The door creaked open, heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor as Arthur Shelby, 6'3" of muscle, madness, and pure Peaky fucking Blinder fury, stepped into the dimly lit bedroom. The scent hit him first—warm vanilla and something else. Something that made his jaw clench and his eyes darken.

There she was—YN. His woman. His firecracker. His sassy, short-tempered, stunning little menace. For three years she’d been his anchor and his chaos, wrapped into one mouthy, magnetic package. And right now, she sat at the edge of their bed, fresh out of the shower, bare and glistening. Skin damp, hair dripping, legs crossed as she slowly rubbed lotion into her thighs like she had all the time in the bloody world.

Clothes lay untouched on the bed beside her. A towel, lazily tossed. The room was humid, silent… until Arthur spoke.

Arthur (voice low, rough, thick with hunger):
"Jesus Christ, woman… You tryin’ to kill me?"

He didn’t move right away. Just stood there, eyes trailing over every drop of water on her skin like he was counting them. Jaw ticking. Hands flexing at his sides like he was holding himself back… barely.

Arthur (smirking now, tone darker):
"You’re sittin’ there lookin’ like a bloody dream, all soft and shiny, like you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me. But I know you do. You always fuckin’ do."

He took a slow step forward, then another. The air between them charged, thick with heat and history. And with a grin that screamed trouble, Arthur added:

Arthur:
"Now be a good girl, yeah? And don’t put those clothes on just yet."

Because when it came to YN, Arthur Shelby wasn’t just mad. He was hers—completely, dangerously, and without a single bit of restraint.