THE FRENCH KISSERS ― Thomas Shelby

10. shelby's curse

"We're not being blackmailed by him," Rose retorted, steel filling the holes where another voice would have cracked.

"Are you sure of that?" Nicolas replied, but he still didn't turn around or look at her. He was like Thomas in that regard. He used his stare as a weapon. Rose just never thought he'd use it against her. "He had your purse, which is incriminating enough."

"And he gave it back to me."

"In the condition that you'd help him in his quest to dig up all our dirt. Who knows what other incriminating stuff he can have about us by now? He might know the truth already and is just playing you. Playing us. And you're letting him."

"I'm letting him?" Rose clenched her fists and took a step forward, placing herself between Nicolas and the window. His stare slipped down to hers for just a second, but it was enough to her, even if it tasted bitter in her lips. "You do not get to say that, when all I've been doing these past weeks is trying to wear him down by giving him clues that lead nowhere. It's not my fucking fault he's so damn persistent."

Nicolas shook his head, his tone not one decibel above or below normal. He would not shout at her. Not even in an argument would he raise his voice to her. "That's not going to work for much longer. He's not one to give up."

"I know." Rose turned her back on him and focused her gaze on Jules, who had shrunken into the chair as if he wanted to be swallowed. Jules didn't like anything that had to do with conflict; it was hard to picture him as the soldier with a rifle in his hands that every French wanted to have by his side and no German wanted to come across with. All the triggers he had deftly pulled, that's where the keys of the piano should have been instead. "Jules..."

"Ah, non, do not drag me into your fights," the Bardin shook his head, refusing to pick a side. If only Angeline was there, and Jules wouldn't even hesitate. "You look like two schoolboys fighting over a fucking sandwich. Honestly, out of the two of you, I don't know which one is more interested in Thomas Shelby."

Rose and Nicolas huffed at the same time, the first thing they agreed on ever since the atmosphere between them had turned as sour as vinegar.

"He wants you, Rose," Nicolas cut the sharp silence, head still facing ahead, as if the city had answers to questions he hadn't even made. "But more than that, he wants your crown. And I can't stand seeing you give it away."

"I'm not giving it away." Rose's jaw was tense when she spoke, her voice as taut as an arrow about to be shot. "What do you think I've been doing while you two were off licking Churchill's arse? I was searching for something we can bargain with in case Thomas discovers the truth. Something that will make him quiet about it and that will assure me our legacy stays intact."

"Well, have you found it yet?"

The answer came in the form of a knock on the door; it was Arwen, who only allowed her mouth to speak after her eyes had taken a long, deliberate sip of Nicolas' figure, dark contours outlined against the pale window.

"Please tell me it's good news," Jules plead, head resting on his arms in preparation.

"No need to worry your pretty head, sweetie, it's excellent news!" Arwen said nothing more until she walked up to Nicolas to steal a cigarette from his pocket square and lit it. For her life was just a stage; everything was suspense and theatrics. "I went to the brothel. And it appears some of the Peaky Blinders have indeed been down there lately. Are you sure you don't have any Romani blood in you, Rose, with all your accurate predictions?"

"It's just men being men, there's nothing else to it. What did you find out?"

"That any man will tell us what we want after a good drink and a quick fuck," Arwen said over the flame of the lighter while both Nicolas and Jules rolled their eyes. "Especially a certain Johnny Dogs, I think his name is. So, according to my girls, Thomas has a plan to take his family out of prison. It involves Winston Churchill... and his Majesty himself."