Bancroft - Peaky Blinders Reverse Harem x Reader

Chapter 16

I stay in my room for most of the week that follows.

Thinking. Ruminating. Cursing my father for this, for never telling me. For leaving me — me — as the heir to his crime syndicate, of which I still know absolutely nothing. I rack my brain for any hints, recount the few memories I have with him and not a nanny or governess, trying to decipher any clues he may have left.

But there are none.

You could leave.

I could. I could tell the Shelby brothers I have no interest in this world. They can take over the gang, I don't care. Go back to my work with clients and their horses. Go back to that cold house, and the graves of the men who tried to kill me.

I think it over in circles until a painful ache blossoms in my head, spreading to the backs of my eyes. I wince away from the daylight, closing the curtains. When John knocks at the door that evening, telling me dinner's ready, I don't have it in me to even respond.

While the headache runs its course, I cannot think. I cannot read, cannot leave, cannot move. I drift in and out of sleep, curtains always drawn, unaware if it's day or night or how long has passed.

***

Finally, what might be days later, I wake and the pain is just a small, manageable twinge. Somebody has been refilling a glass of water beside my bed, I realise. I hadn't given it much thought when I kept waking and drinking.

The house below me is silent as I plod through to the bathroom. The other bedroom doors are closed. Droplets of water mist across my skin as I run the bath, and it's with a deep sigh I sink below the water once the tub is full.

I feel clean, all but the last traces of the migraine washed from me, as I step into a knee-length skirt, shirt, and jumper. The woollen socks scratch at my legs as I pull them up my calves, but they keep me feet warm. Once my hair is dry and softly curled, I venture out into the house in search of food.

I'm not alone.

Michael nods at me in greeting, emerging from his door beside the staircase as I approach. "You're up," he says.

"Is that a problem?" I ask.

His lips twitch into a smile. "That depends." He takes the stairs and I follow. "I'll tell Tom."

"Please don't," I mutter. "I was enjoying the peace."

"That why you've been hiding from us all?" Michael asks.

"Hiding?" I ask in distaste. "I've been unwell."

He turns to face me, blocking me in the stairwell, unable to get past. "You've been shutting yourself away, worrying about what Tommy said, haven't you?"

His voice is soft as silk as he talks. Once more I feel like I'm sat at the bar of the Garrison, talking to this man in his suit, wondering if things could be taken further.

"I don't shut myself away and worry," I tell Michael. "Like I said. I've been unwell."

"Influenza?" He asks, glancing me up and down.

"Migraine."

A smirk appears across his face. "That right?"

"What's so funny?"

He walks into the kitchen first, and I follow. Somebody's already made a pot of tea. Michael pours us a cup each as he speaks.

"I used to get terrible migraines. Nothing would touch them."

I frown, puzzled by his reaction until he speaks again, glancing at me with heavy eyes.

"That is, until one day Arthur told me the best cure for them — Fucking."