THE DAUGHTER of Thomas Shelby's greatest enemy had wrapped her hands around his heart, and for the life of him, he couldn't understand why he hadn't been able to shake her loose.

He had sworn to himself — after everything — that love would never again blur the lines of business. That emotions were a weakness, a disease that festered until it clouded judgment and burned everything to the ground. It had happened before, with Grace Burgess. And he had paid the price.

Because of her, he had lost everything — his fortune, his business, even a brother. Grace's betrayal had cut deeper than any bullet in France ever could.

And yet, not a day had passed without her ghost haunting him. Under the dim glow of gaslights flickering against the rain-slicked cobblestones of Birmingham, he saw her reflection in every puddle he stepped through, as if she were calling out to him, dragging his mind back to the past, back to the pain.

But it wasn't Grace who occupied his thoughts now.

It was Evelyn.

She was nothing like Grace. Wild and untamed, with dark curls cascading over her shoulders like a river of ink. Every movement she made was deliberate — graceful yet defiant — and commanded attention. Her laughter was unrestrained, rich and full, the opposite of Grace's careful, measured giggles.

Thomas knew he shouldn't be sneaking off to see her. She was the daughter of Danior Heron, the man he had sworn to bury six feet under. And yet, here she was, creeping into his mind, invading his every thought, daring to exist in his world.

His fingers slipped into the pocket of his wool jacket, closing around the cool, familiar chain of her locket. He had found it days ago, after Cheltenham, tucked away in Ada's powder room. The silver had begun to tarnish, smoothed over time from constant wear against skin. He had opened it without hesitation, already knowing what he would find inside.

A photograph. A boy, no older than Finn, with long, pale hair curling at his chin and a lopsided grin.

But what he hadn't expected was the dried white lily that slipped from the locket's hinge, landing in his palm — the same lily that had gone missing from his caravan the day he had caught Evelyn snooping around. He had found it during one of his rides, the first sign that spring was on the horizon.

He had pressed it between the pages of a book, keeping it for reasons he hadn't cared to examine, only pulling it out when thoughts of Grace gripped the edges of his mind. And now, here it was, cradled within her most treasured possession.

She had left behind her only source of comfort to conceal her identity, and Thomas had sold her out anyway.

The memories came rushing back — the curve of her hips against his as they danced, the wicked glint in her eyes as she teased him about the races, the subtle flicker of pride in his chest as she pointed a gun at Kimber's heart. Evelyn was strong, unshaken, nothing like the timid, careful Grace.

But strength came with its own cost. Evelyn challenged him in ways he wasn't used to. She questioned his motives, pushed him to the edge, kept her own heart guarded just enough to keep him guessing. He wouldn't forget the way she had tried to force his hand in front of everyone, testing how far his authority would go over a woman. He had seen it then — the flash of hurt in her eyes, the fury barely restrained. His mind had screamed at him to do it. To prove his power had no limits.

But he had already lost one woman — one he thought he couldn't live without. And looking at Evelyn that day, he wondered if losing her might be even worse.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It was only a matter of time before Evelyn's father learned the truth — that she was working alongside the Peaky Blinders.

The news spread like wildfire, whispers rippling through the Lee encampment that Danior had sent his men flooding into Birmingham, hunting for her. But he had underestimated the alliances forged in the shadows. The Shelbys and the Lees were working together, and that was the only thing keeping Evelyn out of his grasp.

For now.

Each night, anxiety gnawed at her, leaving her wide awake, her legs twitching with the urge to pack her things and disappear — deep into the hills, to the only place she had ever felt safe. But she couldn't. Not yet. She had come too far, and James was closer now than he had ever been in years. She could feel him at her fingertips.

The Lee women did their best to keep her occupied. In the days she had spent among them, she helped with the children, tended to the horses, and in return, they fed her hot meals and poured her enough to drink to numb it all. Zilpha had even given her Esme's old caravan — one her cousin had once shared with her sisters before marriage took them elsewhere. It was passed down, worn, but it was her own space, and Evelyn was grateful for it.

Of course, it came with a request.

Zilpha wanted Evelyn to leave with her when this was all over.

"You surprise me, dear," Zilpha mused as they sat in the older woman's van, sipping herbal tea laced with whiskey. "I'm still waiting for you to accept my invitation."

Evelyn exhaled slowly, staring out the open back of the van into the darkness, listening to the rain patter against the stretched canvas above.

"I want to, but..." Her voice trailed off, uncertainty thick in her tone.

Zilpha clicked her tongue, setting her cup down with a soft clatter. "O ushalin zhala sar o kam mangela." The shadow moves as the sun commands.

Evelyn frowned, knowing exactly what her aunt meant.

"This isn't about Tommy."

This was partly the truth. Evelyn hadn't seen Thomas in a few days now, and she found herself disappointed with this, yet still angry for the damage he had caused.

Zilpha cocked her head, also unconvinced. "Then what is it?"

Evelyn hesitated, shifting gears as she set her cup in her lap, watching her muddled reflection ripple in the dark tea.

"I've been seeing things," she admitted. "Hearing voices beyond the veil. They tell me things... about what's coming."

Her aunt stiffened. "Explain."

Evelyn swallowed, turning fully to face Zilpha. She told her everything — the dream from long ago, when her mother had warned her of her pregnancy but promised comfort in the years ahead. The visions of darkness. The dreams where her mother guided her, leading her toward her father and Thomas.

The only thing she kept to herself was the message of choice. The one that demanded she pick between her lover and her son. That had been sent for her, and no one else.

Zilpha leaned back, studying her niece with quiet intensity, her dark eyes heavy with understanding.

"This war will not be won easily," she said at last. "Ioana sees what lies ahead better than either of us."

Evelyn's voice dropped to a whisper. "But can I trust what I'm being told? I don't know how to interpret any of it. No one ever taught me how to use my gift."

Zilpha reached across the small table, cupping Evelyn's face with warm, calloused hands. Evelyn let herself lean into the touch, welcoming the rare moment of comfort. She hadn't realized how starved she was for something so simple.

"I don't have the gifts that you and your mother were blessed with," Zilpha murmured. "But trust her, Evelyn. More than anything else. Stop pushing her away just because you're afraid."

Evelyn nodded, the warmth of Zilpha's hands lingering even after she pulled away.

"Polly promised to help me control it," she admitted. "But I don't know if I trust her not to tell Tommy."

Zilpha's gaze sharpened. "He doesn't know of your sight?"

Evelyn shook her head, crossing her legs tightly as she placed her half-empty cup on the table. "He knows. He just doesn't accept it."

A hum of disapproval left Zilpha's lips. "Are you prepared to be with a man who only accepts half of you?"

Evelyn snorted, her cheeks burning at the bluntness of it.

"I'm not with Tommy."

Zilpha gave her a pointed look. "Oh, child. You are just like your mother. She said the same thing about your father, you know. And look how that turned out."

Evelyn bristled. "Tommy's not like him," she said, defensive without knowing why. "I wouldn't be helping him if he was."

Zilpha studied her, then simply said, "All great and powerful men are the same." She rose to her feet, smoothing down her skirt. "But devlesa avilan. God has brought you to him, so I must let His plan follow through."

She began to move about the small space, a silent signal for Evelyn to leave. The rain had stopped, symbolizing the closure of their conversation. Taking the hint, Evelyn stood as well, ready to return to her own bed. But before she could step out, Zilpha hesitated, her uncertain gaze pinning Evelyn in place.

"I pray for you every day," she admitted, sadness heavy in her voice. "I fear losing the last piece of my sister. But if these are the cards that have been laid before you, I will offer you the same advice I gave Ioana."

Her voice softened, the Romani words falling like an old prayer.

"Nashti zhas vorta po drom o bango."

You cannot walk straight when the road is bent.

Those words sat heavy in Evelyn's mind as she stepped out of Zilpha's caravan and into the darkened camp. A smoldering fire flickered a few yards away, its embers dampened by the evening rain. Hushed murmurs mixed with the distant laughter of children, the comforting echoes of a life she once knew — a life of freedom, of family, of simplicity.

She closed her eyes and listened. The soft rustle of canvas as mothers tucked their little ones in. The quiet exchanges between lovers wrapped in whispered promises. In her mind, she pictured Esme curled against John's chest, Ada pressing a kiss to the crown of Freddie's head as she read him to sleep.

When she opened her eyes, they were damp. But no number of tears could blur the silhouette emerging from the shadowed edge of the camp.

Thomas Shelby.

His pace was measured, restrained, as though he were fighting the urge to move faster. When he stopped in front of her, his breath was uneven, his blue eyes wild as they searched her face. She hated that he was here. Hated the way she had summoned him in her thoughts without realizing it.

But what she hated most was how damn glad she was to see him.

"What are you doing here?" she rasped, her voice rough in her own ears.

"You left this at Ada's." His tone was soft as he reached into his coat and pulled out her locket.

A dry, humorless laugh escaped her lips. "You came all this way to return a necklace?"

He blinked. "Figured you might want it, is all."

Wordlessly, she reached for it, her fingers brushing against his as she took it. A wave of relief settled in her chest. She had missed it more than she cared to admit, the absence of its weight against her collarbone leaving her strangely unmoored. She slipped it over her head, shaking her curls free from its grasp. Thomas's gaze followed the movement, lingering at the place where the pendant rested against her skin.

Her fingers curled around it. "Anything else, Mr. Shelby?" she asked, the sharp edge of her voice meant to cut.

And it did.

His expression tightened, pain flickering behind his eyes. "Evy..." His voice was barely above a whisper, the nickname foreign on his lips. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" she challenged, her anger flaring as she took in the wounded look on his face. What right did he have to be hurt? Had he forgotten who had betrayed whom?

"Act like I'm just here for business," he said, slipping off his cap. His damp hair clung to his forehead, a mess of rain and sweat.

Evelyn rolled her eyes and turned away, wiping the last traces of her tears before he could see them. She started toward her caravan, knowing full well that Zilpha was likely listening from within.

Thomas followed. "Why are you always storming off from me?" he muttered.

She paused at the steps of her van, turning sharply. "Does it bother you, Thomas? Knowing there's a woman out there you can't control?"

A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face. "You're not the first, Evelyn. And I doubt you'll be the last."

She stepped closer, the space between them vanishing until she could smell the smoke on his breath, the whiskey on his skin. "But it gets under your skin, doesn't it?" Her voice was low, cutting. "I saw it at the racetrack. I see it now."

He shook his head. "I don't want to control you. I never have."

She let out a breath, sharp and disbelieving. "You sold me out to Kimber. Told me I'd be safe and then handed me over anyway."

Thomas closed his eyes briefly, as if willing himself to stay composed. His jaw clenched, his fingers flexing at his sides. When he looked at her again, his expression had shifted — something raw, something restrained.

And then, in a voice rough with regret, he said the words she never thought she'd hear.

"I'm sorry."

As if it took everything in him to say it.

Evelyn was silent for a long moment, searching his face as he patiently awaited her reaction. Inwardly, she reveled in the apology she had been owed. It was a rare thing, especially from a man like Thomas Shelby. But she couldn't let him off the hook so easily. Not without an explanation.

"Why did you do it?" she finally asked, her tone softer than before.

Thomas exhaled through his nose, running his tongue over his bottom lip before wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. It was then that she noticed — not just his hair, but his clothes were soaked through. He had trudged the miles that separated them in the rain.

"Can we go inside first?" he asked.

Evelyn hesitated, then nodded. Turning away, she climbed the steps and shouldered open the door to her caravan. Inside, the space was swallowed in darkness. She felt around for the gas lamp, but the heat of Thomas's body behind her sent a tremor through her hands. Finally, she found the switch, and with a soft click, a warm, amber glow illuminated the small space — her bed, the scattered belongings she had managed to call her own.

When she turned, Thomas was right there.

She inhaled sharply. "I need to get by," she murmured, her voice unsteady.

He stepped back immediately, giving her as much space as their confined quarters allowed. Quickly, she moved toward a worn wooden chest in the corner, rifling through Esme's old hand-me-downs in search of something dry.

"You should take off your coat," Evelyn said, forcing nonchalance into her voice. "I can put it on a line to dry."

She heard the soft rustle of fabric as he shrugged it off without a word. Finally, she found what she was looking for — a thick scrap of cotton, its cream color faded yellow with age.

"You can use —" she began, turning back, only for the words to die in her throat.

His shirt clung to his body, soaked through and near transparent, tracing the hard lines of his chest. His suspenders hung loose, draped over his hips, the leather straps brushing against his trousers.

Heat flared across her skin. Evelyn quickly averted her gaze, holding out the cloth as if the simple act could steady her. "Here. Cotton dries quickly."

His fingers brushed hers as he took it, sending an unwelcome shiver up her spine. He ran the fabric over his hair, shaking out the rain, while Evelyn forced herself to move stiffly to the edge of her bed. Every nerve in her body was acutely aware of how little space stood between them.

She focused on her hands, tracing the faint lines on her palms. "Sorry, I don't have an extra chair."

Thomas said nothing.

A soft rustle, the cloth slipping from his grip, falling to the floor.

Then, in one slow step, he was in front of her.

Evelyn barely breathed as his fingers grazed her chin, tilting her face upward. His touch was gentle, yet it burned — set fire to something deep within her.

"You want to know why I told Kimber who you are?" His voice was low, rough.

She couldn't look away. His blue eyes had darkened, a storm rolling through them, thick with something dangerous, something hungry.

His fingers traced from her chin along her jaw, lingering at her cheek, before a stray curl of her hair twined around them.

"Because I knew it would get back to Danior," Thomas murmured. "And I knew exactly what it would do to him."

But—"

Thomas cut her off, sinking to his knees before her with a deliberate slowness, his hands resting lightly on her thighs. "Is it so bad to want the world to know you're with me? That the daughter of the most powerful man in Birmingham chooses to stand beside Thomas Shelby?"

Evelyn's breath caught. The way he framed it— it wasn't ownership, it was something else entirely. But still, she straightened, forcing steel into her voice. "I don't belong to anyone."

The words left her lips firm, but beneath them, something warm and terrifying unfurled in her chest. Because for the first time, the idea of belonging to someone — truly belonging on her own terms — didn't feel so suffocating. His words settled into her, taking root in a place she wasn't ready to name.

Thomas studied her, his lips curling into a slow, knowing smile. "Of course not." His voice was softer now, teasing, but edged with something deeper. "But a man can dream, eh?"

Evelyn chewed the inside of her cheek, torn between instinct and desire. She wanted to trust him — to fall into the safety he promised. But wanting and knowing how were two very different things.

And trust had never come easily to her.

"How can I trust you?" Evelyn asked, her voice laced with hurt. "How am I supposed to know you're not just using me?"

Thomas's brow furrowed as he searched for proof —some tangible piece of evidence to offer her — but his mind came up empty.

"What is it that you want to know?" he finally asked.

Evelyn needed to know everything, yet she hesitated where to begin: the origins of this bitter feud, or the genesis of his own downfall?

Then a memory surfaced — the stone that had brought his entire castle crumbling down.

"There was another woman, wasn't there? Before me? Before all of this?" she inquired softly.

At the mention of her name, Thomas's gaze darkened, and his jaw tightened. His fingers, resting against the hem of her dress, clenched involuntarily.

"Yes," he replied simply.

"What happened?" Evelyn pressed, her tone gentle— reminding him of the careful way she once addressed her own son.

Although his reluctance was etched clearly across his face, Evelyn needed answers. She had to understand, to find a reason to trust him — that this was not merely another scheme of vengeance against those who had wronged him.

With a weary sigh, she reached out and touched his cheek, her hand cradling the sharp line of his cheekbone. He leaned into her touch, allowing his face to press into her palm. Beneath her fingers, his skin was rough yet warm, softening the hard exterior enough to coax him into speaking.

"Grace," Thomas began, his voice low and reluctant. "Her name was Grace. She was working undercover with the coppers, involved in recovering some stolen guns. I let her cloud my judgment."

"Stolen guns?" Evelyn echoed, her curiosity piqued.

Thomas nodded, his damp hair brushing against her knuckles. "Last year, I intercepted a shipment of automatics from the British government when we hijacked a crate from the BSA factory. I saw an opportunity, but so did your father. When the Crown sent an officer to locate the arms, Danior — well, Danior knew who had 'em."

Evelyn's voice softened into a quiet murmur. "So that's how it all began."

Thomas drew his head away from her hand and shifted his knees closer, silently inviting her into his space. She let her legs part, allowing him to draw near.

Hesitating, Thomas's eyes flickered away from hers before returning with evident pain. "Danior kidnapped my youngest brother. Finn — he was just a boy. He forced my hand, demanded I tell him where the guns were hidden..."

His voice trailed off, swallowed by the weight of the memory. The tale twisted in Evelyn's stomach — a stark reminder of her own struggles with her son. Danior's ruthlessness was legendary; he crossed every boundary, attacking women and their children in his relentless thirst for power.

"Tommy..." Evelyn whispered, her gaze softening as she tilted her head to study him closely. "I'm so sorry."

"Nobody's seen Finn since," Thomas confessed, his grip on her legs tightening as if she were the sole anchor keeping him from unraveling completely. "Not even my men on the inside can gather any information. It's as though he vanished into thin air."

"We'll find him, yeah?" she said, her voice laced with a confidence she didn't truly feel — a fragile certainty she clung to simply because she had repeated it to herself so many times before.

Thomas looked up at her but offered no words of reassurance. He remained silent, trapped in his own suffering, unwilling — or perhaps unable — to speak further on the matter. They were alike in that way, both hiding pieces of themselves, afraid that vulnerability might be mistaken for weakness.

But even the strongest leaders have their moments of surrender. And in that moment, they did too.

Without another thought, Evelyn kissed him. Her lips crashed against his with such force she half-expected him to break beneath her. But he didn't. He matched her fervor, his hands sliding from her thighs to her waist, gripping the fabric of her dress as if trying to pull her closer — closer than her body could physically allow. Her legs tightened around his hips, and his fingers roamed higher, tracing the curve of her spine, the delicate slope of her neck, before threading into her hair.

Evelyn, in turn, let her fingers glide up the base of his skull, feeling the soft, velvet texture of his shaved hair. It reminded her of water flowing over stone — something fluid yet unyielding. His lips were chapped, the thin skin still raw from a winter spent out in the cold. But she didn't mind. It was a reminder that he was just as flawed as she was.

Then, suddenly, his hands were no longer in her hair.

Thomas shifted, pressing her back into the straw mattress, his body caging hers beneath him. At first, she didn't think anything of it, letting herself sink into the warmth of his weight, into the way his mouth melded with hers. His tongue brushed against her lips, and she parted for him without hesitation.

But then, his hand slipped beneath her dress, fingers skimming the sensitive skin of her inner thigh —

And just like that, she was no longer here.

She was somewhere else.

Someone else was on top of her. Not Thomas. A faceless figure, shrouded in shadows. The stench of liquor filled her nostrils, thick and rancid.

Quit fucking moving, the voice slurred. Or I'll cut your throat open.

"Stop." The word tore from her throat before she could think. Every muscle in her body locked up, rigid with panic.

Thomas pulled away instantly. His face was flushed, his breath uneven, but his hands — now trembling slightly — hovered near her face, his fingertips ghosting over her skin as his eyes searched hers in alarm.

"What's wrong?" he asked, voice thick with concern.

Evelyn shook her head, willing him to stop looking at her like that. "I..." Her hands released him, but they wouldn't stop shaking. She could hardly breathe. "I just... forgot where I was for a second."

Thomas sat back slightly, giving her space. His expression darkened. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," she whispered, but humiliation burned through her, sharp and suffocating. The memory lingered, its scent, its weight, enough to sting fresh tears into her eyes. She turned her head, blinking rapidly to push them away.

"I haven't been with anyone since..." She trailed off, but the silence spoke for her.

Thomas was smart. He knew her past. He pieced it together in seconds.

His jaw tightened. "Who is he?"

Evelyn could only shrug helplessly. That was all she could do.

"Would you know him if you saw him?"

She hesitated before meeting his gaze again. "I think so."

Thomas's expression shifted furiously, his voice low and cold. "If that bastard ever shows his face around you again — tell me. I'll cut off his cock before putting a bullet in his brain."

The sheer bluntness of the threat was so absurd that, despite everything, Evelyn let out a startled, breathless laugh.

Thomas's eyes softened at the sound. "I should have killed Kimber for the way he looked at you," he muttered, his tone lighter now, teasing even.

Evelyn sniffed, swallowing back the last remnants of her tears. She smirked faintly. "You should have," she agreed, her breath still unsteady. "But his time will come."

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. "So, you figured out my plan to kill him."

"Tommy." Evelyn gave him a pointed look. "He'd be an idiot to think otherwise."

He smiled, his dimple appearing in the faint light. With careful movements, he shifted next to her, sliding into the small space between the caravan wall and the bed. She followed his lead, pressing her head against the pillow beside his and rolling onto her side to face him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the humor fading from the moment.

Thomas studied her in the dim glow of the lantern, a small crease forming between his brows. Slowly, he lifted a hand, his thumb tracing the shape of her lips, his touch impossibly light.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he murmured. "I'm not going to let any man touch you like that again." They were words she had heard from him more times than she could count.

Her chest tightened. Life was messy — they were messy. Their pasts were so stained, so tangled with pain and regret, that she struggled to see how anything between them could ever truly work.

But she kept that thought to herself.

Because, in her gut, she heard Ioana's voice once more.

There is a man... he is distant, but willing.

Zilpha had told her to stop pushing away her mother's guidance just because she was afraid. Maybe this was one of those moments where she needed to trust it.

Without breaking eye contact, Evelyn pressed a single, delicate kiss to the tip of Thomas's thumb.

"I believe you."