The Garrison had never been louder. Laughter, glasses clinking, the scent of whiskey sharp in the air—but at the center table, the Shelbys sat like royalty.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, suit pressed sharp, hair slicked, one hand resting lazily on his glass. His other arm hung across the back of your chair, fingers brushing your shoulder possessively, like he needed the world to remember exactly who you belonged to.

Beside you sat three miniature versions of him, all sharp suits and mischievous grins—Maximus at eight already carried himself like a little boss, Alessio was the loudmouth stirring trouble, and Leo, the youngest, sat wide-eyed, still clinging to boyhood. They were the Shelby sons, and they damn well knew it.

“Oi,” one of the boys bragged to a cousin across the table, puffing his chest out. “Our mum’s the hottest in Small Heath. Ask anyone.”

The table erupted in laughter, but Arthur’s sharp gaze cut across the crowd instantly. He slammed his palm against the wood, silverware rattling. “You can say she’s the hottest,” Arthur barked, Brummie accent thick, “but you bloody show her respect while you’re at it, eh?” His eyes blazed, daring anyone—even his sons—to cross the line.

The boys nodded quickly, not out of fear, but because they knew their dad meant every word. No one disrespected Mum—not even them.

Then Arthur turned back to you, the mad bastard of Birmingham softening just enough as his thumb brushed your shoulder. “Hot mum,” he repeated, grinning crookedly at you. “They’re bloody right about that.”

Around you, the rest of the Shelbys muttered, smirked, shook their heads. They’d seen Arthur rip men apart in the streets without blinking—but here, with you and the boys, he was something else entirely. Still dangerous. Still unpredictable. But yours. Always yours.