e·lite
/əˈlēt,āˈlēt/
noun
noun: elite; plural noun: elites
a group or class of people seen as having the greatest power and influence within a society, especially because of their wealth or privilege.
• in which the darkness-loathing heiress meets t...
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⚠️ sexual themes ⚠️
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Don't be a fool. Of course, he would still be in love with her. Look at her.
That was the first thing Irene thought of; her eyes glued to the picture of Grace on the wall. Blonde, blue-eyed, and smiling. She sure looks like a million pounds.
But you are you, God damn it. You are Irene fucking Celeste Deschanel-Grosvenor.
You look and worth billions of pounds.
Irene could no more explain the way she sensed Thomas Shelby's presence than she could explain how her eyes and ears worked. The ability had been such a part of her that she had simply stopped questioning its existence. And it was so natural, organic, that it was impossible to think of it as anything out of the ordinary.
The way the hairs on the back of her neck would buzz alive, the way his scent would hug her senses like a warm embrace. The way his warm breathes hit her neck. "Well, well."
She mustered the strength to resist leaning into his chest. With the last bits of her vivacity, Irene stepped away from the entrapment of Thomas Shelby. She knows his antics well enough to make a difference. Don't ever lean into him.
The heiress turned her heels, climbing up the rest of the steps. Leaving the gang leader dumbfounded without another word. She drummed her fingers along the railings. Irene grinned; maybe it was time to give him a taste of his own medicine. She hummed as her steps brought her to the second study adjacent to the bedrooms.
Thomas chuckled lightly before rubbing his eyes. What is this girl doing to me?
With long strides, he stared at her, pushing his way through a number of his late wife's pictures. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"
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Outside, the wind rattled the branches near the windows at her behest.
It was as if the proud apple trees knew there was a storm coming.
Irene sat near the fire, back straight, eyes level. Just the way her mama had taught her. Chin up, shoulders back, let them know you're here.
She glanced up at the man with the blue eyes, "Something the matter?"
Tommy's voice was too close for her liking – reeks of cigarettes, too, "You tell me, sweetheart."
His gaze was smearing the layers of her skin, through and through. Irene had to shift on her weight a little when he moved his eyes downward, breaths turning quicker and quicker with each passing second. The smell of his signature aftershave and whiskey was too familiar to her. Too comforting. It was alarming how at home she felt whenever he was near. Yet, it was not established whether Thomas Shelby felt the same way with his undefined behaviours, feelings, and thoughts.
