Yellow Roses // Thomas Shelby

Chapter Seventeen

December 25 1918

"Oi! John Boy get your ass in here!" Arthur told his brother as Thomas and I set the food out on the long table. It was the first time I've ever put the kitchen to use, seeming how big it was. I usually had dinner in my study.

"Oh fuck off Arthur," John shoved his brother to the side and took his seat angrily across from him. Martha had died a few months ago when they were all in France. He's not over it.

Thomas grabbed me from behind and kissed me on the neck with a smile. A small curtain was covering the both of us from the table, making me turn and around and kiss his lips. I couldn't be happier.

"Tom," I tried to push him away as his hands moved to my face, deepening the kiss. He groaned as he pulled away, looking into my eyes, disappointed. I smirked in response. "Later. I promise."

Thomas backed away with a sad smile, grabbing my hand and walking me out to the table. He sat at the head while I sat beside him, taking in the smell of the Italian food the chef had made. It wasn't like my fathers, but it was good.

"Before we eat," Thomas cleared his throat, looking at everyone at the table. "I'd like everyone to know that Natalia and I have decided to get married. We've already got a date, we just haven't announced it." Thomas held my hand under the table, squeezing it as he talked.

Arthur gave his brother a pat on the back, then held his shoulder. "We're all happy for you, brother, but nobody is surprised." That Made us all laugh.

We began to eat, cutlery scraping against the dishes and drinks being poured. I kept eyeing the whiskey bottle, seeing how many times Thomas would touch it. He's had two glasses in an hour.

He began to reach for it again, that's when I moved it away from him. He turned to me and furrowed his eyebrows.

"No." I told him, looking directly in my eyes.

"Natalia," he cocked his head to the side, not wanting to fight me on this. Enough was fucking enough. Especially with alcohol.

"I said no more. You've already had two glasses," I told him in a hushed tone, making him get up, grab my hand and lead me to the kitchen where he closed the door, then turned to me.

"What's wrong with a little whiskey, aye? You've never had this problem before." He told me, leaning against the counter, looking at me.

"You've had two glasses." I commented, making him shift his position. "You're beginning to like the taste of it."

"So fucking what? You've never touched the shit, why are you so concerned about how many glasses I have?" He asked me, squinting his eyes and looking at me as if I were crazy.

"I don't want you drunk. You know I hate even having the shit in my house." I told him, making direct eye contact with him as I spoke. He put his hands in his pockets, looking down.

"It just helps me forget, Natalia. It helps me let my guard down. My heart was always racing a million miles an hour in France, the drink akes it away." He told me, not looking at me.

I walked over to him, standing in front of his legs and pulling his chin up to look at me. He moved my hands off his face, but I placed them back off his chin. I pulled out one of my cigarettes and placed it in his mouth, then reached for my matches.

"It helped me before performances." I lit his cigarette, making him inhale it and exhale it. He took it out of his mouth, then looked at me.

"I thought you stopped." He took another drag, the nicotine obviously getting to his head faster than a drink would.