’t walking toward a new life.You were walking toward containment.
And suddenly, that burgundy dress felt like a prison.
Your mother Mary had only meant to slip off to the water closet before everything began. One last moment of calm before the storm she couldn’t stop claimed her daughter. But when she turned the corner, nearly bumping into someone tall, she gasped softly and froze.
“Rory?”
Her son looked like a ghost and a stranger all at once. Not the boy she’d kissed on the forehead a few nights ago, but a man in a fine dark suit, shoulders squared, eyes sharp. His overcoat was rich wool, something expensive, protective. And his cap--
Her breath caught. It was a Peaky cap. And yes, there it was. That glint because of the razors sewn into the seams.
Rory saw her staring, and gently grabbed her hand, guiding her into a quiet alcove behind the coatroom, out of sight.
“Mum,” he whispered, eyes scanning the hallway. “Listen to me. I don’t have much time.”
She blinked, her hand still caught in his. “What on earth--”
“She can’t know I’m here. Not yet. Not until it’s time.”
That stopped her. Mary was trying to keep hope from blooming in her chest. Today, she didn't really think she could handle more disappointment.
“Rory--”
“I’ve already been through uncle's house,” he said. “Packed what was hers. Yours too. It’s in the car. All of it.”
Mary just stared at him.
“We’re going home,” he said. “To Birmingham. Tonight.”
"Is he here?" she had to ask.
Rory knew exactly who she meant, answering that with a single nod.
Mary's knees almost gave out. She had to grab the doorframe to stay upright. Her free hand pressed over her mouth, and her eyes burned before she could stop them.
Rory faltered. “Wait, are you crying?”
She laughed. It was one of those helpless, trembling laughs that sounded half broken and half like music. “Rory,” she choked, “thank God.”
He blinked. “I thought...” He looked at her, truly looked. “I thought you’d have a hard time with it. Me being a Blinder. With your daughter going back to the Shelbys.”
... your daughter going back to the Shelbys.
The way he worded it got her attention. It was very much in the style of the Peaky Blinders, claiming what they wanted, however they had to get it. It was how all of this begin. Just now, she didn't have a problem with it at all. On top of everything, the man had come here to stop the wedding and take her daughter back. And for once in her life, she was just fine with it. Her daughter was far better off with a man who actually loved her, even if she didn't feel the same. But honestly, Mary was pretty certain she did have feelings for him. She'd come around to it.
She stepped forward, cupped Rory's face like she had when he was a child.
“Son,” she said, her voice thick, “after the hell we’ve lived in? After what your sister’s been through? Thank God you’re one of them.”
And just for a moment, Rory’s mask cracked. Not because she was disappointed. But because she was proud.
You moved like your body belonged to someone else. Your arm wasn’t looped through anyone’s. Your uncle refused to walk you down the aisle. Even the groom didn't offer you an arm which was just a hint about your life to come. So you followed the groom alone, head bowed, hands clenched so tight around the small bouquet in your fingers that your fingernails dug half-moons into your palms. The deep burgundy dress whispered against the polished stone floor with every step, trailing shame and expectation behind you like a veil of smoke.
The music rose with organ pipes thundering gently overhead. The small church was lit with mid-day light, but you felt none of it. Just the weight of the stares. The murmur of judgment all around you. You didn’t look left or right. You weren't about to acknowledge any of their faces. Not the women who’d whispered behind their hymnals, probably about the fact that you'd just begun to show. Not the men who wouldn’t meet your eyes, but would surely talk about you over ale by sundown. The pews were lined with people who didn’t know you and they didn't care to know. They’d heard enough to believe what they wanted.
The priest began the Introductory Rites, his voice solemn, echoing through the still church. There was no joy in the occasion and no warmth at all. Just formality, structure, and most importantly, containment. The groom, silent and massive beside you, didn’t even glance your way as you stood before the priest.
You heard words about faith, and union, and forgiveness but none of them applied here. You thought about Rory, your mother... Tommy. And for one aching moment, you wished he’d lied. That he’d broken his word and that he’d come looking for you. Your throat was tight, and you were struggling to breathe. Your knees shook as you stood before the altar. And just as the priest’s voice moved into the Rite of Marriage, just as he asked the groom to step forward the church doors slammed open. The sound cracked like thunder, cutting clean through the liturgy.
Heads turned throughout the church as gasps echoed around you. The groom stiffened. And you turned slowly, heart hammering so loud in your ears it nearly drowned everything else out.
There he stood, framed in light.
Thomas Shelby.
His coat was flaring behind him like the wings of something unholy. His shoulders squared, boots echoing across the marble. You saw Arthur and John marching behind him, faces carved from stone, eyes scanning the pews with the kind of stillness that made people forget how to breathe. They were flanked by other men, each one built like they hadn’t come for prayer. Caps low. Posture deadly. A wall of calm, silent threat moving through a house of God like they owned it.
And behind them, Rory. Dressed like them. A fine dark coat hung from his shoulders, the Shelby cut unmistakable. His cap bore the same stitch of razor-threaded menace, and his steps fell in time with the rest. He didn’t look like the boy you’d grown up with, not in that moment. He looked like someone else now. Someone dangerous and respected.
But when his eyes found yours, everything softened. That familiar warmth cracked through the armor, just for you. His lips curled up in the smallest of smirks, and he gave you a wink, sharp and sure and quiet as a promise. Your mother was right, he hadn’t let you down after all. He never would.
You didn’t feel so alone. Not anymore.
The priest faltered and the room froze. The only movement you saw was Polly, she was here too, walking up to where your mother sat and stopping by her side.
But you? All you could was stare. Because Tommy’s eyes weren’t on anyone else. Only you. You couldn’t breathe. For a second, you forgot how to breathe and the world tipped sideways. The pews, the altar, the candles... it all faded into nothing.
Because it was him. Not a dream or a memory. Not in some fevered hope you’d barely allowed yourself to hold on to. And he stood in the doorway like the storm you always knew he was. All you could feel were his eyes on you, all heat and truth and reckoning. Your knees nearly buckled, but somehow you managed to stay upright.
And all at once, the words from weeks ago came rushing back to you. If you walk away, I won’t stop you... But if you stay, you’re mine.
You had walked away. But he came anyway. And now you stood shaking, waiting like everyone else to see what he was here to do.
Tommy Shelby didn’t knock. He walked into that church like he owned it. Because today, he did. The moment the doors flung open, silence rippled through the nave like a shot across no man’s land. Heads snapped toward him. Mothers gasped. The priest stuttered and froze mid-blessing.
He walked straight down the aisle, slow and measured, boots echoing across the stone, every step a promise. A warning. His brothers were behind him, so was her brother and more Blinders, walking like men who were ready to raise hell in a house of God. Liam stayed by the doors, to make sure no one was leaving. Not until he said so.
Tommy’s gaze never left her.
She stood like a statue at the altar. His girl, wrapped in burgundy, shaking like a leaf in a storm. Her eyes were wide, rimmed red from sleepless nights. Even from here, he could see the dark hollows beneath her eyes. And the dress--Christ. That fucking color. Like shame sewn into silk.
Tommy felt something claw up the back of his throat. Not nerves or hesitation. Rage, cold and poisonous. This was very fucking personal. What the fuck had they done to her? Her shoulders were drawn tight like she was bracing for a blow. Her lips were parted slightly, too stunned to speak. She looked like someone had drained the life right out of her and dressed her up for a burial instead of a wedding.
Her hands clutched the bouquet like a lifeline, and as he watched, one hand dropped, slow and unthinking. It came to rest just below her ribs. A soft, protective curl of fingers over the slight swell of her belly. His child. It was instinct. She didn’t even realize she was doing it. But to him, it was louder than any vow or confession. It was truth and undeniably beautiful. And it split something wide open inside him. A fierce, unshakable need to get her out of this fucking church and make sure nothing and no one ever touched what was his again. Later, he’d reckon with the rest of it -- what it meant, what they’d lost, what they still had to fight for. But right now? She was standing there, carrying everything he never thought he’d have, and she hadn’t run yet.
Tommy was here to deal with them. Her uncle, the bloody farmer. Anyone who looked at her sideways. He was here for her, and nothing else up to heaven and down to hell mattered in this moment.
They tried to stop him. The farmer stepped forward, puffing up like a man about to claim something he thought was his. The uncle rose from the front pew, already barking, indignant bluster spilling louder with every breath. And just behind him, the priest looked appalled, his lips pressed into a thin line of silent disapproval, as if the very presence of Tommy Shelby and his men had defiled the sanctity of his church.
Tommy just kept walking, shoulders squared, heart pounding like war drums beneath his ribs. He reached the front of the church and turned, slowly, to face them all. “This wedding’s not going to happen.”
The farmer muttered something and Tommy cut him off with a glance sharp enough to slice bone. "You paid,” Tommy said coolly, “to marry a woman who doesn’t even know you. A woman carrying my child.”
The gaps and murmurs were almost comical and he caught Polly's smirk when his gaze found hers, standing next to his girl's mother. The priest turned white as his chausible.
The uncle blustered, “This is my church! This is my--”
“That’s your niece, not your property,” Tommy said coldly. “And yet you still put a price on her. Took money from a man she’s never met and sold her like a broodmare to clean up your own shame.”
“Is this true?” the priest asked, breaking the silence. His voice, once a calm guide through sacred vows, now trembled with righteous fury.
Tommy looked to the side--not at the priest, but at the uncle. “Tell him,” he said.
The uncle's lips parted, but no words came. His his eyes went wide, fists clenched, the veins in his neck straining under pressure he hadn’t expected.
“You accepted money for a sacrament?” the priest said, stepping forward now, eyes narrowing. “You lied to me and you lied before the Almighty.”
The groom took a step back, as if distance might save him from the weight of the scandal crashing down. People in the congregation were rising from their seats.
“Father, I--” the uncle finally stammered. “It’s not. It was a gesture of goodwill. A dowry of sorts.”
“A dowry requires consent,” the priest snapped. “From the bride. Did she consent?”
All eyes turned to her. Tommy didn’t. He already knew the answer. Her silence was the loudest sound in the room.
Tommy turned back to the uncle now, one hand in his coat pocket like he was debating something. “I’ve seen men do despicable things to protect their reputation,” he said calmly. “But selling your own blood? That’s a new kind of cowardice.”
The uncle opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Tommy stepped forward, just once, and the man stepped back without even realizing it.
Tommy let the silence stretch, the words settle like dust. Then he gave a slight nod to his men. "Take him.”
Two of his men moved instantly, Arthur and Rory, razor-laced caps winking in the light. The congregation flinched as they passed, but no one dared interfere.
The uncle sputtered, backing toward the altar. “I... I am a man of God...”
“No,” Arthur said flatly, gripping his arm. “You’re just a man. And you're leaving this house of God.”
They grabbed him by both arms, dragging him down the aisle past the rows of stunned wedding guests. His feet scraped along the stone, his protests loud at first, but weakening with every step. When he started pleading with his nephew, Rory didn't even acknowledge him. The priest stepped aside then without a word.
And as the heavy wooden doors swung open to blinding daylight, the sound of them slamming shut behind him was final. Like a judgment.
Tommy shifted his attention to the groom, keeping his gaze sharp and emotionless. “And you. Paying to marry a pregnant woman,” he said, voice low, almost polite. The kind of polite that made men sweat.
The farmer stood frozen just beyond the altar, thick hands clenched awkwardly at his sides. His face was flushed, not from shame, but from fear. Tommy took a step closer, voice low and cold. “You didn't care that she didn't consent.” Another step. “And you still showed up to claim her like a prize pig.”
The farmer opened his mouth, but thought better of it.
Tommy didn’t blink.
"I suggest you return to your farm. Immediately." Tommy just wished he could be there to see the man's reaction at seeing his home and barn in ashes, his livestock slaughtered. “If I ever lay eyes on you again,” Tommy leaned in slightly, “I will make sure you lose more than you already have.”
There was a spark of fear in the man's eyes because he caught the hidden meaning in Tommy's words. Tommy looked past him, toward John, who stood at the ready with a straightened spine and knowing nod.
“Escort him out.”
John grinned. “With pleasure.”
The farmer didn't resist when John moved forward. Not when two other Blinders flanked him.They didn’t drag him like the uncle. He walked out on his own.
When the door opened and closed a second time, a hush fell so deep you could hear the creak of the old wooden pews as the people sitting shifted in place, unsure if they were supposed to stay or run. The rest were on their feet.
Tommy's hand remained in his coat pocket. He didn't have a gun there, but they didn’t know that. A few men flinched and a couple of the women looked near tears. Tommy smiled.
“You can all sit,” he said, voice like velvet over steel, “or you can stand and pray that God Himself can pull me off whoever gets in my way.”
Nobody moved. So Tommy turned back to her.
“You walked away from me,” he said quietly, the fight drained from his voice, leaving only something raw and real. “And I meant what I said. I didn't stop you. I didn't come after you.” He paused, his gaze didn’t leave yours. “But then your brother came to me. Told me what was happening. What they were planning.” Another beat. “And I couldn’t ignore that."
He stepped forward, slower now, voice low enough that only you could hear. “So tell me… do I leave this church with you, or without you? You know my terms.”
Tommy offered her his hand. That was it. No more threats or speeches.Just one choice and it was hers. He wasn't going to break his word now no matter how much he wanted to. He stood there, hand outstretched. Waiting along the rest of the church and it was silent. For the first time in a very long time, he didn’t know what would happen next. She hadn’t moved or spoken. Her hand was still pressed to her stomach, but her eyes were locked on his with a thousand emotions crashing behind them.
Tommy Shelby, the man who always knew the next move… waited. Waited for her to run. Waited for her to turn away again, to choose safety or shame or silence over him. He wouldn’t stop her this time either. If she didn’t take his hand, he’d walk out of this church, let the door slam behind him, and bury this like everything else that had ever carved him hollow.
Jesus Christ… he didn’t want to bury it. He wanted her. Even now, in that awful dress, looking as shattered as she did. He wanted her in his house, in his bed, under his protection and sharing his name. He wanted his ring on her hand. He wanted to be there when she woke up sick in the morning, to see the curve of her belly grow, to know--really know--he hadn’t lost everything he wanted so badly.
He’d never begged. Not once in his life. But right now, he was praying like a soldier under fire.
Her fingers moved, trembling and uncertain. She reached for him and when her hand touched his, just as timidly as she'd taken his hands the night he claimed her for the wager, the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding left him in a quiet, broken rush.
She looked up at him, eyes glassy, knees buckling, and just as his other arm moved to catch her she fainted. Right into his chest. He caught her before she hit the floor, one arm around her back, the other under her legs, pulling her up against him as gasps rippled through the room. She's so much lighter and she's pregnant.
The priest started forward. Her mother did too. But Tommy just held her, gently cradling her. She’d chosen him.
He didn’t need permission, or to offer an explanation. Tommy didn’t look back. He just turned and marched straight out of the church with her in his arms.
Tommy slid into the back seat beside her, careful not to jostle her as Arthur closed the driver’s door and started the engine.There wasn't a spot of blood on him which meant Rory had the honor of removing his uncle's tongue and hands. He'd speak to him about it later. John was in the passenger seat up front, already lighting a cigarette, both of them quiet now that the tension had finally broken.
She still hadn’t stirred, even when he'd pulled her into his lap. Tommy’s eyes never left her as he adjusted his coat around her, brushing his knuckles lightly across her hand. She looked so frail... but she was safe now, and now she could get better.
His rear door opened again, and Tommy was suprised when her mother appeared, standing by the car. The woman's face was calm, though her eyes shimmered with quiet emotion.
Tommy looked up at her. He straightened instinctively, unsure if she was about to slap him or sob. Instead, she met his gaze and said, “Thank you, Mr. Shelby.”
He held off saying anything until he knew where this was going.
She glanced briefly at her daughter, then back to him.“For dealing with my brother. And for the other one, too.” She blew out an exhale. “My second husband was a cruel man. I don’t mourn him. Not after what he did.”
Tommy watched her carefully.
She’d looked like hell at the safehouse, frail, bruises hidden under layers of pain and forced dignity. But now? She looked much stronger. Clear-eyed and grounded. The resemblance between mother and daughter was unmistakable.
Mary noticed him looking her over.
"She took care of me. Nursed me back to health." She reached in to trace her daughter's cheek. "But now she needs the same chance."
"She'll have it," Tommy finally said. "Anything she needs."
"Thank you, Mr. Shelby."
Tommy shook his head. “Tommy.”
She smiled. “Mary.”
Mary continued, voice quiet but steady. “I'm going back home with my son.” Her mouth lifted, just a little. “It’s time, I can start working again.”
Tommy nodded once. “It’s under my protection now. You’ll never have to worry about safety again.”
Mary gave a quiet laugh, the sound low and knowing.“I guess not. Not now that my son’s a Blinder.”
There was no judgment in her voice, just acceptance. Tommy gave a small smile in return. “He’s a good one.”
Mary’s eyes softened. “Takes after his father.” She studied him for a long beat, really looking at him. Not like a gangster or a reviled gypsy. Not like the man who flipped her family’s life upside down. Just a man holding her daughter.
“I trust you’ll keep her safe now… properly safe.” There was no threat in her words, just the quiet, loaded plea of a mother who had already lost too much.
Tommy didn’t flinch. “With my life,” he said.
Mary's gaze moved to her daughter, resting so quietly now in his arms. "Let her know I’ll be by tomorrow.”
He gave a nod.
She didn’t linger. Just closed the door with a soft click, turned, and walked toward the second car where Rory and Polly were waiting. If Mary thought anything of the spray of blood on her son's crisp white shirt, she didn't react. They disappeared down the road seconds later, Arthur already pulling their own car into gear.
Tommy leaned back, eyes moving over the woman he held. And somewhere, buried beneath the weight of everything they'd experienced today... He actually felt hope. It was a fragile, flickering thing. But it was there.
The fire burned low in the hearth once they made it home to the mansion, throwing off the chill of the day and sending flickers of gold across the walls of the sitting room. The scent of smoke clung to everything--coats, skin, the air itself--like the aftermath of a battlefield.
Tommy sat back in the leather armchair with his shirt sleeves rolled up and the top button of his shirt undone. A glass of whiskey rested untouched in his hand, but for once, he didn't really feel like drinking.
Rory sat stiffly at the edge of the sofa, dried blood still dark on his shirt sleeve, his collar. It wasn't his own, Tommy knew, but it didn’t matter. His hands were clenched between his knees, elbows resting tight against his thighs like if he let go, something inside him might snap. He hadn’t said much since they got back. Just kept glancing toward the stairs, eyes flicking up every few seconds, like he was listening for a footstep, a voice, anything to tell him his sister was all right.
And Tommy understood. God help him, he understood. He wasn’t sure where the line between his worry and Rory’s began anymore. He only knew that the two of them were stuck in the same storm, both waiting on the same answer.
Arthur paced near the fireplace, still riding the high of adrenaline.“That priest nearly shat himself when we walked in,” he muttered, shaking his head. “And that poor sod of a groom. I’ve never seen a man go pale that fast without being shot first.” He huffed a dry laugh, but it lacked bite.
John was leaned against the sideboard, arms crossed, nodding slowly. “Felt good though, didn’t it?” he said, looking at Rory. “Giving the bastard uncle what was coming.”
Rory didn’t smile or smirk. Just looked back at John with steady, unreadable eyes. "He earned it.” His voice was flat, calm.
It was the kind of answer that didn’t ask for agreement or approval. It simply was.
Tommy watched him closely, a flicker of something shifting in his chest. Something final. There was no doubt now. The boy was gone. The man who sat in front of him -- bloody shirt, steady hands, sharp edges -- was a Blinder. Not by name but by nature. And Tommy knew exactly what that meant. Rory could do anything he asked of him now. Whatever it took. But he’d also have to live with it.
Tommy exhaled slowly, tipping his glass in Rory’s direction. "You did right by her.”
And maybe, for the first time in days, Rory allowed the faintest smile in return.
Footsteps on the stairs drew their attention. Polly appeared, her expression unreadable but sharp as ever. Ada was still up there.
"The midwife's having a look at her," Polly said.
Tommy straightened instantly. “Who?”
“Nadya,” Ada replied, gently. “I called her when we got home.”
That was all Tommy needed to hear.
“We figured you wouldn’t want a doctor,” Polly added.
He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
He gave a sharp nod, no questions asked. If Polly had called Nadya, the situation had been taken seriously. The Lee midwife had a reputation stretching far beyond gypsy circles. She was trusted, capable, and silent as a grave. Exactly the kind of woman you wanted in moments like this. The kind Tommy trusted more than any bloody doctor in Birmingham.
Polly’s eyes landed on Rory, still perched at the edge of the sofa like he didn’t know how to sit still or breathe properly. His gaze stuck to the floor now, as if looking up might shatter him. She crossed the room slowly and placed a hand on his shoulder, light, but steady.
“She’s strong, love.” Her voice was quiet. “Takes after your mother that way. And she’s not alone, not anymore.”
Rory didn’t look up right away, but when he did, the fight in his eyes had softened. It wasn't gone, but it was banked.
Polly gave him a small nod, her hand squeezing once before letting go. “She’ll be alright.”
Then, as if nothing more needed to be said, she moved to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a brandy, business as usual. That was Polly’s way. Reassurance wrapped in calm certainty.
And in that moment, Rory sat just a little straighter.
Nadya came down the stairs a few moments later, the soft click of her boots nearly lost beneath the low rumble of conversation. Ada trailed behind her, arms folded, eyes locked on the midwife with an unspoken urgency.
The Romani woman’s face gave little away. It was lined with experience, calm in a way that only came from witnessing more pain and joy than most ever would. Her scarf was still tied tight around her dark hair, her hands scrubbed clean, but Tommy could smell herbs and smoke clinging to the folds of her coat.
She spotted Polly immediately. In Romani, quiet and clipped, she said: “I need to speak with you.”
The two women were heading for the side parlor. Tommy was already on his feet. Nadya’s voice was low, too low to catch through the door when he reached it. Polly’s murmurs rose once, then faded again. Whatever was being said wasn’t for him. That much was clear.
And Tommy wouldn't allow that.
Polly had barely shut the side parlor door behind them when Tommy crossed the hall and opened it without knocking. The hinges creaked like they wanted to stop him. They didn’t. Both women turned. Polly’s expression hardened in that way it always did when she was about to scold him. Nadya’s face didn’t change at all.
“This is private,” Polly warned.
Tommy closed the door behind him quietly. “There’s nothing about her that’s private from me anymore.”
That stopped Polly short, but not Nadya. The Romani midwife simply regarded him for a long, measured beat. Then she gave a small nod, as if she’d already known he’d come. She adjusted the scarf around her neck and folded her hands calmly in front of her.
Tommy didn’t sit. He stood there like a soldier at the ready, concerned about what he was about to hear.
“Then listen well,” she said in English this time, her accent thick but clear. “She’s underweight and exhausted.” She held his gaze without flinching.“In the shape she's in... there can be consequences. It can cause problems during the birth, if she makes it that far, for the mother and the baby. The child could be born early, be sickly.”
The words hit with the precision of a bullet. Tommy didn't hear much past if she makes it that far. He knew she wanted the baby. And if she lost it now, it would tear through her like a fatal wound. He'd do all he could to protect them both. But if something happened, they could have more children. He couldn't replace her.
So no, he didn’t flinch or panic. But every muscle in his body coiled tight as steel. “Tell me what she needs,” he said. “Whatever it is, she’ll have it.”
Nadya studied him for a long moment, testing the weight of his words, searching his face for even a flicker of doubt. She found none.
Her voice was quiet, but firm when she answered. “She needs nourishment, water, and deep sleep. No stress, no demands."
Tommy caught her meaning.
"I can visit each day," she offered. "Until she is better."
Tommy nodded. He'd pay her handsomely.
With that, Nadya gave a small nod and stepped past him without another word. Her boots made no sound as she disappeared down the hall, the door clicking gently shut behind her.
Polly lingered. She watched Tommy a moment longer, arms crossed, her eyes sharp but tired. “You heard her,” she said quietly. “Now do it. No lectures. No hovering. Just let her breathe, Tommy.”
His jaw ticked once, but he gave a nod.
Polly stepped closer, her voice softening just enough to cut past the steel. “You love her, I know that. But she’s not yours to fix. She’s hers to heal. Make room for that.”
He didn’t respond. But the silence said enough. Polly nodded once, then turned and left, her skirts whispering down the hallway behind her.
Tommy stood still for a moment longer, letting her words settle where they needed to. When he stepped out of the parlor, he caught a punch to his arm, small and sharp. Ada stood glaring up at him.
"Fucking idiot," she said before marching down the hallway to head home.
She wasn't wrong.
Tommy turned toward the stairs. Each step up felt heavier than it should have, boots pressing into polished wood like the weight of the world was still draped across his shoulders. He hadn’t even reached the landing when he heard it, soft footfalls behind him. He didn’t have to look back to know who it was.
Rory.
Tommy didn’t stop him. If the lad wanted to see his sister, needed to, Tommy wasn’t going to stand in his way. And so they climbed the stairs together in silence, both men carrying different burdens for the same woman. When they reached the top, Tommy paused at the door to his room. The soft glow of candlelight leaked from beneath it. He turned the handle slowly and stepped inside, letting Rory follow behind him without a word.
She was awake when they stepped into the room. The candlelight cast a warm, flickering glow over the space, softening the sharp edges of everything. She looked so small in his bed. Fragile, even, curled slightly on her side beneath the quilt. But her eyes met theirs the moment the door opened. And despite everything, the weight of the day, she smiled. Just a little.
Tommy’s chest tightened at the sight of it. Like the air had turned to glass inside him. He crossed the room slowly, not saying a word, just… He sat at the edge of the bed next to her. Making sure she was really there.
Rory followed, quieter still, lingering just inside the door like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.
"Rory," her voice was a raspy, tired. "Come here."
Her brother stepped forward without hesitation, moving to the side of the bed. He came to a stop just next to Tommy, shoulders squared but eyes betraying the ache he carried with him.
Tommy didn’t say a word. Just sat there as her gaze moved over Rory, taking him in, like she hadn’t truly seen him until now. The fine suit. The blood on his sleeve, his shirt. The Peaky cap in his hand. She blinked, eyes glassy, but full of something deeper than fatigue. Recognition. Tommy could feel the moment she saw it, not just what her brother had become, but what he’d done to protect her. What he'd risked. Her fingers twitched slightly above the quilt, like she wanted to reach for him. But she didn’t yet.
And Tommy sat still between them, letting her take it all in, that fragile peace between them settling like dust in golden light.
“You look… grown up,” she murmured, smiling. “And handsome. But don’t let it go to your head.”
Rory shook his head. “Don’t worry. Tommy’s already made sure I don’t forget who’s boss.”
Her gaze shifted to Tommy and back. She reached out, her fingers brushing her brother’s wrist where he stood beside the bed. “Where’s Mum?”
Rory’s voice softened. “Back home. Getting ready to take in some sewing."
She closed her eyes for a moment. "We missed you," she whispered.
Rory nodded, his throat bobbing with the weight of everything they weren’t saying. Then, with a glance to Tommy: “Now, you'll never get rid of me.”
She looked between them, Rory’s hand still close, Tommy’s presence steady just beyond. “Will one of you do something for me?” Her voice was soft, but firm.
Tommy gave the smallest nod.
She exhaled slowly. “Burn that fucking dress.”
Rory huffed a laugh.Tommy’s jaw ticked just slightly, and he smiled. Not because it was funny, but because it was right. That dress had become a symbol of everything he hated about how she’d been treated. What he had done. Seeing her wear it in that church felt like watching her carry someone else’s shame.
But hearing her say it, demand it be destroyed, meant she wasn’t carrying it anymore. It wasn’t a surrender, but a choice. And Tommy, for once, didn’t want to control the outcome.
Gazing up at her brother again, her eyes were gentle. "Thank you for coming for me. For seeing me. For... everything."
Rory cleared his throat, rough around the edges.“You don’t have to thank me for that.”
Her hand squeezed his. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Rory hesitated before bending down and kissing her forehead. With a nod to Tommy, he quietly slipped out of the room, the door closing with a soft click.
The quiet pressed in, gentle but heavy, like the whole room had been holding its breath.
You didn’t look at him at first. You weren’t ready. Your fingers curled against the edge of the quilt you remembered, still looking and feeling like it was barely used. The lamplight cast flickering shadows across the walls, dancing in time with the pulse pounding faintly in your ears.
You could feel him. He sat next to you on the bed, still and steady.
Finally, you took a deep breath and turned your head. Met his gaze.
Tommy looked exhausted, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and hands clasped loosely between his knees. Not just from the day, but from everything. The months and the lies, and the cost of it all. And still, still--he looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense.
“I should’ve known,” you said, pleading in your tone. Tears were already stinging the backs of your eyes.
Tommy’s brow creased. “Known what?”
You let out a shaky breath. “That it was a lie. The maid and that message. Everything.” You blinked hard. “I walked right into it. Like a bloody fool.”
His whole expression shifted. Not in pity or disbelief. But something colder and dangerous. “The maid?” His voice was like gravel under ice.
You nodded slowly. “The new one. Fair hair, always nervous around you. I... I don’t even think she wanted to do it. She looked terrified when she told me. But she said… she said Mum was badly injured. She didn’t say how, just... gave me an address.” You swallowed, shame threading through every word. “I should’ve known better. After everything. I should’ve known not to trust someone.”
The muscles in his jaw flexed. “You’re not a fool,” he said, voice low. “But someone in my house is about to wish you were.”
The quiet in the room dropped another octave. His mind was already turning, you could see it behind his eyes. The machinery of his fury winding itself up like a slow-turning vice.
No, you were apologizing, not trying to get someone killed. You reached for his hand, taking it in yours. He stilled, it was like you'd temporarily disarmed him.
“She was scared,” you whispered. “My stepfather was responsible. Maybe he threatened her. I don’t know. But she didn’t look like someone trying to hurt me. Just someone trying to survive.”
His eyes stayed locked to yours, and for a moment, neither of you breathed. “That doesn’t mean she’s staying.”
You let that point drop. You knew the look in his eyes that now meant that girl’s fate was already sealed. No amount of mercy from you could unmake the choices she'd made.
But what you had to say next sat like a stone on your chest. Your gaze drifted past him for a moment, to the window. The memory of what happened on the front step, the blood that stained the stone.
“I’m sorry,” you went on, the words barely above a whisper.
Tommy’s brow furrowed. “For what?”
“For the man who died.” Your voice cracked, and you forced the rest out. “He tried to stop them. He died because of me.”
Tommy didn’t flinch, didn’t deny it happened. He moved closer to you. “His name was Ellis,” he said quietly. “He was loyal. Brave. And he died doing what I trained him to do.”
You shook your head, tears threatening to spill from your eyes now. “That doesn’t make it better.”
His gaze met yours, steady and calm in a way that almost made it worse. “It wasn’t supposed to make it better,” he said. “It’s the truth. Every man who wears the cap, including your brother, knows what it means. They make a choice. Same as I did.”
His words were solid and final.They should’ve helped, but they didn’t. He lived with that weight by turning it into steel and control and fury.
You? You just lived with it. And now Ellis's blood would never be anything but your burden to carry.
Tommy saw it in your face, how it still sat in your chest like it belonged there, and he didn’t argue with you. There was just warmth and the quiet promise that at least you weren’t carrying it alone.
Tommy squeezed your hand once, firm but careful, before letting go. “You need rest,” he said gently. “We’ll talk more when you’ve had some.”
You nodded, even though you felt more tired than you'd ever been in your entire life. Your mind hadn’t stopped spinning since the moment he burst through the church doors. But he wasn’t just placating you. There was a quiet worry lining the edges of his expression, tension in the way he watched your every movement, like he didn’t want to crowd you, but couldn’t help checking for signs you might shatter again.
He saw you were struggling physically, more than you were letting on. You saw it in his eyes.
Before he could say it aloud, before he could give voice to the thing that had haunted your sleep and made you curl protectively around your belly in the dark, you said, “I know I'm not... well, right now.”
His eyes softened, but his posture didn’t shift.
You reached for his hand, took it back. Then your voice cracked again, the tears came on. “I’m so sorry I left.”
That made his brow twitch slightly, the only betrayal of how much those words mattered.
You took a breath. “I didn’t know about the baby. Not until weeks later.” You looked down, ashamed.“I left to take care of Mum. That was all it was. My uncle was… he was so insistent. And I thought I was doing the right thing, that it’d only be for a little while. That I could-- But I could have said something and I didn't...”
You stopped. Your throat clenched too tightly to finish.
Tommy reached up then, brushing his knuckles gently against your cheek. “You don’t have to explain everything right now,” he said, voice low. “But I needed to hear that.”
Your eyes flicked to his. “That I wasn’t trying to leave you?”
He gave the smallest nod. “That you didn’t choose someone else. Something else. Over me.”
You swallowed hard. “My mother was in horrible shape. I was scared when I started piecing things together. But... I never stopped thinking about you.”
His thumb rested against your jaw now, steady as ever. “Love, this is all on me,” Tommy said softly, firmly. “Not you.”
You started to protest, to say something -- anything -- to shoulder your share of the wreckage, but he silenced you with the faintest shake of his head.
“You blame yourself for what happened… but I built the house.” A pause. His voice was quiet, full of regret. “I opened the door. And I never should’ve let you walk into it blind.”
More tears as you watched him. Tommy let his thumb brush along your jaw again, like he could ease the ache building behind your eyes.
Your gaze searched his face. “Tommy…”
He looked at you instantly, alert -- but not impatient.
“The baby.” You hesitated. “Do you…”
His head tilted slightly, like he already knew where your mind had gone, but he let you finish anyway.
"Do you even want it?” Your voice was so soft it barely reached him. But the question stopped him cold.
Tommy stilled, eyes locked on yours. Not in confusion or hesitation.
“It’s mine.” His voice was low, certain. “I knew it before Rory said the words. I knew it before I saw you today.” His gaze drifted briefly to your stomach, then back to your face. “This child is mine. And so are you.” The words weren’t possessive, not in the way men like Sean O’Grady twisted love into something cruel. Tommy’s voice held something different. A vow, a truth spoken plainly, without theatrics. “Family is sacred. What you give your life for. What you build everything around. It’s not something you toss away because things didn’t go to plan.”
His hand clutched your just a little tighter.
“You gave me something I never thought I’d have. And now that I do, I’ll protect it, with everything I am.” Leaning forward, he kissed your forehead. “I want all of it. You. The child. The future we're owed, even if I burned the path getting us here.”
Your fingers curled slightly under his, not pulling away, but still unsure if it was real. Because people didn’t talk like that. Not to you or about you. No one had ever made you feel like you were anything special. Like your life -- your love, your child -- was something sacred. The ache in your chest swelled, sharp and unfamiliar. It burned, felt like hope.
You didn’t speak, couldn’t, not with your throat tight and your heart knocking against your ribs like it wanted to break free of your body. But your hand moved. You turned it under his and laced your fingers with his. It wasn’t a declaration, but it was something.
A beginning. A promise that just maybe, you were strong enough to try again with him. With all of it.
The silence between you then was thick, but not cold. Just… full. Like there were too many words and not enough room to let them out.
Finally, he spoke. “I’ve been thinkin’.” His voice was rough. “About how we got here.”
You didn’t interrupt, but your heart started flying.
“All of it started as strategy. One more play on the board. I told myself I was in control.” He gave a bitter, quiet laugh. “And I was. Until you.” He turned slightly to look at you now, the lamplight casting long shadows on his face.
“I never gave you a choice,” Tommy said quietly, eyes fixed on the space between you. “Didn’t expect to care as much as I did… but once you were here in my house, it stopped bein’ about power or vengeance.” He looked at you then, really looked. “Stopped bein’ about makin’ a point to Small Heath... It became just about you.”
He looked down at his hands for a beat, then back up.
“The war made emotions hard for me,” he admitted, like the confession itself was something fragile in his throat. “Expressing them harder. I made choices that left no room for softness. No time for honesty. Only angles and leverage. And I hate that it touched you, too.” He swallowed thickly. “But I’m not going to get this wrong again. Not with you.”
It wasn't just at the words, but the way he said them. Like they cost him something, scraped against old wounds just to reach you. Tommy wasn’t just apologizing. He was exposing parts of himself he never let anyone see. And for the first time, you realized… He wasn’t the only one who had been afraid. You’d both been surviving. But now, maybe, just maybe, you could start living.Together.
“I handled all of it wrong. I didn’t say the right things. Didn't give you truth when I should have.” A pause. “But I never lied about this -- how I feel about you. I didn’t know how to say it… so I tried to show it. Protecting you. Taking care of your mum. Bringing Rory in close.”
Your mother's words came back to you. The Thomas Shelby fell in love with my daughter.
He had done those things. Even now, as his voice wavered and steadied, you could see the pieces of it. Nothing had been done out of obligation or strategy. It was something much deeper. Love, your mother had said. You weren’t sure you could call it that yet. But maybe… maybe you were getting closer.
“You were never just a message, love. You were the moment the game stopped mattering... And I’d do anything to keep you from ever feeling like a pawn again.” The air hung heavy between you. “You’re not here because I won. You’re here because you chose to be." Some emotion flashed in his eyes. "And if you choose to stay… I’ll spend every day earning it.”
You held his hand tighter, just letting him get it out. He had to be able to hear the sound of your heart, racing, hoping.
Tommy drew in a breath, slow and uneven.“I’ve spent my whole life building walls. Men like me… we don’t get to be soft. We don’t get to want things, not really.” His eyes met yours -- steady now, but tired. “But I wanted you. I did the first time I laid eyes on you... And it scared the hell out of me, how much.”
A silence passed between you, heavy with things neither of you had ever been taught how to say.
“I thought if I kept it all tight, you wouldn’t see the cracks. Wouldn’t see what the war left behind...” His thumb gently brushed away a tear that slid from the corner of your eye. "No more lies. No more silence.” A breath. “I love you.”
It wasn't an admission or a calculated risk. A vow.
Tommy went on before you could respond, your heart melting as he poured his feelings out. And you listened because you knew you weren't likely to see him vulnerable very often, if at all after tonight. But now you understood him.
“You need to know,” he said, voice lower now, firmer.“I’m not easy. I won’t pretend to be.” He looked down for a moment, jaw working. When his eyes lifted again, they were clearer and his gaze locked with yours.“You’re as good as married to the devil himself. I’ve done things you’ll never want to hear about. I’ll make decisions that don’t always make sense to you. And I won’t be gentle all the time... But I will love you. And I will protect what’s mine.”
The hand at your cheek moved instinctively to your tummy, so carefully. Reverent. “You and this child… you’ll have everything I can give. Not just money or security, but respect. Legacy. A name no one will ever touch. But for that to happen…” he said slowly, “I need you to get well. Strong again. For the baby. For you. For what’s next.”
You swallowed, your throat dry. “What’s next?”
He didn’t hesitate. “A wedding.”
You froze at that word, especially given the day you had.
“Tommy...” The word came with instinct, with nerves, and the hundred doubts spinning inside your head.“What about… what will people say?” You glanced down at yourself, the tiny curve barely noticeable now under his hand, but soon it would be obvious. “I’ll be showing. Everyone will know.”
He leaned in closer, his voice low and resolute. “Good.”
Your eyes shot back to his.
“Let them see. Let them talk.” His gaze never wavered. “They should know exactly who you are... my bride. My family. And they should know what happens to anyone who even thinks about layin’ a hand on what’s mine. You'll show in your dress, love. And I’ll stand beside you like I’ve never been prouder of anything in my goddamn life.”
Tommy smiled. With a dry edge to his voice, he added. “And no fucking red dress. I’ll burn it myself, if Rory doesn’t beat me to it.”
You had to smile at that. Your brother would beat him to it.
A breath passed, and he softened slightly. “I know it’s the last thing you want to think about today.” His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.“But it’s important. Not just for appearances. Not just for power or status or whatever they all think it means... It’s for us. For the life we’re going to build.”
His hand smoothed over your belly while your heart was crashing in your chest.“You won’t be hidden ever again. You won’t be whispered about. You’ll walk into that church like the woman you are, strong, beautiful, and mine.” He leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours.“It won’t always be soft. But it will always be real. You have my word.”
You nodded, kissed him carefully on the lips. "Okay," you whispered. "And Tommy, I --"
His kiss cut you off, stopped you from telling him you loved him because he knew it was coming. "Not right now," he said meaningfully. "Tell me when you mean it. And I'll know it's true then."
For all that Tommy was, how did he know you weren't there now?
“Nadya’s coming back tomorrow. Every day, until you’re well.” His voice was quiet, but there was no room for negotiation in it. “And you’re to do whatever she tells you. No arguing. No trying to be strong when you’re not.”
You nodded without hesitation.“I liked her,” you whispered, meaning it. “She reminded me of Polly, a little.”
That earned the faintest ghost of a smile from him.“A bit more terrifying, if you ask me.”
“I’ll listen to her,” you promised.
Tommy leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering for a beat. “Good.” He paused before adding,“Your mother’s coming tomorrow, too."
You hesitated, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before reopening. “My mother’s house…” you began softly. “Will it be safe? Will she be okay there?” You looked up at him, worry flickering in your expression. “Will Rory he be allowed to keep an eye on things? After all this is… settled?”
Tommy didn’t hesitate. “The house and your mother are under my protection,” he said firmly. “So is the shop. No one will lay a hand on either without answering to me.” He let his thumb sweep gently across your hand before continuing. “Rory’s a Blinder now. He’ll keep watch over her. Over both of you. I’ll see to it.”
A breath you didn’t know you were holding slipped from your lungs. Relief, warm and quiet, spread through your chest.
He saw it, felt it. "You’ve done enough worrying,” he murmured then.“Get some rest, love.”
And this time, you thought maybe you actually could.
You were already asleep as he quietly stripped off his clothes, had one last drink of whiskey. Tommy slid into bed and curled up behind you. You were sound asleep, hands tucked under your pillow as your breath came in shallow whispers. You'd chosen him and you were back where you belonged. He slid one arm under your pillow, his other hand draped over what the two of you made, holding you both.
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