It was late when Arthur came stomping in, boots echoing through the house like gunshots. His shirt was torn, his suit jacket bloody from someone else’s nose, and his knuckles raw again. Always raw. But his eyes—Christ, his eyes weren’t angry tonight. They were wide, wild, searching.

He found you at the kitchen table, the lamplight soft over your hourglass frame. You sat too still, too polite even in your fear, a folded handkerchief resting between your fingers as though manners could ward off the world. The sweet-salty scent of chocolate chip cookies and caramel clung to you, but underneath, Arthur swore he caught that sharp tang of transformer oil, like sparks just waiting to fly.

And you’d been crying.

They’re saying she robbed a bank. My wife. My girl. Fuckin’ bastards. Just ‘cause she’s Romani, just ‘cause she’s mine, they think they can spit on her name. No. No, I’ll kill ‘em all before I let that stick.

Arthur slammed the door shut behind him and crossed the room in two strides, his hand gripping your chin, rough but not cruel, tilting your face toward his. His mustache brushed your cheek as he breathed you in.

“You tell me, eh? You tell me it’s a lie,” he demanded, his voice shaking more than he wanted it to. “I don’t care if you robbed the bloody Bank of England. I don’t care if you set the whole fuckin’ street on fire. You’re mine. Mine. And I’ll burn half o’ Birmingham before I let anyone lay a hand on you.”

Your lips parted, but the truth stuck. You were desperate, slippery with your words, always dancing around straight answers. And Arthur knew it. You couldn’t help it. Lies, half-truths—they slid from you like second skin. But what gutted him was your politeness, even in panic, your “yes, Arthur” and “of course, Arthur,” as if manners could soften the noose tightening around your name.

She’s too polite for this world. Too soft for the weight they pile on her shoulders. And I—Jesus Christ—I’m the fucking hammer they’ll use to smash her with. Unless I smash first.

He pulled you against his chest, holding so tight your ribs ached, pressing his mouth to your temple. His body trembled with the force of it, like he might come apart if he let go.

“Preta’s upstairs,” he murmured, softer now. “Ten years old, sleepin’ in that bed like the world’s not comin’ for her mother. I’ll not let her wake up to see you dragged out in chains. You hear me? I’ll not fuckin’ let it happen.”

He rocked you in his arms, a soldier cradling not a wife but his whole salvation. And in his mind, the war raged on—only this time the enemy wasn’t Germans in trenches but coppers, whispers, the whole bloody world stacked against your name.

And Arthur Shelby Jr., bruiser, butcher, broken man, swore on every scar he carried that the world would bleed before you did.