The Nanny has ordered me to sit and stare at the wall for three hours. The headmaster at school had called home, and she'd been the one to answer. Fighting, he'd told her.
I'd cried trying to explain I'd only punched the boy because he was making fun of me. Of my father. Of the big boxing match coming up in the weekend. My father's opponent was this boy's uncle, and he'd been making threats detailing exactly how my father was going to be assaulted. And then he'd made threats detailing how he'd do the same to me.
But the Nanny didn't care. And so, while she cleans the playroom, I stare at the patterned wallpaper, deciding it was worth it.
But then I hear the doorbell. Shortly after, voices through the wall. I strain to listen — after all, I've not much else to occupy my mind with.
"...the situation, Mr Bancroft. But the money needs to be paid."
"You can fuck right off," my father says. "Go chase my ex-wife up. She's the mad bitch who did this in the first place."
"We have, Mr Bancroft. The police have enough evidence to prosecute. But we are not the police. All we care about is getting back the money taken out in loans under your daughter's name. And your ex-wife, I'm afraid to say, is bankrupt."
My father clears his throat. "How much?"
"Four thousand pounds."
My father says a swear word I've never heard him use before, a word I don't understand. "Three fights," he says. "I win three fights, and I'll have the money."
"Mr Bancroft, your income is unstable—"
"Give me three months," he insists.
"And what then? You'd be late on your mortgage payments. Your accounts are already running dry."
"Three months. I'll show you. But don't you touch my daughter."
They're quiet for a moment. "If you can't come up with the money, she'll need to work it off. You know who our clients are."
My father says nothing. My heart hammers, trying to make sense of what I'm hearing.
"Don't lose this fight, Bancroft," the other man says. "You lose this, you're all on the streets."
The mustard wallpaper blurs until I can no longer make out the pattern. I can hear the scratching of the Nanny's broom on the floor, the repetitive noise scraping inside my skull, my stomach churning until I'm ready to be sick—
The sound of a car pulling up outside jolts me awake.
I bolt upright on the sofa in the Shelby house, taking a moment to listen, to get my surroundings. John and Arthur are out cold at either end of the sofa. Headlights filter through the curtains, giving just enough light to make out shadows in the room. A car door shuts. Shit.
I race across the room, sliding a little on the wooden floors. My hands fumble in the dark for my clothes, still strewn about the kitchen table. I yank on my underwear and shirt — there's a key rattling in the door.
I sprint and take the stairs two at a time. I don't stop until the door's swinging open, and I'm already on the top landing. I crouch behind the bannisters out of sight. I don't have a gun.
But this isn't a rival gang member. It's Tommy, I realise, as he walks into the lounge and clears his throat.
"What the fuck's going on here?"
I see a light come on, spilling out into the hallway at the base of the stairs.
"Fucking hell, Tom," Arthur mutters.
"We just had a bit too much to drink," John says, yawning.
There's a pause. "Is that why there's a woman's bra strewn across the table?"
My eyes widen. But Arthur wastes no time in responding.
"It was John, the dirty bastard. Likes to dress up in 'em sometimes."
I can hear the pain in John's voice. "It's true, Tom. I could put it on for you right now, if you like."
There's a lull in the conversation. I wait, half-expecting my name to be mentioned. The ruse to be exposed.
There's no way he doesn't know.
"Get some sleep," Tommy finally says. "We're running the job tomorrow. Or, today, as it's now three in the fucking morning."
I'm ready to take the opportunity of John and Arthur scrambling to their feet to slip into my bedroom, but as I twist on the landing, I see Michael's door is ajar. I freeze once more.
He's standing in the doorway, face indiscernible as he leans against the frame. "Trouble sleeping?"
I can do no more than nod. My throat has gone too dry for speech.
"Perhaps I should take a leaf out of Tommy's book and check the living room every night before bed," he says.
I'm not about to let him intimidate me. "Perhaps you should," I say. "Not as though you get up to anything more interesting, is it?"
His eyes flash. But then his gaze gets heavier. "I want to show you something."
I follow him nervously into his bedroom. He tugs on a lamp. It's neat, orderly. Minimal. No decorations or loose paperwork anywhere. His watch is set out straight on his bedside table, and the rugs are perfectly vacuumed.
He crosses the room to the large wardrobe, and pulls out a big, wooden trunk. The hinges are polished, not creaking as he pulls open the lid and beckons me over.
My breath catches in my chest as I take it in.
"Ropes," Michael murmurs, lifting each up as he shows me. "Restraints."
I try to force a shaky laugh. "What are you, some sort of killer?"
"That's not what these are for." He raises an eyebrow and keeps going. "Spanking paddles. This one's my favourite." He holds up a thick, wooden paddle. "Blindfolds. Tape."
"Why?" I whisper.
"Do you like butter on your toast, Bancroft?" He asks.
"Of course I do."
"Of course you do," he repeats. "Why not just tip milk all over your bread instead? Straight from the cow."
"Because... well, because..."
"Because the butter's better," he answers for me. "Because if you put the extra time, and tools, into the milk, the thought of soggy bread isn't as tasty."
"You use this stuff on women?" I ask.
He smiles. "Only when they ask me to. And even then, not as often as you'd think. I don't need to tie a woman up to bring her to her knees."
I try to slow my breathing. To stamp out my curiosity— now is not the fucking time, I scold the part of myself that's eager to see exactly how it all works. How it all feels.
"What I'm hoping you'll take away from this," he says, "Is not to assume I'm lacking anything interesting. In fact, I dare say most of my nights outshine yours."
I watch as his grip tightens around the paddle handle, his knuckles whitening. "I daresay you're right," I reply in a whisper.
"Now. Off to bed, Bancroft." He turns his back on me, sliding the trunk back into his wardrobe. "Im visiting mum in the morning, if you'd still like to come."
I climb beneath my bedcovers, suddenly exhausted. Twenty-five has never felt so far away, and so close at the same time.
YOU ARE READING
Bancroft - Peaky Blinders Reverse Harem x Reader
FanfictionAfter your father dies, you discover he left you in the care of the Shelby brothers. You're used to taking care of yourself. But soon you learn that's not necessary anymore, with the brothers and Michael all too willing to take care of you instead. ...