Between Sin and Salvation

Chapter IX

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Author's note

First thank you all for the reads and votes! Second, I have absolutely given up on trying to split up chapters, so please enjoy this BEAST, there's lots of Tommy and Louise interaction ;)

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Louise's patience had been tested before, but never quite like this. In less than seventy-two hours, Thomas Shelby had easily claimed the title of the worst patient she'd ever had the misfortune of treating. Every time thirst struck him, he wouldn't simply ask for water—no, he'd crook a lazy finger at her, eyes drifting to the glass sitting on the narrow trolley beside him. She had learned quickly that he didn't just want her to hand it to him.

Oh no, he wanted her to press the glass to his lips, to wait silently as he drank his fill. Not once did he offer a word of thanks. Instead, he'd murmur "Good girl" under his breath, a devilish glint in his eyes that made her blood boil and fists clench. If she refused him, he'd refuse the morphine. It wasn't like it made her uncomfortable watching him writhe in pain when he thought she wasn't looking, but she was a doctor, and a good doctor always sought to minimize her patients' discomfort. At least, that's what she told herself as she ground her teeth and held back the urge to throw the glass at his head.

The cigarettes were worse. With the same infuriating crook of his finger, he'd summon her, directing his gaze to the silver cigarette case on the table. She again would grit her teeth and place the cigarette between his lips, carefully lighting it without letting her fingers brush his skin. He'd take slow, deliberate drags, but she still had to hold the ashtray to catch the falling embers. And always, always, that mocking praise: "Good girl," or sometimes, if her expression was murderous enough, "Very good girl." Each word was a match to her simmering anger and more than once, she fantasized about using his lighter to burn him; it didn't particularly matter where just that it hurt.

He had a winning hand with the morphine, so she always relented. Her hand would shake with the effort of restraining herself from hurling the glass, the lighter, and the entire trolley at him. And every time she'd walk away, seething, he'd lay back, victorious.

Then there were his brothers. She'd quickly restricted their visits to evenings only when they'd be least likely to disturb the fragile peace of the clinic. It had taken Louise pulling a switchblade on Arthur to get them to agree. But instead of backing down, Arthur had leaned into the blade pressed against his neck, a feral grin spread across his face. "I'll do anything the good doctor says," he had purred. It was clear the eldest Shelby had taken a liking to her, calling her "mad as a fucking hatter," as he admitted he'd "never been more entertained."

John, on the other hand, was quieter but no less intense. He seemed to be constantly sizing her up, chewing on his toothpick while his eyes tracked her every movement. There was a calculation in his gaze as if he was still deciding whether she was friend or foe. She hadn't exactly left the best first impression on him, after all.

But worst of all was Margaret's newfound habit of lingering later than usual. She'd add an extra swing to her hips whenever she caught Arthur's gaze, and Arthur, predictably, was always watching. He'd toss out suggestive compliments like, "Those fucking eyes of yours put the sky to shame—makes me wonder if you stole them from the heavens," or "Bloody hell, never seen an angel up close before, you're making a believer out of me." Each time, they never failed to make Margaret blush furiously and giggle like a schoolgirl.