𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐒
❝ They're the French Kissers,
that's what they do.
They will lure you in
and then they'll kill you
with a kiss. ❞
━ in which the leader of the french kissers
...
If it returns, burrows into your ribs, devours your heart
and becomes your new heart,
it was meant to be. ❞
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Winson Green Prison
Rose paced back and forth outside the gritty-grey prison, her red-sharp nails digging into her coat sleeves as the cold breath of winter wrapped around her neck as if she had a rope on it herself. Her chest was ripe with guilt: from everything that happened since the Saurets entered her life, from all the death and destruction it had caused, from the fact Thomas' family was facing the end of the rope earlier than they should because of her.
In front of her, Thomas was terrifically calm. He was calm even when his shaggy-looking brothers and cousin came tumbling from the prison's gates. She stood back to give them space, allowing mild relief to flood her veins and warm her against the biting wind. At least they'd manage to save them in time. She could not bear the thought of Thomas losing a family member the way she had. Even if she didn't know them, she would do anything to never hear him whisper 'in the bleak midwinter' again.
She saw Michael first, not missing the way his jaw was set, the flickers of anger in his eyes that if lit the right way could lead to a fire in Thomas' future.
Then the oldest one, Arthur, clung to Thomas' collar like a stray dog to the first person that gives them attention, fat tears welling in his bloodshot eyes. Beside him, Johnny shouted at an impassive Thomas, enraged spit flying out of his mouth in a torrent of curses, his neck strained with popping veins.
They were a home broken apart from the inside out; a family portrait that no longer had a frame to hold it together, to keep it standing. Rose's heart ached; she could do nothing but stare at it from afar.
At last they noticed Rose. She snuggled her burgundy scarf against her neck and stepped forward. The sky in Birmingham was tinted a permanent old grey; a blur of misty fog and smoke whisps that prickled Rose's eyes, but she did not let herself show how much this city bothered her when she stopped in front of them.
"And who is this pretty flower, aye?" Arthur asked, eyeing her up and down as a smirking Johnny whistled beside him. Their anger towards Tommy seemed to subside, morph into something else. "Such a sight for my sore eyes."
"Seems like you've changed, eh, Tommy?" Johnny said, hands shoved deep into his pockets. "You never brought your whores to family business before."
Rose chuckled. It was sharp and shrill and burnt more than ice on skin.
