As the youngest Shelby child and twin to Finn Shelby, Kezia has spent the last 4 of her 10 years locked away for her mental defectiveness.
She returns to Small Heath under the legal guardianship of her brother, Thomas Shelby. Despite knowing she's s...
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CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Kizzie didn't know where to start.
It wasn't shyness. Quite the opposite. She was exploding with words but not a single one felt right for the occasion.
She was here. With Alfie. Alone for the first time not in a dream. She wanted this to be special, but she was failing.
They were a mirror. Staring at each other with no hurry. No urgency. His colors thrummed with intrigue. And mild excitement.
"If I had to guess," he finally said. Kizzie's mouth went dry at his voice: mumbled and thick and gruff. "Your brother does not know you are here."
"He is busy."
"Oh, yeah. I know that." Alfie pointed to the closed door. He had instructed Ollie, the young man with curly black hair, to step away. To get back to work. "You just missed him."
Kizzie rubbed together her sweaty fingers that sat on her lap. "Does he...come over often?"
Alfie sat up, thick arms folded on the desktop. The rings he wore, which Kizzie could only see glimmers of before, were clear as day. His left hand had more, one on each hand. Including the hand men reserved for marriage; Alfie's was a chunky thing, not thin gold and boring like her brother John's. Maybe he wasn't married.
Or maybe, Alfie just preferred going against expectations.
"Maybe once, twice a week. To make sure his boys are doing their jobs."
"Oh."
Kizzie flinched at the knock on the door and Alfie took on the posture of a bear—hunched and big and ready to defend. He stood with great effort to greet Ollie at the door, holding a plate of Challah. Alfie slammed the door in his face and placed the plate on the desk.
"Thank you," Kizzie said. Her fingers pinched at the dry edgings. It had been some years since she obsessed over bread. Thinking about it sometimes made her embarrassed.
Alfie sat back in his chair, elbows up on the desk. He was calm. Kizzie didn't need to see his colors to tell that.
"Was the bread nice in France?"
Her soldier held his stare, both curious about the other in ways neither could properly communicate.
"No," he finally said. "It was stale and bitten through with mice most days."
"I'm sorry."
Alfie leaned forward. "France. Was it your witchcraft?"
Kizzie cocked her head, resembling a dog with her big round eyes. "Witchcraft?"
