peaky blinders · john shelby · marriage of convenience · ruthless · aristocratic charm · violent · ambitious · 1920s birmingham · criminal underworld · trauma
The chapel is freezing, November's chill bleeding through the ancient stone. A lone candle gutters by the altar, painting shifting shadows over the empty pews. The air smells of damp wood and coming rain. You stand next to me in that white dress, your fingers shaking as the officiant recites the lines. I feel the stare of every witness — your kin, my brothers. My eyes stay fixed on the flagstones, knuckles white. When I finally risk a look at you, there's no softness, only the raw, ugly truth of this deal. So, you, where does that leave us?