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Ruth Boswell stood at the edge of the stables, arms folded, jaw tight, watching as her father, Abram Boswell, clasped hands with Tommy Shelby. The gesture was firm, final, the kind of handshake that sealed fates as much as it did deals. She knew the weight of it. Another agreement made in the name of survival. Another inch of their independence handed over to the Peaky Blinders.

The details were simple enough—three of their finest Romani-bred horses in exchange for a cut of the Shelbys' betting profits. On paper, it sounded reasonable. In reality, it was another step toward ruin. The Boswells had built their name on horses, not smuggling, not back-alley bloodshed, and certainly not by standing in the shadow of the Shelbys. But her father, ever the old-world loyalist, saw Tommy Shelby as something close to a necessary evil. "Better to be standing beside them than against them," he'd always said.

Ruth had spent too many years swallowing her fury, but tonight, it burned sharp in her chest. She knew what was coming before she even turned to leave.

"Don't start, Ruth," Abram said, his voice weary but firm.

She halted mid-step, fists clenching. "You just traded three horses that could have won us more in a single race than whatever cut they're giving you." She turned back to face him. "We're being used."

Abram sighed, rubbing at his temples. "We are surviving."

"No," Ruth shot back, voice low but steady. "We are dying slowly, deal by deal."

Before her father could argue, Tommy's voice cut through the night. "If you're done lecturing him, Boswell, I'd like a word."

She exhaled sharply, leveling her gaze at him. He looked unbothered as ever, hands tucked into his pockets, cigarette hanging from his lips. The firelight from the nearby forge cast shadows across his face, deepening the lines carved there by war and business alike.

"Nothing you have to say will make me think this was a good idea," Ruth muttered.

Tommy exhaled smoke, tilting his head slightly. "It's business, love. Thought you'd understand that by now."

She bristled but said nothing. There was no winning with him, not like this.

Instead, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving the men to talk business in hushed, knowing tones.

The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and hay as Ruth worked in the stables, tending to a colt that had gone lame. The lantern beside her cast flickering light over the wooden walls, her hands deft as she wrapped a bandage around the animal's leg. It was steady work, methodical. It kept her thoughts from turning to things she couldn't change.

And then came the knock.

Three short raps against the wooden frame of the open stable door. Ruth tensed. Few people came calling at this hour, and even fewer knocked.

She turned, already knowing who it would be.

Tommy stood there, his white shirt half undone, stained with blood. His coat was draped over one shoulder, his face impassive despite the deep cut just above his ribs. The sight of him like this—bleeding, wordless, standing in her doorway like a ghost from another life—sent something sharp through her chest.

"You still good with a needle?" he asked, voice low, edged with something almost amused despite the pain.

Ruth swallowed, pushing down the flood of memories that came with those words.

The battlefield. The makeshift hospitals. The smell of iron and mud, the frantic race to keep men alive. Tommy, younger but just as broken, staring up at her as she pressed a cloth to a wound that wasn't as deep as the ones no one could see.