𝑽𝑨𝑳𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑨 | 𝐓.𝐒 |

𝒊𝒗. 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒏 𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆

𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐯𝐮𝐥𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲. The very idea of being seen as fragile, as prey, wrecked her to her core. Her sister, Anna, had given her the name—Valentina, meaning strong and healthy, a name that promised resilience. And Valentina had lived her entire life determined to embody that strength, refusing to be broken by anyone or anything.

But now, as pain throbbed through her body, she struggled to open her eyes. Her vision was foggy, her surroundings a blur. Panic briefly fluttered in her chest, her instincts on high alert. But as the outline of the man beside her came into focus, that fear was quickly replaced with something even more foreign: relief and  safety. Two emotions she'd never associated with men, especially not one as dangerous as Thomas Shelby—his figure unmistakable, the cap resting in his lap.

There he was, sitting beside her, his head tilted back in sleep. His features, usually hardened with cold precision, were softer now, almost peaceful. For the first time, Thomas looked like a man without blood on his hands, without the weight of the world dragging him down. In sleep, the darkness that usually clouded his gaze was nowhere to be found. He looked... free, untouched by the violence that followed him wherever he went.

Thomas looked different this time. He was asleep, his face slack, free from the usual hardened lines of tension that marked him as the man who had blood on his hands and demons chasing his every step. In that moment, he looked almost peaceful, as if, just for once, he wasn't carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Mr. Shelby," her voice cracked, dry from the exhaustion and the rough night she could hardly piece together. Her hand, trembling, reached for his knee, tapping it lightly.

Thomas stirred immediately, eyes snapping open with a sharpness that made it clear he wasn't the type to let his guard down for long. "Val," he muttered, rubbing his face with both hands like a man annoyed at being woken, but also bracing himself for the storm of questions swirling in his head.

For a moment, he just stared at her, his eyes narrowing as if trying to piece together the puzzle of her bruised face, the cuts, the pain etched into her features. His patience, never his strongest trait, wore thin as he asked, "What the fuck happened to you?"

His voice wasn't soft or gentle. It wasn't concerned in the way one might expect. No, it was sharp, demanding answers. He was frustrated, angry, and more than anything, he wanted to know what had happened and if this was a usual occurrence. 

Valentina sighed, rolling her eyes. She wasn't ready to dive into explanations. The pain, both physical and emotional, was too raw. "Can I at least have some whiskey first?" she muttered irritably, turning her back to him as if the action could shield her from his relentless curiosity. She didn't want to relive the events of the night before, didn't want to see the flicker of pity or, worse, judgment in his eyes. She needed time, space, and a drink strong enough to numb the storm swirling inside her.

"Fine," he muttered, standing up, moving to pour her the whiskey she had asked for. "But you're telling me later." His voice carried that quiet authority, one that suggested he wouldn't forget this conversation. But for now, he'd give her space. For now, he'd let her rest.

After giving her the whiskey, Valentina sat on the bed, wincing with every movement. It felt as though she had fallen off a cliff—the pain in her body was unbearable. Thomas stood across from her, his eyes tracking her every move in silence, waiting, watching.

She didn't want to open up, not to him, not to anyone. But there was something in his gaze, something that told her he wasn't going to let this go until he had answers. His patience unnerved her.