Astor // Arthur Shelby x Reader - Peaky Blinders

Chapter 42

It is dark by the time I arrive back at Sotheby, trying to slip in through the front door unnoticed.

I'm not so lucky. The daunting figure of Thomas Shelby looms in the hallway, a shadow from where he speaks orders in his low drawl through the telephone in the sitting room. His spine straightens when I enter. His eyes are ice cold.

"Call off the search. She's just arrived."

The metal clicks, reverberates, as he hangs up the phone. I try not to look guilty as he stares at me expectantly. It feels an awful lot like being a child once again, my stomach churning as though I'm about to be spanked or chastised.

"Arthur," Tommy calls, his voice only raising a fraction.

I decide my best course of action is to proceed as though I have done nothing wrong.

"Good evening," I tell Tommy, slipping my shoes off and almost sighing in relief as my feet find solid ground once more. I clear my throat and try to think of something to break the painful silence that follows. "Have you eaten dinner?"

"What is it?" Arthur's voice precedes him, as his footsteps thunder down the hallway. "Have they seen something?"

He enters the room and comes to a grinding halt. I suddenly have two very cross Shelby brothers glaring at me. I notice Arthur's knuckles are bloody and grazed, his right hand holding an almost empty glass of whiskey. I instinctively take a step towards him, reaching for his hands to inspect the damage. As I do so, I register that he is too full of anger to even breathe.

Perhaps I've made a terrible mistake.

"Sort her out, Arthur," is all Tommy says before he leaves the room.

I bristle at his words. "Sort me out? What is this, the eighteen hundreds?"

Arthur's voice is low as he asks me, "Where the fuck have you been?"

"I told you." I take a breath. "I visited the lawyer."

He takes a step forward, and he looks a lot larger than I am used to. "What happened to I'll fucking wait, eh?"

I gulp. "The matter became rather urgent."

"Too urgent to take anyone with you?"

I breathe. I try to find the words to make him understand. "I was about to crawl out of my own skin, Arthur. I couldn't, I had to, I—"

"And how the fuck do you think I've been feeling? Worried you were tied up in the boot of someone's car? Your dead body thrown into the cargo hold of a ship for New York?"

I blanch at his words but he doesn't seem to even notice. The air around us smells of thick whiskey, and every muscle of his is visibly strained against his white shirt, his suspenders.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. I have to touch him, to show him I mean this, but my hands falter before they find his shoulders. "I won't do it again."

He smashes the glass against the floor in anger. Shards scatter across the hard wood and the last spill of liquid seeps through the periwinkle rug. I close my eyes. The elation of what I have achieved tonight seeps from me, piece by piece. I do not know if it is worth it, if it is angering Arthur beyond repair.

But still I glare at him. "I expect you to clean that up."

"And I expect you not to fucking lie to me." I hear the pain crack through his voice.

My hands threaten to tremble. I clench them into fists, my eyes threatening to well with tears at the hurt in Arthur's voice.

He deserves an explanation.

I sink slowly to the floor. Sitting against the wall. I slowly pick up the larger pieces of glass as I talk.

"I almost broke today," I say quietly. "I do not consider myself a particularly feeble person. But there are times I worry I am of weak mind. When Luca first made his threats, I considered taking my own life." Arthur's silent, and I find myself unable to glance up at him. I sniff. "I do not seek your pity. I am not making an excuse. I am only trying to explain to you that if I had to live a second longer with my name attached to his own, I feared my desolation would grow too great once more. I told you in my letters I am prone to feelings of despair." I trace a fingertip along the jagged edge of a piece of glass. "I hope you do not think less of me for it."

He does not speak. He paces a step, then two, before sinking down to sit beside me. I am unable to meet his gaze until he brings two fingers beneath my chin, giving me no other option. Firelight dances in his bright eyes, reflecting the hearth.

"Sometimes I worry about my mind, too," he says softly, lowly. "In fact, nearly all the time. I almost break every day. Every moment that I fucking breathe. Like being inches away from a cliff, and knowing if a big enough wobble comes, it's all over."

I take his hand, then, the one that's bloody and bruised and hold it in my own. His palm is warm against mine. It feels the most natural thing in the world to touch him like this.

"The war?" I ask quietly.

"Sometimes I worry it started long before the fighting," he confesses quietly.

I take his face in my hands. "You are not weak-minded, Arthur. Very, very few men could have done what you did. Digging all those tunnels. Fighting for years on end. Coming back in one piece..." I long to kiss him, but restrain myself. "You are a brave soldier in every sense of the words. You're still my hero. Don't you forget that."

His eyes shine in the firelight. "And you, my girl. Despite everything you've endured. You..." He trails off. Silent for a moment. "What do you mean, not living a second longer with your name attached to Changretta's?"

I fight a smile. The true happiness threatening to burst through once more. "Just as I expected, there was a lot of evidence in that lawyer's office. Enough to not only stack up against Luca, but against his solicitor, too." Arthur's face is still puzzled. "Enough for leverage. Enough," I conclude, feeling lighter than I have in months, "I managed to make him see reason, and annul the marriage."

He holds me as though he's trying to check if I'm real. "You fucking what?"

Tears well in my eyes. "I am no longer married. And as it was void, Luca did not need to sign a thing. The lawyer did it all in less than an hour. Luca won't even know." I press my forehead to Arthur's. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone, and I shouldn't have lied—"

"You're not married?" He repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. He swallows and I see every muscle of his throat tense. "I... I can ask you to be my wife?"

"I realised at the racing grounds today," I tell him. My thumbs graze across his own. "My heart belongs to you, Arthur Shelby. I belong to you. I want to belong to you in every way I can. In every way that matters."

"I carry you with me always," he murmurs. He traces the outline of my lips. "Remember when I told you that? Remember I promised I would hold you, and never let you fucking go?"

I wrap my arms around him, and he circles his around my waist as we stay true to his promise. To our promise.

The glass dust glitters across the floor. I have never felt a fire so warm.