Bancroft - Peaky Blinders Reverse Harem x Reader

Chapter 23

I'm five years old.

I sit on the bench outside my house, two wooden horses in my hands. The midday sun is warm against my neck as I'm bent over, tapping them across the bench.

Shouts and yells come from inside. My stomach writhes and knots at the sound — it's been so bad lately I couldn't eat anything at breakfast, or at dinner last night, and the nanny had scolded me for wasting food.

My mother's voice grows closer. "...Max, and I'll take you to court for the whole fucking lot."

"Good fucking luck with that," father yells back.

The side door to the house bursts open, and mother storms out, a large suitcase in each hand. I jolt to my feet — it's time.

"Mother," I call out, running as fast as my legs will carry me. "Mother, I haven't packed."

She releases a scoff of annoyance as she loads the suitcases into the car.

"Mother, you said I could come with you," I say quickly. "Where are we going? Are we really going to the Americas?"

Her jaw clenches, and I try to make myself look small. Suddenly worried I've pushed her too far.

"Go pack your things," she says emotionlessly. "I'll wait."

I run to my room at once. I expect the nanny to stop me, and I'm ready, armed with a wooden horse in each hand if need be. But she only watches sadly as I take a wicker basket, of all things, and throw a handful of clothes in there. My heart thunders in my chest.

I sprint through the house and back outside again. My face drops. The driveway is empty, not a car in sight.

"Mother?" I call out uncertainly.

I run the length of the driveway, expecting her to be pulled over up ahead, or perhaps turning onto the main road, where I can flag her down. But I reach the road and it's empty. Bare.

She's already gone.

Father's waiting on the balcony when I return, leaning against the railing. He's wearing his white boxing vest and drinking absinthe.

"Took the car too, did she?" He says. "Course she did. She took everything she could get her hands on."

Except for me.

My ears ring, and I start to tremble, and I fall to the ground and scream, and earth fills my mouth, my lungs, until I can't breathe, the sunlight disappearing and everything's too dark and —

I wake up as I fall off the bed with a thud, gasping in the first hints of morning light. It takes me a moment to collect myself, push myself to the wall and sit there, leaning my head against the cool panelling. As far as nightmares go, it wasn't a particularly bad one. But the feeling lingers, as I know all too well.

With trembling fingers, I reach for the glass of water on my nightstand. It's always fresh, lightly iced. Something I'd never think to do for myself, but appreciate when it's there. I take a sip, then as I place it back down, hear the rustle of a wrapper left beside it.

I pull it free. A condom. Whoever brings me water, has left me a condom.

My eyes narrow. This wouldn't be Arthur. Somebody knows about what happened. It must be John, then. Though, at this point, it feels more likely to be some magical gnome than any of the Shelby's.

But the buttercups are fresh, too. Bunched together in a new vase. Could it really be Tommy? I shake the thought from my head. He wouldn't be ignoring me if he cared that much.

I'm trying to be a kinder houseguest these days — because let's face it, I was powerless against Polly's tear-filled eyes — and so I begin breakfast for everyone before the sun's even risen. I set the oven on low to keep the food warm, in case they all sleep in late after their night working.

There's still an ache between my legs from what happened with Arthur, though it's not an unpleasant feeling. Butterflies wreck my stomach as flashes of our night together come back to me, as I can still feel everywhere he touched me. I'd gone back to my own bed afterwards, a clear boundary between us. And yet I was already wondering when we could do it again.

"You're treating us like kings this morning," John says as he enters, interrupting my thoughts. "Unless this is all for you?"

"Yes, John. I'm about to eat twenty rashers of bacon, a dozen sausages, eight eggs and half a loaf of bread."

"Gotta keep your energy up somehow, eh?" He grins.

I search his face for any signs of taunting. For any hint he might know, that he might be the water-buttercups-now-condom gifter. But surprisingly, he seems perfectly innocent as he pours a cup of tea and begins to read the newspaper.

"Why are you up so early?" I ask.

I feel like a bad feminist as I place the food in front of him. But he's appreciative, thanking me and putting on a big show of rolling his eyes back as he takes a bite.

"Best breakfast ever," he says. "Did you make this, Bancroft, or import it from Italy?"

"I don't think Italians do bacon and eggs," I say, shaking my head at his silliness, but smiling a little as I turn away to start on the dishes.

"Well they fucking should, it's beautiful." John swallows before speaking again. "Couldn't sleep in the end," he says, an edge of seriousness to his voice now.

"Because you killed someone?" I ask.

"Believe it or not, we do more than go around killing people," he says.

"I wouldn't know. Thats the only thing I've seen so far."

"More dull than that most of the time, I'm afraid." He watches me for a moment. "Why don't you come into the office with me today? If you're prepared to be bored out of your wits, that is."

I nod. "Okay."

"We might even catch Tom before he leaves."

"He's still there?" I ask, glancing at the kitchen clock.

"Yep. Won't leave the place unattended since the break-in."

"There was a break-in?" I ask, shocked.

"About a week ago."

"What did they take?"

"Nothing." John sniffs and folds up the newspaper. "Fucking idiots, whoever they are. Tommy keeps the important stuff here, where no one else can get to it."

The news disturbs me, though I can't put my finger on why. Something about it feels unnerving.

"You don't have to come in," John says as he stands to his feet. "Nobody would be mad enough to break in while we're there, though."

"I don't care," I say quickly, washing up the last frying pan. John grabs a tea towel and starts to dry.

"So Tom's there alone?" I ask. "Every night?"

"Most of the day, too. He comes home for an hour or two to shower and replenish his cigarettes."

"Of course he does," I mutter. Then, in as casual a voice as I can manage, "will he be okay? What if they come back and he's outnumbered?"

He smirks. "Concerned about Tommy?"

"Of course not," I reply, the words leaving me in a harsh bite. But I don't think John's fooled. "I'd be concerned about any of you," I add truthfully.

He dries up the last teaspoon and we're all done. "Let's go check on him ourselves then, eh?"