Read this book if you want to f-k Tommy Shelby.
You're Billy Kimber's daughter.
You've been accused of stealing the Peaky Blinders' shipment of guns.
And now you're forced to work with Tommy Shelby to solve the mystery of who's framing your father...
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I press my lips together, fighting to keep my face even and not betray how badly my arm's burning. "What do you mean?" I ask Tommy.
I can't maintain the facade for long beneath his intense scrutiny.
"I know it's bothering you," he says, laying his coat down on a table and unfastening his cuff links. He rolls up his shirt sleeves in a way that's almost hypnotising — folding the fabric in sharp movements, revealing more of his muscled forearms, right up to the elbow. My wrist brushes against his arm, handcuffed to him as he does it.
How the hell does he know that?
"It's fine," I try to protest.
"You've been cleaning it, then? Changing the bandages?"
I pause. I haven't been able to brave even looking at it since Tommy bandaged it up. I sit on the table beside the bar, avoiding his gaze.
"Come on."
I can see in his eyes there's no arguing with him. And my shirt's loose, satin — it won't roll up like his, and I'd rather not risk it dropping down while my arm's bare. But there's just one problem.
"How am I supposed to take it off? We're joined at the wrist."
Tommy thinks for a moment. He reaches for his cap. And then, before I can react, he slashes it down my sleeve.
The hidden razor blade slices through the fabric like a knife cutting butter. My mouth drops open in astonishment, my arm now bare beside his own. I slip the rest of the fabric over my head, too angry to be self conscious of the fact I'm stood before Thomas Shelby in a bra and skirt.
"You ruined my shirt!"
"Polly's brilliant at sewing. She'll have it looking brand new by tomorrow."
I glare at him. "And how am I meant to walk the streets of Small Heath tonight without it?"
He blinks, as though I'm being stupid. "You'll wear my coat."
Maybe I'm unleashing some of my frustration that this man still thinks I might have stolen his stupid guns. Maybe it's the gin fuelling my actions. Or maybe Polly's influence has rubbed off on me.
But for whatever reason, I snatch his cap into my own hand, and flick it down his own sleeve. It snags through the fabric, tearing up his shirt just as he tore mine.
He's calm for a moment. Staring at it with interest.
And then his gaze turns positively murderous.
"Polly's brilliant at sewing," I remind him, my voice smaller than I'd intended.
"Your arm, Kimber." His eyes glitter dangerously. "Now."
I throw the cap to the other side of the room, deciding neither of us should be trusted with a blade any longer. But there's no escaping Tommy. Not while I'm cuffed to him at the wrist.
