Bancroft - Peaky Blinders Reverse Harem x Reader

Chapter 9

I glance up from the newspaper, my morning coffee interrupted by Arthur's sudden entrance.

"Bancroft," he greets me, grabbing a slice of toast between his teeth as he shrugs into his grey blazer. "Get your coat. We're off to the Garrison."

I stand to my feet, brows pulling together in confusion. "The Garrison?"

"Pub we own," he explains. "Need to nip into the butcher's on the way. Tommy said you can cook, so to leave the selection to you."

My chin drops in outrage. "When exactly did Tommy say that?" I do a quick mental inventory. "I've never told him I can cook."

But Arthur just shrugs. "And I've never told him I drop five quid a week on snow, but somehow he knows."

He hands me a coin purse, heavy and clinking. I eye it in distaste before trying to push it back into his hands.

"I'm not a child. I can pay for a food shop."

"But you won't," he says sternly. "We're not taking Bancroft money."

"Don't be ridiculous. I have access to the trust for living expenses."

He says, "We're looking after you. You're ours."

But, with him refusing to accept it, I place the coin purse on the kitchen table.

"I'm already in your debt." My voice is stiff. "Don't make it any harder for me. Please."

Arthur's face contorts as he sighs. "Fine," he relents. "But know that when Tommy finds out, he'll go mental."

I try to imagine Tommy going mental. It's almost laughable.

"I'm so scared," I mutter, rolling my eyes.

Arthur's cheek lifts in a grin, though his eyes stay dark. "We'll see how you feel after going head-to-head with Tommy."

"I feel like we've been head-to-head since the moment we met."

I intend my words to leave me as a scathing insult, injected with sardonic humour, but I don't miss the slight lilting tone that suggests I've given the matter more thought and weight than I've let on.

Apparently, neither does Arthur. "Don't take it personally. Just how he is. If anything, the fact he dedicates so much time to arguing with you is a good thing. He doesn't normally bother with anyone else, see."

"I'm so flattered."

We hit the high street, wrapping our coats tightly around ourselves. Arctic gusts of wind bite at my cheeks, flap my hair around my face. I glance nervously at the darkening sky.

"Storm won't hit us until evening time," Arthur says quietly, thoughtfully, following my gaze. "That's going to ruin our plans for tonight..."

I don't respond. I really couldn't care less what it is they get up to at night, the presumably illegal dealings that make up their world — that I am neither part of nor privy to.

We reach the butchers. Tommy's right — I can cook, though the fact he presumed so gives me an irrational urge to forget every culinary skill I've ever learned, purely to spite him.

But I forge onward. Mostly because I need to eat, too. I grab pork chops, bacon, and a whole chicken. Arthur gives me no indication as to whether he approves or not, though he does have the sense to remain outside while I pay.

We trod through the rain again, until we reach a pub. Arthur slips us in through the door, into the thick air smelling distinctly of fifty or so men on their lunch break.

"'Scuse me, Bancroft," Arthur murmurs, face hardening as he stares at the other end of the pub. "McGuffin's men aren't allowed in here. I'll sort this out."