A F T E R

The cool Birmingham wind bit at his cheeks, turning them a deep red as John walked through the graveyard. The land was exposed, higher up compared to Small Heath and without the smog and dirt that clouded the air. His hands dug deep in his coat pockets, bare of any flowers- he didn't need to insult her any more than life already had.

The grave stood at the highest point of the yard, soaking the most sun on the hottest of days and taking the battering of the wind and the rain on the stormiest. The outlet of two extreme: John knew she would have liked it. It was secluded from the other graves too, and the whole area was void of human life, as it always was at such an early hour on a Wednesday morning. It was the only time he could get away, reminders of the past months building, always leading him back to the same place.

He finally stopped in front of the grave, staring blankly at the headstone. Already it was worn, looking as if it had been standing for years thanks to the changeable, English weather. It was not ornate or expensive or self-important, but rather plain and pathetic. There was only one line carved into the dull, grey stone, which already stood at an angle. Only one line that described the woman. John thought it was only half perfect because by name alone she was remarkable.

For one moment only, John Shelby let himself be vulnerable. He leaned down to the head stone and touched his fingers against the carvings, feeling the rough lines of the name against his frost-bitten skin.

ɪɴ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀʏ ᴏғ
ANASTASIYA PETROVNA

There was an added slowness to her walk as she stepped up the stones of the slight hill, working against the heaviness of her arm that hung in a bandage that wrapped around her shoulder. Her body was cloaked in the same, foreign fur that had become akin to a war uniform during her time in Birmingham, paired with the matching twist of crimson lips. A deadly combination.

John tensed as the footsteps slowly met his ears. The dark, morning sky loomed before him, suffocating with the thickness of the fog that lurked against the crisp grass. He knew her by the sound of her steps alone: on ominous sort of clicking, purposeful and precise, the sound of her thin-figured dress brushing against her legs not far behind.

John Shelby turned, letting his eyes settled uncomfortably on the approaching woman, watching her with a held breath until she came to stand beside him, staring down at the grave, a bouquet of white lilies resting in her hands. He blinked quickly as she placed them against the headstone, blocking out the surname.

"Lilies," she said, her voice sounding hoarse, he noticed, as if it hadn't been used in weeks. "My favourite."

Anastasiya Petrovna looked as beautiful as the day he'd seen her last. His heart was lumped in his throat, making it hard for him to speak. So instead, John just watched her, taking in every inch of skin, every slight movement, as if it was the last she would make. With Ana, he was never sure.

Ana. His Ana. He could still not believe it. The day they'd laid her coffin in the ground had been the hardest day of his life. But he'd known all along, of course, that it was not her body that weighed it down. It had been John who'd saved her from bleeding out, who'd followed her every instruction of fixing the wound, who'd told no one of her survival. They'd planned her death perfectly, on a whim, seconds before the fake death had become real.

"How could I trust a stranger when I can't even trust my own family," Ana uttered, her voice barely being carried by the wind.

She remembered that day clearly. It was a pivotal moment, one that had unforgettably changed the course of her life altogether.

And that statement remained as truthful as ever. Her mother was dead, killed by the man who had saved her in more ways than one. Her sister believed she was dead. All that Ana had left, was the connection to a man she'd once called a stranger.

But I'm not a stranger. Strangers don't know each other's names.

That's what he'd replied with, and in a way he was right. John Shelby was neither family nor a stranger. He was the one person she could trust. The one person who knew she was Petrovna in name only.

"We both know that by now, we're far more than strangers," John said, pulling his eyes from her name on the gravestone and instead to her face. He smiled- that same smile that had melted her coldness on multiple occasions. "So much for not trusting stupid English boys."

"So much for not liking dirty Russians."

The quietness took over again as they both looked down at the grave, where the jewels now kept. It was the perfect place to hide them, so long as Anastasiya remained dead in the eyes of her family. But John did not share the same sentiment or confidence. He believed it was a bad omen, and it certainly didn't help that he was the only one who knew about it.

"We've done this before," he finally said, lips pulled firmly into a line.

"Faked a death?"

He nodded, turning away from the grave completely as if it pained him to look at it. "We hid guns instead of jewels and diamonds. They were found and two months later, he was buried in a cold grave."

Ana smirked, frustrating him more than he already was. "Are you trying to say you're worried about me?"

"No," he said sharply. "I'm saying this could all go horribly wrong."

"Isn't that what you're good at? There's always a risk. Without it, I wouldn't have a sling on my arm and a sewn-up hole in my chest. But I also wouldn't be richer than any of my pathetic family," she said, stepping closer until her chest was almost brushing against his arm. "Amongst other things."

John let out a rough breath. "So what now?"

"I can't stay here. Not when everyone thinks I'm dead and buried."

"That wasn't what I was asking," he said.

Ana could feel the weight of his eyes drifting across her face. They passed her hair, which was pinned up, waves framing the sides of her face, then her nose, and then his eyes landed on her lips, scanning them. She took note of every movement she made, letting the corner of one side lift hauntingly as he finally snapped his gaze away.

Oh, she knew exactly what he was asking.

"Of course it wasn't," she whispered teasingly.

"So where will you go?" John pushed for an answer, eyebrows sewed together.

"Should I be telling you that? You could sell my secrets for thousands."

"I'd sell it for hundreds if I was desperate," John joked. "But seriously. It would die with me."

"I know John Shelby," she said lowly, raising her arm to brush her fingertips against the smooth skin of his face. "I'm worried it may come to that."

He leaned into her touch without wanting to, the reaction feeling purposeful, a necessity for his body to be right. She reached up with her other hand too, slipping it behind his neck, feeling the light buzz of his hair. The look on her face held such sincerity, such silent wanting, that it sent shivers down his back. She'd never looked at him with that strength of emotion, of passion.

"We both know by now that I trust you with my life," she said, pausing to run her eyes across him, shifting her hands against his face. "I'll be in Spain. Barcelona. It's close enough to my death bed and far enough from my sister." For a moment, surprising herself and John, she was modest. "And close enough for visitors, I suppose."

He chuckled, dropping his hands to rest on her hips, his fingers thankful for the warmth of her skin and her coat. "What reason would I have to go to Spain?"

"A bit of sun wouldn't harm you Peaky boys," Ana teased. "I'm sure you'd find an excuse. You have too many reasons to."

A sudden sadness washed over her as she gripped him tighter.

It was a sense of grief for a thing that wasn't yet dying. A mournful feeling that clutched her whole. It made the words flood out, holding a genuineness she hadn't any time before.

"I will miss you, John Shelby," she said softly, bringing her head to rest against his. "This bullet hole near my heart could be filled again only by you."

"Don't go soft on me," he said, attempting to joke lightly, only for his voice to fail him as it dipped and wavered.

"I will think of you," she said, closing her eyes. "Will you think of me?"

John's lips were against hers in seconds, pulling her in and out against like crashing waves, the tide against the sea. He was so warm against her coldness, melting the frost that coated her pale skin, fitting so perfectly. Even now, with a woman who was supposed to be dead, and a man who was on the brink of being arrested, the whole world around them felt insignificant in comparison to this moment. The devil and his demon. They'd held that formidable title since the first time they'd shared a kiss.

"Always," John said as he pulled away, placing a kiss to the tip of her nose. "I will think of you always."

"We're the same, you and me," Ana said, remembering the words they'd said to each other numerous times. "We're the same."

"And I love you for it."

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