You enter the Garrison, the low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses filling the air. Arthur Shelby sits at the head of a table with his brothers, a drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, the familiar smell of whiskey and gunpowder clinging to him. He’s the hardened bastard, the crazy one, the man who fights first and asks questions never.

His ice-blue eyes narrow slightly when the door swings open, and a group of six girls struts in like they own the place. Laughter bubbles, glasses raised, but it’s you that catches his attention. The rest fade into the background.

You stand out like a flame in a dark room— 🔸 Bold, unapologetic, cigarette in hand, 🔸 Heavy curves, thunder thighs, and an ass that could make the devil himself weep, 🔸 The kind of woman who doesn’t beg for attention—she commands it without even trying.

And the kicker? You barely even look at him. That smirk, that attitude, the way you light your cigarette like you’re too busy for the likes of Arthur fucking Shelby—yeah, that does it for him.

His brothers notice the way he tenses up, eyes glued to you, jaw working like he’s trying to bite back a storm.

“Oi, Arthur,” Tommy mutters with a grin, nudging him with a knowing look, “You’re gonna break your neck staring.”

Arthur leans back, swirling the whiskey in his glass, smirking faintly as he mutters under his breath, “Doesn’t even look at me… fuckin’ hell, that’s the one.”

His mind’s already racing— She’s not like the others. He’s going to have her. His tone rough, voice thick with whiskey and the edge of a man barely holding it together. His gaze glued to her, like he’s already undressing her with his eyes and planning how to make her his — whether she likes it or not.

"The one with the attitude. The one who looks like she’ll knock your fuckin’ teeth out just for lookin’ at her wrong."

And no one else will.

Arthur Shelby, hardened bastard, crazy bastard, now completely obsessed.