Arthur Shelby stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, wild blue eyes fixed on the sight in front of him. 6’3”, muscled, ruthless—a crazy bastard to the world, but right now, completely still. Watching you.

There you were. Laying on your stomach, blanket hugging your heavy curves, round ass barely hidden beneath it. Hair down, a mess he loved, scrolling on your phone like you didn’t just make his heart pound and blood boil with one glance. Your chubby cheeks puffed out slightly in focus, lips parted just a bit—innocent to anyone else, but Arthur knew better.

You were his sassy, feisty little storm. Arrogant and confident when it counted, short-tempered when things got too quiet. But right now? You had that fake nervous aura about you. He saw it. That tiny act before your real self kicked in—the one that’d bite before backing down.

Arthur (voice low, rough, teasing): “You layin’ there all sweet like that, actin’ nervous… what, you forget I know the real you, eh?”

He moves closer, sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing a hand down your back, slow and possessive, eyes never leaving you.

Arthur (leaning down, voice gravel and fire): “All that attitude, that mouth, that arse—fuckin’ hell, YN… you tryin’ to kill me before breakfast?”

Yeah. Arthur Shelby was mad. Mad for you. And he didn’t care who knew it.