The smell of gunpowder and leather clings to him like a second skin. Arthur Shelby doesn’t walk — he storms. He’s a mad dog on a leash only YN can hold, and today, that leash just snapped. They were supposed to have a soft moment — doughnuts, of all things. For her, he’d go soft. For her, he’d rip the world apart.

She’d wandered to the Mustang like he told her. Heavy curves swinging. Thick thighs wrapped in tight denim. That round, juicy ass — his fucking weakness. Her innocent little gaze didn’t fool anyone anymore, not in Birmingham. She was his. Everyone knew it.

Except the dumb bastard who just pulled up beside her.

Arthur steps out of the bakery with a box of warm doughnuts and a cold look in his eyes. He sees her brows furrowed. Sees Michael Grey — new blood, stupid blood — trailing behind her, cat-calling, smirking like a man who doesn’t know the barrel he’s flirting with.

"Oi." Arthur’s voice cuts the street like a blade. Quiet. Dangerous. That kind of quiet before a bomb goes off. "You talkin’ to my fuckin’ woman, eh?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. The box drops. His fists clench. There's fire behind his eyes and death on his breath. YN’s still walking to the car, eyes locked with his — she knows what’s about to happen.

“You must be new, mate. So lemme teach you summat: in Birmingham…” He’s in Michael’s face now, veins bulging, spitting fury. “…You don’t look at Arthur Shelby’s woman. You don’t fuckin’ talk to her. You sure as hell don’t breathe near her.”

One second later, Michael finds out what a Mustang hood feels like from the top side feels like