***A/N

Apologies for the delay in updating. My Grannie was taken ill quite suddenly, and sadly passed away with my mother (her daughter) and I by her side. As you can imagine, I have been preoccupied, and it has taken its toll on the creative side of my life.

In happier news, I have also recently become a home owner, so I am doing the place up ready to move my children and I in, through the summer

*****MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING. Reader discretion advised, rape, violence, domestic violence triggers

"Tommy wanted me to show you the way," Finn's demeanor is more gentle, befitting of his soft face and gentle voice. He manages to stand out amongst the others; quiet, unassuming. Almost caring, perhaps. You feel safe around him. You suspect he does what he has to do, to get by, because Tommy says, but he takes no joy in it. He is probably thankful to have a more gentle task today. "He says he's sorry he can't take you himself, but he's away on business,"

"You can turn around," You smile fondly at Finn as he responds, his eyes quickly averting as you catch his gaze. "I appreciate your help." He nods as a response, and extends a hand to you. You make the walk in silence, Finn only piping up to announce your arrival. "Thank you,"

"Thomas will walk you home at the end of your night," He leaves without another word, and you enter the bar to the familiar stench of beer, cigarette smoke and sweaty old men.

"Home, sweet, home," A chorus of cheers and whistles follow you as you take up your place behind the bar, and begin deftly pulling pints and filling measures of Scotch as per shouted order.

"First night on the job?" A hard Irish voice cuts through the general hum of noise.

You glance in the direction of the voice as you pour out the whiskey, and crack a wry smile. "Have you not heard of a razor, my man?" You scoff as he ruffles his facial hair defensively. "I much prefer a clean shaven man, myself, thank you all the same." You sit the glass down firmly in front of the man, and he flinches. "As I am sure your wife does."

"I can't say much for her," He spits, pausing to wash down the entire drink before he hands over money. "She prefers other men to me, at any rate."

You refill the glass slowly, filling it almost to the brim. He hands you another coin, and you slide it under the counter. "I know that," You close your hands around the bottle, lost in thought for a moment before you return it to the shelf. "Only too well."

"A pretty girl like yourself?" His voice grows harsher with each mouthful he takes. "He must be a fuckin' idiot to have played away from home." He toys with his glass.

"There was only one idiot in that relationship, and it wasn't him."

"I hear ya,"

It could be an hour or ten that pass as you speak to Mr. Irish; the other tender has long since disappeared, and there are only three other stragglers strewn about the pub, each in an advanced state of inebriation, crashing in to tables, knocking chairs flying and stumbling stupidly towards the back exit to relieve themselves every now and again. You are taken quite by surprise at the sound of the bell, and an authoritative voice calling out for last orders. A wretched looking Thomas Shelby drapes himself across the bar towards you, gesturing vaguely for a measure of whiskey, which you oblige without a word. Liam stumbles stupidly towards Tommy, perhaps thinking for a moment of sizing him up, but his voice comes out as a pinched whisper. "Mister Shelby," He swallows audibly. "What brings you here?" Liam follows the gaze of Tommy to the back of your head, as you reach to bring down some toxic liquid from the highest shelf. "Oh," He sniffs. "Oh!" He holds up his hands in a display of defeat and he backs away. "Eva, it's been wonderful speaking with you," He turns to Tommy, "Mister Shelby," You turn to him and smile, taking his empty glass from his hand.

"The pleasure is all mine," You don't miss the hard glare Tommy is giving you as you shake Liam's hand. "I will see you again, I'm sure."

"Maybe," Liam's eyes dart to Tommy, and he turns on his heels, making a quick retreat through the back exit.

"Getting friendly with the locals already, I see, Eva," Tommy's tone is cold.

"It's all part of the job, Thomas. Our feminine charms are there to be used." You speak as you clean, moving from table to table, clearing up all manners of liquid and fluids, some of which you would rather keep a mystery. The final louts vacate, leaving just you, Tommy, and a heavy silence. The mop scratches lightly against the wooden floorboards, and you wait for Tommy's next move. He remains static until you are done. The atmosphere between the two of you envelopes you on your walk home, and makes for an uneasy silence as you enter your house, Tommy mere paces behind you. You toy with the idea of shouting, but your remaining common sense settles the idea away. "Is there something on your mind?" In a flash, Tommy is flush against you, his chest heaving, his lips hot and sweet against your own. One hand is knotted in your hair, the other pressing your hand against the wall. There is a graze of teeth as he pulls away, and you're both panting. Your fingers brush over a sticky patch on his cheek, blood. "Yours?" Tommy's hand flicks to inspect, but he doesn't respond to your question, and he's out the door in a flurry. Your heart continues to thunder in your chest long after he has gone, and you find sleep in the bottom of a pitcher of whiskey.

The morning brings vomit and another searing headache, not even a wet rag can bring ease to. Your promise to yourself to avoid any form of alcohol forevermore clearly broken as you spot the empty bottle laid on the floor next to the chair you had passed out in the previous night. Memories are hazy, but you don't doubt that lead brute, Thomas Shelby had indeed put in a move and kissed you. Hours pass and the nausea and pain eventually begin to fade. As the darkness draws in, you ready yourself for another evening serving up sleazy drunken louts. Your least revealing outfit chosen and donned, you start the fifteen minute walk to The Travellers Tavern, looking up only to dodge out of the way of oncoming people and horses. The noises and stenches of the city rumble through you, bringing back that troubling cough. Soon enough, you have taken up your place behind the bar, and your time is spent avoiding the smell of alcohol, and rejecting inappropriate offers from tonight's round of traveling men. You recognize a few hard, reddened faces sitting in a cloud of smoke near to the back exit, but the larger number are passing strangers, stopping for refreshment planning then to head upstairs to spend the night before continuing whatever journey they are embarking on. There is no sign of Liam from the night before. It isn't a moment too soon when you ring the bell and call for last orders, and begin to wipe down unused surfaces. Your own stomach churns and spasms as the final patrons file out, and you promise to stop by the bakery two doors down and buy a loaf of bread to keep starvation at bay. You're not entirely sure what and when you last ate.

Taking a wrong turning in the streets of Birmingham in the small hours of a Friday night is far from advisable. "Fuck." Your eyes scan your surroundings for anything familiar, but you continue to walk in relative blindness, hoping to stumble upon something to reroute you. A dead end presents itself to you, and you swear internally, turning on your heels to retrace your steps.

"Still got a mouth like a fuckin' sailor, Eva." Out of nowhere, you are knocked heavily to the floor. "Suits the cheap little street walker you are."

You gasp for breath, and fumble stupidly for something to hold on to. "Daniel."

"I had a little visit from your new boyfriend," Those hands are still as rough as they ever were, as he heaves you to your feet and pushes you into the wall. "Or client. Or whatever the fuck," He accentuates the word, squeezing his hand around your throat and knocking your head back against the wall, "the little weasel is." The familiar feeling of panic overcomes you, and you feel yourself start to black out. You don't even try to put up a fight. He broke your arm last time you tried. "Brought his little mates with him, too. All dressed up fancy. Don't know who they're playing with," You feel the fingers of his spare hand dig in to your hip, surely hard enough to break the skin. "But you do, little Eva, don't you, my love?" Your lack of an answer earns you a heavy punch to the mouth. The tears prickle, but you don't dare sob. "Don't you?" His voice is louder, harder, but he knows not to make too much of a scene. There are people nearby. You nod, keeping your eyes closed, and draw in a shaky breath as he releases the grip on your throat. "You know exactly who I am," He kisses you, his lips hot and wet, and the stench of alcohol thick on his breath. "I can remind you who I am, Eva," He kisses you again, his hands straying lower, hitching up your skirt and working to remove your underwear. "I can remind you exactly who the fuck I am," His fingers press inside you for just a moment, then his hikes up your leg and pushes his manhood inside you. Your tears stream, but you stay silent, unmoving, and you don't fight back as he pumps himself roughly in and out of you. He spins you, and pushes your head down, cracking your cheek against the wall, and he pulls back your head, using it as leverage as he forces his length in and out of you until he finally groans his completion, sagging and panting. "That's right." He shoves you to the floor, and you wait, but not for long. Fists and feet strike you in quick, hard succession, you're sobbing, but you're not stupid enough to scream. Daniel leans close to you, and through fuzzed vision, you can see deep gouges around his swollen eyes. Peaky Blinders. "Tell your boyfriend I say hi," He spits on you, and delivers one final kick to your stomach before he stomps off into the darkness. And you gladly let the darkness take over.