Bancroft - Peaky Blinders Reverse Harem x Reader

Chapter 19

A/n: I can't believe it even needs to be said, but this book is very niche and obviously isn't gonna be everyone's cup of tea (or distilled gin). If you are 19 chapters in and still leaving comments bc you don't like the story, the character, or my writing, how about just stop reading 🥲🥲 thanks to the rest of u I love you guys here's a 3rd update today 🫶🫶

As I finally brace myself to get out of bed the next morning, wincing slightly at my tender head and dry mouth, I see a glass of water and a glass of orange juice on my bedside table. I frown — is this the same person who left me water when I was unwell?

I sip both down before bathing and getting dressed. How far would I have gone last night if John and Arthur hadn't put a stop to things? I shake my head as I pull on a cashmere jumper — I know exactly how far. But would I be regretting it this morning?

I don't know that I would.

What is happening to me? I examine my face in the mirror as I apply a quick layer of makeup, looking for signs of demonic possession or insanity. Neither are apparent.

Maybe living with the Shelby's just changes a person.

In any case, I'm craving a cup of tea, and so I head downstairs. Weirdly, I'm not embarrassed by last night's exploits either. In fact, I'm almost disappointed when I see no sign of John or a Arthur. They might still be sleeping it off, or they might be working.

I make the tea and then some porridge with treacle, and both calm my stomach. The orange juice already cleared my head.

Michael walks in and pours himself tea. "Morning."

I stare a moment at his clear skin, styled hair, impeccable suit. "How did you get off so lightly?" I ask.

He smirks. "Didn't drink much, actually. Can't go nuts with my mum there, can I?"

"Your mum's lovely," I say honestly. "She wants me to visit her next time you go."

"Alright. I'll let you know when I head up." He sips his tea. "Won't be today, though. I've got work."

"Are you cutting off a man's bollocks, or ripping off old ladies at races?"

He gives a small laugh. "Nothing so exciting, I'm afraid. Just inventory of our local racers."

I visibly perk up. "In Birmingham?"

"Whole of West Midlands. Need to do them all eventually, though." He looks at me for a moment. "Want to come?"

I try to hide my excitement, my joy at having something normal to do once more. "Okay."

"Grab your coat. We'll leave in ten. Tommy said we can use the car."

As I go to the hallway to slip into my trench coat, the wardrobe instinctively catches my eye. I pull open a drawer, and find a pistol. I consider it for only a moment before taking it. Tommy taught me to shoot for a reason. And now, with everything I've learned, I don't want to be unarmed.

***

We head to the stables Tommy showed me my first day here. I try not to interrupt too often as Michael takes down notes of costs and speaks to trainers and track riders. It's a fine day, and the fresh air and smell of horses brings me a familiar comfort. I wonder how my old clients are doing. There's a housekeeper still at the London house, but I didn't leave a forwarding number or address. Truthfully, I didn't expect to be gone so long. But I have no desire to go back. Not yet.

"His bookkeeping's always shit," Michael mutters, rifling through reports as he stands beside me in the paddock. I lean back against the fence. "Ought to charge him for all the bloody interviewing I have to do to make any of it make sense."

"Why don't you?" I ask.

"Because it would end up costing more than we pay him each quarter." Michael puts the reports away in his briefcase. "What do you reckon. Portfolio up to your standards yet?"

"I have a few further suggestions," I say.

An Irish voice speaks from behind us. "Fancy seeing you two here."

Michael's hand goes to his coat pocket, but there's a gun already aiming at him. I recognise the man walking towards us from the attack at the pub — he's one of McGuffin's.

"Easy, now," he warns. "Nobody needs to get hurt. Boss only wants a word with the lady, here."

"Does he? That's a shame," says Michael. "Tell him to go fuck himself instead."

The man sighs. "No need for that language, son."

"It's fine," I say, shakily. "I'll go."

"No you won't," Michael says.

"He has a gun. Im not letting you get shot for me," I say.

Michael clasps a hand around my arm, but I shake him off, walking determinedly to the red headed man, with crooked teeth when he smiles and bloodshot eyes.

"Thatta girl," he says.

I can sense it before it happens. I see the change in his face, the malice in his eyes. I shove him as he fires the pistol as Michael, and the shot misses.

I act on pure instinct. I don't think.

Before he can recollect himself, my gun is in my hand. Red rings cover my peripheral vision, and all I know is that Michael's in danger, that this man wants to kill him. Maybe it's the echo of Polly's words in my ear that makes me pull the trigger. Twice. Three times. Maybe that's why I don't flinch as he drops to the ground, circles of red bleeding through the crisp white shirt across his chest.

That brings my body count to three.