Page 98 of Captain's Claim

"I know," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I know, Sophia. It's bull shit."

And just as I'm about to pull her into my arms, I hear it. The click of a camera. The whirr of a shutter.

I turn, and there they are.

Paparazzi. Fucking vultures. Feeding on our private moment.

"Hey!" My roar echoes across the parking lot as the photographer bolts, his dark shape darting between cars like a startled meerkat on cocaine.

The camera bounces against his chest as he scrambles away, making a scene and collecting every hard glance from the parents who are just trying to take their kids home after a damn hockey match.

I take two steps to follow, my blood burning hot, but Sophia's hand catches my arm.

"Don't." Her fingers dig into my jacket. "It'll only make it worse, Blake."

She's right. Fuck, she's right.

But that doesn't stop the rage coursing through me.

This is exactly why I've kept my life private, why I've built walls around everything that matters. The media, the vultures - they don't care who they hurt or what they destroy as long as they get their fucking story.

I pull Sophia close, tucking her against my chest. We just stand there, and I hold her for as long as we both need. Her breath is stuttered and shaky against my neck.

"I can handle this," she whispers, but I hear the tremor in her voice. "I wanted to be strong. So I will be."

"No." It comes out like an order. And maybe it is. "Wecan handle this."

The weight of what's coming settles in my gut like lead.

The articles will keep coming. The photographers will keep hunting. They'll dig deeper, looking for dirt, for scandal, for anything they can twist into clickbait.

And eventually, they'll find the truth about the youth program. About my past. About everything I've fought to protect.

My jaw clenches as I watch another shadow dart between the cars, the flash of a camera lens catching the streetlight.

This can't continue. Not like this. Something has to give.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sophia

Iwake to the gentle glow of dawn seeping through my curtains, my head still heavy with yesterday's media drama. It got so bad, I'd banished my phone to the depths of my sock drawer last night.

The mattress dips beside me, and Blake's solid, protective warmth shifts as he leans over. The rough pads of his fingers brush the hair away from my eyes, then soft, gentle lips kiss my temple.

"Morning, sweetheart."

His voice carries that delicious morning roughness that makes my toes curl. Deep, gravelly, filled with sleep and sexy seduction.

"Mmm… Is it too late for one of your famous steamy morning'snuggles'?"

His hand slides beneath the covers, fingers dragging over my bare thigh.

"Depends," he murmurs, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. "Are we talking theinnocentkind of snuggles? Or the kind whereI pin you to this bed and make you scream like a proud rooster waking up the entire damn town?"

I crack one eye open, fully expecting to see that cocky smirk he wears whenever he’s about to wreck me.

Instead, a steaming mug appears in front of my face.

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