Bancroft - Peaky Blinders Reverse Harem x Reader

Chapter 1

The phone line crackles when I answer.

A handful of lonely trills had rung all through this lonely house. Echoing like I'm in a cave that stretches out, never ending, into the dark. I suppose it is a cave, in a way. Everything's stony, from the cold marble tiles in the kitchen to the concrete pillars outside.

It's like the house knows there's never been a single word of love exchanged here.

"Hello?" I answer, ready to thank an unknown caller once again for their condolences, listen to their sobs and expressions of his legacy will live on, he'll always be remembered, and try not to roll my eyes when they say their lives will never be the same again.

My dad had only boxed in a ring. And yet he's revered even more now he's dead than when he was alive.

I hear a shape intake of breath, a moment's hesitation. "Max's daughter?" The caller says first.

My grip tightens around the phone. "There will be a public ceremony held at Hyde Park on Sunday. Begins at midday."

"Oh," the man mumbles in surprise. "I, uh, I didn't..." He sighs. "My name's Arthur Shelby. I knew your father."

"You and everyone else," I reply icily.

"No, I... fuck, I don't mean like that. He was good friends with my own dad. Thick as thieves they were."

I try not to scoff. Everyone has had similar stories, tenuous connections they exaggerated to oblivion.

"So thick, my father's been named your guardian in the Will," he finishes.

I freeze as still as the house. "Guardian? I'm long past eighteen," I whisper in shock.

"Something about a guardian until you reach the age of twenty-five. Some clause for your inheritance. Unless you get married," he says, "in which case, the responsibility passes to your husband."

Each new word leaving his mouth fills my stomach with horrified dread. My father had been aloof. Uninterested, and unemotional. Mother used to say it was because he was half-traveller and could never be happy in this new life, but he vehemently denied the fact. In either case, I was stunned to have been mentioned in the Will at all. Everything would go to the trust, I'd supposed, as everything always did.

But then I crack a disbelieving smile. "Nice prank call. Very original, actually. Now, if you don't mind, would you leave me alone in peace?"

I slam the receiver down before he can reply.

Rolling my eyes a little, I cross my arms over my chest and pace back up through the house. Nutter.

***

Something wakes me in the middle of the night. A slam from downstairs. I lay frozen in the dark, every hair on my body standing on edge. Every inch of me straining to hear.

And then comes the unmistakeable sound of heavy footsteps across the tiled floors.

I push myself out of bed as quickly and quietly as I can manage. My heart thuds furiously against the walls of my chest, so loud I'm worried I won't hear the intruder approaching.

Desperately trying not to make noise, I fumble at the handle of my nightstand. There's a pistol in here — one I stole from my father's office years ago. I'd never once used it, or any gun for that matter. I'd never had any need.

I cross the room to my walk-in wardrobe. The footsteps reach outside the bedroom door as I slip in, crouching beneath my coats in the pitch black. My breath comes in shaky, shallow puffs of air now, and I clutch the gun for dear life.

"This is hers," a voice says.

I clasp my hand over my mouth as they enter the room. I pray they will turn around, they will leave. I pray a car will snake up the driveway, some aunt or family friend — even with that being unlikely at eleven o'clock at night. But still I pray.

To no avail. The heavy footsteps cross the room and the wardrobe door swings open, washing where I sit in lamplight and revealing where I'm hidden.

A scream escapes my lips as I leap to my feet. Large hands knock the gun away before I've even had a chance to load a bullet into the chamber, and I'm forced to my knees, gun barrel pressed to my temple. Things probably ought to be going through my mind. Isn't my entire life meant to flash before my eyes? But I can't think of anything else at all. I can't escape the reality of what's happening.

"Alright, you," the man with the gun says, while another lingers behind him. "Hand over the money, and you don't need to get hurt."

"What money?" I spit through my teeth.

"Your father's money. Give it here."

"You think we have suitcases of cash lying around?" I ask. "I can't touch my father's money. No one can."

"I'm going to count to three," he warns me. "One. Two..."

If I'm going to die anyway, I might as well fight.

I head-butt him in the groin with all the force I can muster. While his knees jerk and he bellows in response, I grasp the pistol in his hands and pull it free in one sharp movement.

He lunges for me, but I squeeze the trigger again and again, sending bullet after bullet through the room. Through their bodies.

They collapse to the ground but I still don't move as they bleed out. A pool of crimson forms through the wardrobe and soaks into the wood as I wait for all life to be gone from their eyes. I stare at the bodies. What the fuck am I going to do with them?

***

Three days pass by, in which time I've dug holes on the house grounds, dragged the bodies out, and buried them.

I can't sleep at night. Even during the day, I feel suffocated in the house. Every small creak or drip sounds like footsteps, every strand of hair falling across my forehead feels like the barrel of a gun.

I spend my time in the grounds, beneath the oak tree, eating an apple in the rain. It doesn't bother me that I'm soaked to my core. At least I'm not boxed in. And at least the steady trail of visitors has died off now, and I'm not expected to entertain.

That is, until a black car arrives as I toss my apple core to the ground. I release a groan of frustration, rolling my eyes. At least the bodies are buried, I remind myself. That would have been an uncomfortable conversation.

A man in a long, black coat walks across the grounds. At first I tense, terrified he's connected to the men who broke in the house, that he's here to finish me off.

But then he looks at me, and I'm too stunned to be skeptical.

He has stormy Arctic eyes and high cheekbones, a carved jaw and dark hair beneath his cap. He's piercing, and suddenly I can't remember anything I'd been planning to say to him.

"Afternoon," he says, nodding in greeting. "Thomas Shelby."

His voice is deep, with the accent of the Midlands but expressed in a way I've never heard before. I stare at him for just a moment, and he stares back, our eyes locked.

"I suppose you're here for my father," I whisper. "Max Bancroft."

He rubs a cigarette across his lip, shaking his head slowly. I'm mesmerised as he lights the tip; a glowing, burning ember.

"No," he says. "I'm here for you."