Read this book if you want to f-k Tommy Shelby.
You're Billy Kimber's daughter.
You've been accused of stealing the Peaky Blinders' shipment of guns.
And now you're forced to work with Tommy Shelby to solve the mystery of who's framing your father...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
A/n: HIIIIIII besties, I couldn't stop thinking about this fic and all of you who've left such lovely comments SO I'm here to finish it. I'm going through chapter by chapter and editing/updating bc I cannot cope in its current state, so thank u for making it this far. I can't wait to finish this story for y'all ily u guys xxx
Six months earlier
Finishing school in Switzerland fucking sucked.
As if a lifetime of regular boarding school abroad hadn't been enough, my father decided to send me away for longer even after I graduated. Because it's what proper ladies do, he'd said.
But I know it's just so he didn't have to deal with me. And too bad for him, they kicked me out, and now I'm his problem once more. Almost two years since I came back home, and still he won't let it go.
"What the fuck's this?" He asks, words muffled around the cigar in his lips as he snatches the leather-bound novel from my fingers.
"A book," I answer coldly. "Haven't you seen one before?"
He glares at me, and I fight the peals of fear that begin to erupt in my stomach. I knew it had been a mistake to nestle in here, in the sitting room where he can easily find me. But rays of sun are glinting through the window, casting soft rectangles across the floorboards — a rarity in Birmingham, and I'd wanted to feel the warmth from the window seat.
"Enough fucking books," Father snaps. "Chucked out of Brilliantmont because you always had your nose stuck in some fucking story. Rather mope around wasting your time than focus on your French or homemaking lessons, which I paid a bloody fortune for. What book is this, anyway?" He shakes it roughly in his grasp, staring in disgust, as though it's some pesky gangster he can intimidate into absence.
"Don Quixote," I answer.
His responding stare is so appalled, anyone would think I've begun speaking in biblical tongues. "You've got to sort yourself out, girl. You've fucked your education. You refuse to find a husband, if one would even take you at this point. All you do is sulk around the horses and read your bloody books all day. Your sister—"
"Is miserable," I finish for him, my voice rising. With nothing to hold onto now he's snatched my book, my fingers begin to tremble. "Marjorie is miserable, and she's married to a monster. She was covered in bruises when I saw her last. And you do nothing. Because you're just as bad, aren't you?"
It leaves me in a blurt of anger, a moment of bravery. Stupid, I think, as Father rises ominously to his feet. I refuse to cower before him. But as the ember of his cigar glows, I come awfully close. I don't want to be on the receiving end of that again. My scars have only just begun to heal over from the last time I'd insulted him.
