Chapter 10: The Rat's Whisper
The night air of Small Heath was thick with coal smoke, the streets painted in soot and shadow. Thomisia Shelby walked with her coat wrapped tight,
the lamplight flickering against her sharp cheekbones. Her boots clicked on the wet cobbles, steady and purposeful. To anyone watching, she was the same Thomisia the world had always known — strong, untouchable, unyielding.
But inside her chest, something felt unsettled.
She hated it.
She hated that one man's words had managed to crawl into her head and take root.
"You'll kill me. But before you try, you'll ask yourself if you'd rather have me dead, or the rat in your bed whispering in your ear."
Alexander's voice — quiet, blunt, sharp as broken glass.
The bastard barely spoke, but when he did, the words struck like bullets. She had replayed them all evening, even while pretending to listen to Arthur's drunken muttering and Polly's warnings about loyalty. Even Ada's quiet scoffs hadn't distracted her.
And now, as she cut through the alleys toward the Garrison, she found herself doing something she despised.
Hesitating.
The Garrison was nearly empty at this hour, the tables cleared, the lamps burning low. She stepped inside, brushing soot from her coat. The only man there leaned casually at the bar, drink in hand.
Larson.
His smile was the kind designed to look warm but always carried too many teeth. His eyes were quick, sharp, never quite resting. He set his glass down as Thomisia entered, as though he had expected her all along.
"Thomisia Shelby," he said softly, his voice smooth as silk. "The pride of Birmingham. Always burning brighter than the men who try to outshine you."
She rolled her eyes and walked past him toward a table. "Save the charm for the girls who still believe in fairy tales."
But he followed, sliding into the chair across from her. His movements were practiced, not desperate — like a man who knew the game he was playing.
"I didn't come to flatter you," Larson said, leaning forward on his elbows. "I came to talk about survival."
That made her pause. She hated that it made her pause.
He saw it. Of course he saw it.
"Men like Arthur," Larson continued, his voice lowering, "they'll drink themselves into an early grave. John's a brawler, nothing more. Polly's sharp, but she's got too many ghosts pulling her strings. And you… you carry them all. The whole bloody family, on your shoulders. Don't you ever wonder why no one carries you?"
Thomisia stiffened. He had chosen the right angle — the burden she never spoke of.
"I don't need carrying," she said coldly.
"No." His smile softened, almost sympathetic. "You need recognition. You need someone who sees you not as a Shelby, not as a sister, but as the force you truly are. Someone who doesn't try to silence you. Someone who doesn't sit there with smoke in his mouth and pretend he's already won."
Her eyes narrowed. She didn't need him to say the name.
Alexander.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the creak of the old wooden floor.
Larson's hand inched across the table, fingers brushing the edge of hers. Not forceful. Suggestive. "I could give you that. Power without shadows. Control without doubt. Campbell sees your worth, Thomisia. He sees what you could be — apart from them. Apart from him."
The rat's whisper.
The kind of whisper that might have swayed her once, back when the weight of family felt heavier than steel chains.
But Alexander's words slammed back into her skull like a hammer.
"The rat in your bed whispering in your ear."
Her jaw tightened. For a moment, she wasn't sure if she wanted to punch Larson or herself for even listening this long.
She pulled her hand away, standing abruptly. "Careful, Larson."
He tilted his head, his smile flickering just a little. "Careful? I'm offering you freedom, Thomisia. Don't mistake it for—"
"—for weakness?" she cut in sharply. Her eyes burned into his. "You think I don't know what you're doing? You're clever. Clever men don't live long in Birmingham."
For the first time, Larson's smile faltered.
Thomisia leaned down, close enough that her words brushed against his ear. "You want to whisper in my ear, rat? Don't forget whose teeth you'll feel if you bite too hard."
She straightened, coat flaring as she turned and left the Garrison without another word.
On the Streets
The air outside was colder now, the mist rolling in off the cut. Thomisia pulled her coat tighter, her pulse still sharp with adrenaline. She told herself she wasn't shaken — but she knew better.
Larson had found the crack.
And worse — Alexander had seen it before she had.
That thought gnawed at her more than Larson's words. The quiet Romano, with his silent judgment and blunt mouth, had cut through her armor where others had failed.
And she hated him for it.
But under the hate… was something else. Something she didn't dare name.
Back at Home
Thomisia poured herself a glass of whiskey, sitting at the desk in her room. The ledger before her blurred. Numbers danced, but she couldn't focus.
Her thoughts kept circling back, over and over:
Larson's whispers.
Alexander's silence.
Her own hesitation.
She slammed the ledger shut.
No. She couldn't afford hesitation. Not now. Not ever.
But when she closed her eyes, she didn't see Larson's smirk.
She saw Alexander's cold, steady gaze. And heard his voice, blunt as a hammer:
"You'll kill me. But before you try, you'll ask yourself if you'd rather have me dead, or the rat in your bed whispering in your ear."
She downed the whiskey in one swallow, the fire burning down her throat.
"Bloody bastard," she muttered.
And for the first time in years, Thomisia Shelby felt something dangerous.
Doubt.