e l i t e s / T. Shelby / The Brat Pack

fourteen* ˚ ✦

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Thomas woke up yet again at three in the morning. His breaths uneven, his head pounding, his hands shaking. He turned his head sideward, catching sight of his sleeping son.

Thomas tried to match his breathing with his son's calm ones. It worked, well, a bit. He lit up his trusted friend, Cigarette, as he made his way to the window. The slight tinge of white had started to come up. It must be dawn already.

Even when he managed to close his eyes and unwind his neck, his mind still managed to make him work.

It was different this time, the dream. Thomas dreamt of his lady guest tonight. Lady Irene Grosvenor. He was getting tired of her, tired of his little scheme involving the tart and his plan toward the aristocrats.

The symbolic plan that would satisfy his everlasting hate for the institution. It seemed like he couldn't escape her anywhere, now not even in his dreams.

It was all fun messing with the country's higher power, but his dreams are reserved for his wife. The little safe haven where he could meet his darling Grace. But no, apparently now the spoiled little girl's had taken his mind space too.

"Fuck." Thomas raked his hair back, his legs moved toward the door of the guest bedroom. The frail door was closed, though Thomas had no intentions to keep it that way. His hands slowly turned the doorknob.

Thomas scoffed. Lady Irene was seen to be lying down on the bed, knees tucked to her chest as she slightly shivered. She was stubborn enough to deny the cold and chose to sleep on top of the offered duvet, probably because she thought the duvet was too icky than the ones at the grand Eaton Hall.

Now the girl is a shivering mess in front of him—what a balky little tart.

The aristocrat looked so small in front of the blue-eyed man. Lady Irene would never cease to stand short when standing. Would square her shoulders, tuck her chin up and stand tall on her already high-heeled expensive French shoes.

Would walk into the room knowing about everything in it from the roots of a company they were dealing with to how expensive a gentleman's binoculars were, yet so oblivious on how the actual world works. How ferocious it is.

Irene Grosvenor is the type of woman to look at a villain doe-eyed, then chuck her middle fingers up before kicking the villain on the knob.

A sliver of silvery scar caught Thomas's attention. Stab wounds, it looked like. He knew this much from his days in the war. His comrades would have dozens of this but still managed to fight. He took a drag of his Cigarette as he tried to move closer. Irene was sleeping soundly, her nightgown strap slightly slipping from her shoulders.

Thomas has done countless unforgivable sins, yet he felt reluctant to peep the heiress' already-revealed skin.

Why are you reading too much into this, Thom, eh? Just fucking look at her fucking shoulders. You've looked at hundreds of naked shoulders; Thomas shook his head violently. He felt silly. He felt like an arsehole who contemplates the littlest things, including this absurd notion.

When he turned his head back to the bed, Lady Irene was lying on her back.

Sprawled on his guest bed like a fucking angel who fell from fucking heaven, looking fucking majestic.

Her hair spilt all over the pillow, her pink lips slightly apart, nose flushed from being exposed to the coldness. Even when she's sleeping, she takes breathes away.

She managed to steal his smoke-filled one unconsciously.

If Thomas can wake her and have her here, right fucking now, he fucking would. Fuck the aristocrat just because he can. But he won't.

He still remembers what he wants. Irene, begging. And the irony of it that he enjoys.

Once again, the icy blue eyes of Thomas Shelby drifted to the scar. It was clear now, shining under the moonlight. He noticed the fault was not only on Her Excellency's back but also near her collarbone. The scar was smaller on the front but definitely visible. Without notice, Thomas's brows scrunched together.

Now, why would the most upkept woman in the whole United Kingdom have scars as severe as this?

What exactly- No, How did she get these stabs?

Thomas studied closer, his head practically hovering above Irene's neck, inches away from touching his lips on it. He could feel her hot breath on his own naked neck.

What do you care, Thomas?

Yeah, what does he care? He doesn't care, he insisted. He doesn't give a flipping fuck about the girl and her wounds.

Just like he doesn't realize when his breath slightly quickens every time the socialite would go near him. Or how the hairs on his body would prickle every time he sees her tie her hair up to a neat bun, exposing her neck; as she pores her attention on his company's legal papers.

How he would find it amusing when she would unconsciously remind everyone that she was the daughter of a duke and whine about the mountainous work she has to do.

He doesn't care even when his stomach would drop every time she smiles and laughs with her sister, or how he would find it very disturbing every time she would giggle along with Michael or pinch Finn's cheeks. For fuck's sake, the boy's seventeen.

No, he doesn't care. Nor would he ever.

Irene was only going to be one of his milestones. One of the mountains he will conquer. Alongside this partnership, he has with her father, where she would come in handy. Other than that, Irene will only be another pawn in his grand game of chess. That's it, no more.

But why did the moon seemed to shine so much brighter when he traced the outline of her lips?