Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry! Don't kill me? Please read and enjoy the update? Oooops?

"Dance with me."

Mercy's heartrate picked up to a startling speed, and she was sure her cheeks had flushed to match the shade of her lips. Had she suspected the night clothes might have been from Mr Shelby, all things considered? Yes, she had. Had she dismissed the thought as half-ridiculous, in spite of his frequent references to her scandalous state of undress that fateful evening weeks ago? Yes, she had. Had she thought for one moment that he had also hand-selected her dress, gloves, shoes and jewels for the evening, the cut so flattering, the colour so vivid and enticing, the ensemble so perfectly suited to her? Or, rather, perfectly suited to a vision of her she had never dreamed of pursuing? Absolutely not.

And, more than that, had she expected to find herself being pulled into the centre of a lambent, softly illuminated ballroom to be led around, paraded even, by Thomas Shelby, his hands on her for all to see? Not for an instance.

In fact, so used to being hidden in the shadows of hallways and alcoves, so closely did she associate both him and their dealings with the clandestine darkness of low evening light and shades of grey and black, that she was practically faint at being centre stage with him, so many eyes flitting, staring, probing…

Under the glowing chandelier light, in white tie, Mr Shelby looked almost deceptively angelic – ethereal and otherworldly. But the turn of his lips, a half smirk, soft and taunting, was unmistakably and truthfully devilish. And when his hand found the span of her waist and hers settled softly on the space between his chest and his shoulder, his grip firm and warm, the length of his body only a breath from hers, she felt the world – in all its light and glittering opulence – fall away, and on their own plane she settled into the familiar comfort of oblivious darkness.

It was only then, when the world quietened down and it was just the two of them, Thomas Shelby, so handsome and alluring, Mercy Hale, so out-of-depth and naïve, it was only then, with amber warmth meeting icy blue, that she found herself again as she followed his lead, step for step, move for move. Breath for breath.

Her voice took a little longer to come back to her. And when it did, she hardly recognised it, with its deeper, huskier quality, and the abruptness of words she hadn't thought over properly under the spell of Mr Shelby's proximity and damn near omniscient gaze.

"I can't keep it. Can't keep them, I mean. The nightclothes, the jewels, the shoes, the dress. It's too much, Mr Shelby."

Unflinching, and his own voice lower somehow, quieter, more intimate, Tommy returned, "That's an interesting way to say 'thank you'." The lift to one side of his lips and slight height to his eyebrows informed her he was playing with her. Teasing.

Mercy bit at her own smile, shifting away her gaze in a half eye roll – at herself, Mr Shelby, the conversation, her life – before meeting his eyes again and returning his tease, 'Thank you, Mr Shelby. It's all terribly generous of you. Now you must let me return it to you. All of it." The pause dragged out between them, and Mercy faltered slightly in her stance, conceding with a slight tilt of her head, "Please."

For the third time that evening – Mercy was counting her blushes to keep track – Tommy's eyes dipped, perusing the silk that caressed the length of her, eyes tracking the dips and curves, watching the thrumming pulse, a little hummingbird, at the hollow of her throat beating its wings to stay afloat, before gazing into her. "Is that right? Never thought silk suited me." He provoked. "Certain it wouldn't suit me half as much as you."

Leaving the ambiguity of the sentiment alone – did he mean the silk suited her better, or that she would suit him better than silk? – Mercy shook her head, amused and unsure, not noticing as the music changed and Tommy began to lead them in a sweeping circle, adjusting their frame slightly; his hand descending, skimming, ghosting and then pressing to the base of her back, now that she did notice. And her body responded with a little arch, her chest lifting, without order or consideration from her.

"It's too expensive," she argued, and rightly too – she didn't want to think how much it must have cost, all of it together. She was suddenly aware of the possibility she might scuff a heel, or that the hem of the dress might be trampled by a waiter as they wove through the dancefloor. She was almost drawn away from their secret solace, their grey plane, in the face of reality and the heavy material over her soft, tender skin, when Tommy reeled her back in, a breath closer than before.

A breath stolen from her.

"It's an investment." His voice, quiet thunder, vibrated into the whisper of air between them.

Mercy arched further, finding more space in her incredulity, her body still under the dictatorship of his calloused, thrilling hands while her head tipped back, dark brows knitted and eyes wide, aghast, "An investment into what, exactly? Getting me to sleep with you?"

Tommy paused for a moment, eyes moving between the heat of her ember-ridden eyes, catching alight in her ire, and her lips which formed his favourite words, his favourite sounds, all together a mask of beautiful fury that captivated him. She was right, of course. It was an investment, a negotiation tactic, all in aim and pursuit, all to have her; it might have been a tactic to keep her, as well – for how long, he wasn't sure. But that would do him no favours to say now. And negotiations were still ongoing.

"Into your comfort, Cinderella."

Face softly unwinding, her lips closing on a gentle 'oh', she came back to him, neck straighter and eyes searching his for any hint of untruth; she didn't find it in the lines of his mask, in his hooded eyes, in his unflinching, unturning lips. Her little tongue darted out to comfort her own drying mouth, and he watched on, spellbound, tempted to take what he could now, but caught up in the enjoyment of the chase. "Would that make you Prince Charming, or my Fairy Godmother, Mr Shelby?"

Half a smirk that eased into half a smile, and Mercy shied away for a glance, Tommy's dominant presence leading her to search for a moment of reprieve. It was timed well, as an approaching gentleman looked ready to cut in, to claim a gloved, delicate hand for his own. Tommy's cold glare answered, a promise of suffering, and the gentleman shrank away in an instant.

Meanwhile, Mercy recalled the heat of his hands, so alike now, on her throat, on her body, hidden away in a little dent of Ada's lounge, and swallowed down a tremble at the memory, swearing she could feel the heat of his whisper against her neck once more. She had been doing so well to stay composed, to not remember, to stay on top of it all…

Again, he only answered when she obeyed his unspoken command to meet his eyes, for her fullest attention.

"That makes me 'Tommy'."

Mercy laughed lightly. Of course. All roads lead to Tommy.

"Really? I rather like the sound of 'Fairy Godmother', and I would have thought you would have liked the idea of being a Prince." Her eyes glittered in their teasing mirth, and Tommy couldn't help his smile widening just a fraction.

"I might be willing to compromise at Prince Tommy."

Another laugh, her body fluttering in his grasp, and a slither of pride made its way into Tommy, warming him from the inside out, thawing the thick ice of him slowly, softly. "Do you always use such a heavy hand in your negotiations? I feel like I'm fighting the tide, you're so unyielding."

A deft subject exchange, but one Tommy knew how to control, so he allowed it, confirming without smugness, only honesty and an undertone of a promise, "I've a track record for successful negotiations."

Mercy grinned, nerve out in full, and Tommy wanted to place his mouth to hers and taste her audacity, but was too invested in her next response to do so, smiling as she returned, "Do you always conduct them in yards of silk?"

Tommy spun them, dipping her briefly and pulling her closer, amused by her surprise and consternation. He righted them, inches between them, as he listed purposefully, "Pistols. Grenades. Whisky. Money. Horses." He paused, letting the items settle, voice quieter, more intimate, as he assured, "Never silk before."

Breath a little quicker, from the dancing or the response, perhaps both, Mercy's enthralled expression parted her lips and fluttered her lowered lashes as Tommy watched on, enraptured, "Then I suppose I should be grateful." She caught herself, teased her lower lip with her teeth briefly, and then pestered with humour, "How did you know I wouldn't have preferred a horse? Or a pistol?"

"They're not on my list of your likes." Tommy's response was simple, circular. A knot she couldn't undo. But it was one she could tug and play with, and the spark in her whisky-warmed eyes warned him she would, to his entertainment.

Mercy's grin turned a little wicked, a little taunting, because she just couldn't help herself, though she knew better. She wondered if she might blame her lowered inhibitions on the atmosphere, on the ambience, on the dress, but – in truth – she just couldn't contain herself, always relenting eventually to his needling, and allowing her cheek to rise to the challenge, "So I can expect to see Mr Tessell tied up with a bow in the near future, should negotiations persist?"

Mr Shelby's jaw tightened, though his eyes sparked, livelier than she had seen them, like a tiger who had spotted an opportunity, like a shark who had smelt blood. His voice was low and slow, and it tickled through her temptingly, "You already know how I feel about men in your bedroom that aren't me. And you haven't confirmed my place on your list." He let the silence linger, holding her suspended in his gaze, pressing her with his eyes before allowing her lungs to expand slightly with a simple, final, certain, "Yet."

"I see." Mercy tugged on the conversation knot again, lifting an eyebrow as the song ticked over again, unnoticed. "Should I place a salmon in your office in return, then? Is that how negotiations progress?"

"Why would you? You already know you're on my list." The same image passed through both of their minds, a thrill of a possibility, a flash of a desk, smooth skin, low light. Mercy flushed and thrummed; Tommy reveled and half-growled, "The bow is optional."

Clearing her throat, casting a gaze to the balcony in hopes of finding some freshness in the stifling air, some reprieve, Mercy was inevitably drawn back to Tommy, though her eyes flitted past his, over his face, his shoulders, his white tie and waistcoat, "I believe that particular criteria extended to any member of staff in wet silk. Perhaps one of the maids?" Her mouth worked before her mind, amusing herself in the haze of their conversation that she was slowly losing control of, "Or Glenn?"

Tommy, not a prude and never scandalised, but amused and drawn in by her daring, rose to play her game seamlessly, his thumb beginning circles as it moved back to her waist, capturing her and demanding her eyes on his, which – inevitably – occurred after only a beat. "And here I thought I'd made my preferences clear at Ada's party, but if you'd like me to say it again, Cinderella, I'd be happy to find another dark corner for the two of us –"

"Tommy!" At the sound of his name on her lips, the tone of shock and hurried scandal, the frantic, whispered energy of it, and the heat that it sent spiking through his blood, Tommy drew her in, almost instinctively, bizarre to him and his typically controlled and measured movements. He pressed her body flush against his, stilling their dancing, eyes only an inch away, mouths so close he swore he could taste her. He pressed his tongue into his lower lip, savouring the nearness of her, the almostness of the kiss he was on the edge of stealing, and she felt before she heard his words as they moved through him.

"Now then. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Mercy floundered to formulate something akin to a response, though really, what on earth could she say? His name had slipped from her unbridled, torn from her in shock and a desperate plea to not be thrust back into such a state of wickedness there at the very centre of attention.

Though she couldn't deny it had felt natural, his name so ready on the tip of her mind and tongue. She would investigate that more later, though she had done a swell job at avoiding all thoughts and internalised conflict over her dealings with Tommy Shelby so far; the time had come that she really ought to work through the muddle of her mind.

A muddle made worse by such intensity, such close proximity, such temptation.

Her voice was no more than a whisper, but at least she had located it in time to say, "Does this conclude negotiations, then?"

Tommy smiled fully, beautifully, and her voice scarpered once more, "For my name on your lips, yes. Not for everything else I want from you. Not even close."

Before she could find an answer through her heavy breathing and fluster, Polly appeared from the ether, from the other plane, the real one, where they were vastly outnumbered by light and guests and reality and, it appeared from the tight lines around her drawn mouth, pressing business. She said something about Russians waiting, and an Italian in the kitchen, but Mercy couldn't make sense of it as Ada whirled in beside her.

"Mercy! There you are! Come on, I need your help with these bloody buttons, the middle one keeps popping free and it's driving me manic!" Ada made to tug her free from the viper grasp of her brother, but Tommy refused to relent, eyes still on Mercy's face, holding her in every meaning of the word on their plane for just a little longer, ignoring the women of his family.

"Thomas." Polly hissed, before sending a saccharine smile at a couple passing by, playing the hostess while fury roiled beneath her tone.

Tommy leaned in, lips to her ear, inhaling her sugary scent whilst breathing against her skin, tight and angered at the interruption, at Russians, Italians, and the Irish for good measure.

"Not even close, Mercy," he whispered, before taking the hand pressed perilously close to his heart, squeezing it with a tender gentleness, a private moment now passing in a public space, and placing that delicate hand in the grasp of his sister. "Don't go far."

Mercy wasn't sure which of them he was speaking to, Ada or her, but Ada – exchanging a look with her aunt Mercy had no wherewithal or desire to decipher – with all of her chaotic energy pulled Mercy away and into the crowd, muttering about twenty bathrooms in one house and a not a single one without an occupant or two.

Tommy watched them go, baleful and bitter at seeing Mercy dragged away from him, resisting the urge to haunt her steps, so aware of the eyes around them, hypnotised by her as she passed them by. But where Tommy was hyper vigilant of the attention Mercy received, she herself remained dazed and clueless as she passed through her admirers. He had done that to her, left her defenceless; it took all he had not to capitalise on it, or follow her to stop another man from trying the very same thing.

Instead, he was left to half-ignore the chastising tone of his aunt as he was pulled into conversation with entitled aristocrats from Russia, who – for all their stripped possessions and eradicated wealth and title – still had the air of pomposity and arrogance that can only come from inbreeding and inherited estates.

Underhand deals that should have held his full attention didn't, and it didn't go unnoticed by a young duchess as Mercy made her way back into the room, across to the balcony with his sister, refusing the proffered hand of a man every few steps. His sister had no such qualms about accepting and was whisked away, at which point, being unable to escape himself to draw his Cinderella back to him, he looked to Arthur, nodding his head toward Mercy, his brother obeying and approaching without hesitance. The baying men stepped back as a Shelby entered the arena, and Tommy sipped his whisky, half appeased, half irritated, eyes watchful.

"I am told she works for you." Tommy didn't answer the accented statement, didn't look away as Arthur managed to draw a laugh from Mercy, but he did sharpen his senses to include the duchess, frustrated as he was at having to do so, "Why not just take her, if you want her so much? It is what we do in Russia."

Another swallow of his drink, and roll of his jaw, a little grit of his teeth. Aristocrats took what didn't belong to them; they pillaged and plundered and stole while keeping the gloves on their hand pristine. Tommy didn't want to take Mercy; he wanted to tempt her, tease her. Earn her. To earn every little bit of her.

"My father wanted me to fuck you for the cause. But with a beautiful woman like that beneath you, what need would you have for me?"

Tommy didn't even look at her. Mercy was smiling now as Arthur's arms spread widely, telling tales no doubt, and when she shot her eyes across the room and found his, he had no doubt he was the focus of the story. Meeting his eyes, she ducked her attention quickly, and Tommy could have sworn he felt the heat of her cheeks from across the room. From where he stood.

"I would fuck you for the cause, Mr Shelby. What do you think about that? Hmm?"

Sparing her no more than a cursory glance, done with the duchess and every other Russian under his roof, Tommy muttered his departing 'excuse me', his mind only taken by one woman, and – calling business done – made his way across the room, back to where he wanted to be. Back to exactly who he wanted to be with.

Because they certainly were not done.

I hope you enjoyed the update. Long in waiting as it was! Please review? It's what brought me back :)