METHOD OF MADNESS ━ 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐲 ¹ (Under editing)

𝒾𝒾𝒾. 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓇𝓉𝑒𝑒𝓃: unenigmatic

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : you should see me in a crown - billie eilish

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iii. thirteen: ❝unenigmatic❞

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Small Heath, Birmingham

WHEN MARIANNA WAS ANGRY, she became a force of nature; wild, ancient, relentless. A storm that rolled in without mercy, without warning, as if the wind itself bent at the sound of her name. This was the Marianna Thomas Shelby had known, always feared, always wanted like a fool reaching for a flame that would scorch him down to bone.

In the months prior, her fury had been a rare sight. She'd worn disdain like a veil—elegant, detached, untouched by sentiment. But tonight was different. Tonight, when she laid eyes on Thomas Shelby standing like sin on her doorstep, her expression burned through him like a blade slick with honeyed poison. Her anger bloomed like a red garden in the frost, dangerous and beautiful.

Yet beneath the fire, he saw it—the flicker of care she tried so desperately to bury beneath her rage. She was furious, yes. But it was laced with something warmer, something softer. She still gave a damn, even when it split her in two.

With a harsh exhale, Marianna slammed the door shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the hollow ribs of her parents' home. Dust trembled in the stale air. The house carried ghosts, and tonight, they whispered.

After the debacle at the pub, she had fled here—to the only place that still smelled like safety. The wallpaper still carried faint traces of her mother's perfume, her father's pipe smoke. It was quiet, almost holy, and yet the whispers in her skull were restless. The spirits were uneasy. Leave him to the wolves. He'll devour your heart and feed your bones to the crows.

She ignored them. Like she always did. Her rage simmered beneath the surface of her skin, tangled with the threads of something too dangerous to name. She told herself she didn't care. She lied.

"You said you wanted to see the horses, so I'm bringin' you to the races." Thomas drawled, leaning against the doorframe like a man who knew exactly how to crack her calm in half.

The ashtray flew before he finished the sentence.

It slammed into the wall just inches from his head, shattering with a sound that made the spirits in her head hum with approval.

"You bloody moron," Marianna spat, before him, chest rising, jaw locked tight, straw-blonde hair spilling over her flushed face like golden threads dipped in anger. "That was weeks back, Tommy. You don't just waltz into my fuckin' house, toss your shadow about, and act like I've been waitin' for your goddamn whistle."

"I promised you, didn't I?" Thomas replied coolly, straightening his cap with deliberate ease. His voice was steady, but there was a shadow behind his eyes—a storm gathering where she'd once lived.