Astor // Arthur Shelby x Reader - Peaky Blinders

Chapter 55

The boxing arena pulsates with energy. Thunderous cheers of the crowd reverberate from the walls, and every man in attendance seems to be either placing bets, taking bets, or discussing his bets.

Arthur's hand rests lightly on the small of my back as he leads us through, his touch both grounding and electrifying. I can feel the heat of his palm through the fabric of my dress — it stirs a sense of familiarity. Desire.

I fight off a brain zap.

Arthur's protective grip on me tightens, and I catch a glimpse of his piercing gaze scanning the crowd. His eyes narrow as if he's warning off anyone who would dare come near us.

With how pushy most of these spectators seem to be, I feel a lot safer being with Arthur. And amazingly, I'm not overwhelmed by the noise, or the smells, or the visual chaos. It's like Arthur is keeping me anchored. He leads us through, and nobody dares fuck with him.

I steal a glance and catch him looking at me with a small smile at his lips. "You seem to know your way around here," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

His eyes crease as he laughs softly. The sound sends a shiver down my spine. "Spent a fair share of time in places like this," he admits. "Thought you might enjoy the atmosphere."

We navigate through, our steps in sync with each other as we find ourselves a spot near the ring. The smell of meat pies and chips mingles with the excitement in the air. A comfortable silence rests between us, and I'm looking all around, taking everything in with wide eyes as a man approaches us. He's slightly older, weathered looking, with a faded military cap on his head.

"Arthur Shelby!" He exclaims, a wide grin spreading across his face as he reaches for Arthur's hand. "Bloody hell, I never thought I'd see you here. Is Tommy about?"

Arthur laughs in delight as he takes the man's hand. "Not tonight, Gordon, Tommy's meeting with his horse trainer. Christ, it's been a long time."

I watch the exchange with curiosity, as Gordon's eyes shift to me. A flicker of recognition lights up his face, and he's suddenly quiet for a moment, his hand freezing midway through pulling it from Arthur's grasp.

"You're the one," he whispers. "The one who sent us those incredible packages during the war." He looks to Arthur for confirmation, and he nods slowly. "We couldn't believe our luck when we got 'em."

My eyebrows furrow in confusion. "I'm sorry, I don't..."

Arthur steps closer and wraps a reassuring arm around my waist, his touch grounding and protective. "Astor, this is Gordon. He was in the same unit as me during the war. You were our lifeline back then."

Gordon chuckles as he shakes my hand next. "Our lady and saviour. Best damn care packages in the world. We were the envy of the whole lot, remember in France, that unit who'd been wiping with the same cloth between fourteen men?"

My nose instinctively wrinkles in disgust. Arthur laughs at my reaction. "I'm glad I could help," I say.

"Ray of bloody light, you were," he says, shaking his head in awe.

"She still is, Gordon," Arthur says. His grip on me tightens, his voice tinged with emotion. "Light of my bloody life."

"Have you made her your wife yet?" Gordon asks, beaming.

Arthur suddenly clears his throat. "I was just about to grab a drink for Astor before the fighting starts."

"Oh, allow me," he says, looking all too happy. "What'll it be, Miss?" He asks me.

I smile with gratitude. "A whiskey, please," I tell him.

Arthur looks at me curiously as Gordon leaves us.

"What?" I ask, rolling my eyes. "You think I can't remember my favourite bloody drink?"

"Your favourite?" He repeats, a mix of confusion across his face.

"Of course," I frown. "I can still remember the smell. The taste. It brings me comfort... It's my favourite thing in the world."

He sucks in a sharp inhale of breath before looking away. At the floor, at the empty ring, at the people around us. Anywhere but me.

"Why do you keep doing that?" I ask quietly. "Do I disgust you?"

"You fucking what?" He asks in amazement.

"It's like you can tolerate me to a point, and then you don't want to be anywhere near me. You think I'm an idiot." The words are pinched as they leave my throat. Suddenly, I am the one who cannot meet his gaze. Afraid of what I'll find.

Afraid of how badly his rejection will hurt me.

He turns towards me and his eyes burn with a mixture of frustration and something else — something I can't quite decipher. He grips my chin gently but firmly between his fingers, forcing me to meet his piercing gaze.

"Astor," he breathes, his voice low and laced with intensity. "It's not about disgust, love. It's about how much I... Fuck, how much I care for you. I can't bear to see you struggling and in pain. It fucking tears me apart."

Comprehension washes over me as he releases a heavy sigh, his grip on my chin softening as his thumb brushes against my cheek.

He says, "I care about you more than I can put into words. You don't deserve any of the pain you've endured, and it bloody hurts me to see you suffer. It's like a knife to my gut. We took our fucking wedding vows together, my girl... I made you so many promises I've not been able to keep."

My heart aches at his words. At the grief and despair that passes across his face. It's as though everybody else around us has disappeared, and all I can feel is the depth of his emotions resonating within me. A warm embrace. The way God's angels might meet a soul in the afterlife.

And it hits me how absolutely I believe him.

How easy I can imagine it was to fall in love with Arthur Shelby. The way these feelings stir deep within me, the undeniable ache of need and longing and want.

It doesn't matter what happened before. I'll learn.

I want this now. I want him now.

I can't speak the words. As always, they jumble and get mixed up in my brain, and stick in my throat before I can even try to voice what I'm feeling.

And just as I'm ready to press my body to his and show him with actions instead, Gordon decides to return with our drinks.

When I press the glass to my lips, things slot into place in my mind alarmingly fast, like a window slamming down with gravity.

Whiskey isn't my favourite drink. I'm expecting a different taste. Gin or cognac.

But I chose whiskey.

And as I inhale the scent, and as it burns my tongue, I remember where I've tasted it. Where I grew to love it.

On Arthur.