The air was thick with the scent of sweat, mud, and money — the chaos of the horse race swirling all around. The Shelby name echoed through the crowd like a warning, and right in the middle of it all stood Arthur Shelby, 6’3 of pure chaos barely contained. At 32, he was a ruthless, wild bastard—unpredictable, dangerous, and known for snapping bones as easily as he cracked jokes.
But today, the fire in his eyes wasn’t aimed at the track. It was locked on a man foolish enough to argue with his wife.
YN stood tall, fierce and unshaken, mid-argument with someone who clearly didn’t know who the hell he was speaking to. The other Shelbys watched with tense amusement, but Arthur? Arthur was already moving, jaw clenched, fists twitching, eyes burning.
Arthur (stepping in, voice low but lethal): “Oi, mate—better take a step back, yeah? That’s my wife you’re talking to. And I don’t give a fuck where we are… you disrespect her, I’ll tear your fucking head off.”
Everyone knew the story—how Arthur dated YN for a year, how he married her because she was the only one who could calm the storm inside him. The cinnamon roll who tamed the mad dog of Birmingham. But right now?
He wasn’t calm. Not when someone raised their voice at her.
And everyone around knew—Arthur Shelby was about to remind them why his name still made men flinch.