Page 13 of Claimed By A Blue Eyed Menace

I frowned. “Brunch?”

His head tilted, that slow, lazy blink of his making my stomach knot with unease. “Brunch,” he repeated, handing me the shopping bag. “Where you smile, act like a good little wife, and don’t pull no stunts.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “And what if I don’t feel like playing the role today?”

Shooter exhaled through his nose, his head lowering slightly as his gaze locked onto mine with a dark amusement that sent a chill up my spine. “Oh, you gon’ play the role,” he murmured, stepping closer, his presence filling the space between us like a shadow. “Unless you wanna find out what happens when you don’t.”

My pulse kicked up. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t touch me. But the weight of his warning wrapped around my throat like an invisible collar. I swallowed hard, my fingers curling into the sleeves of my robe. Shooter’s lips twitched, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice dark and edged with something I couldn’t quite place. “Be ready in thirty.”

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving me standing there, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Good girl.

The way he said it crawled over my skin, lingered in my ears. I exhaled sharply, shaking off the unease creeping up my spine. Fuck him. Fuck this whole situation.

Brunch. A public performance where I had to pretend my world hadn’t been flipped upside down, where I had to sit beside a man I despised and let people believe we were a happy newlywed couple. My stomach turned at the thought.

I closed the bedroom door and peeked inside the shopping bag. I pulled out a white and gold Balmain dress. The realization sent a hot pulse of irritation through me. Of course, he’d pick shit out for me like I was some doll to dress up. Still, I had twenty minutes, and I wasn’t about to let him have another excuse to bark at me. I grabbed the dress, a pair of heels, and moved to get ready.

By the time I emerged from my room, I was flawless. Face beat. Edges laid. Dress hugging me in all the right places. If I had to play the part of a Mosley wife, I’d at least do it looking damn good. Shooter was waiting in the living room, dressed in a tailored all-black ensemble—black button-down, black slacks, AP gleaming on his wrist, Cuban shining around his neck. He had one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone as he scrolled, but the second I stepped into view, his blue eyes lifted.

They dragged from my heels up my legs, over my curves, lingering at my chest before meeting my gaze. Something flickered there. He slipped his phone into his pocket, taking a step toward me. “You look good, wifey,” he murmured.

I rolled my eyes, brushing past him. “Let’s just get this over with.”

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my wrist, stopping me mid-stride. I stiffened. “Watch that tone,” he warned, voice low.

I turned slowly, meeting his gaze. “Or what?”

His grip tightened just enough to make a point. “Or we gon’ have a long fuckin’ day, Parker,” he said smoothly, those sharp blue eyes slicing into me. “You wanna start it off on my bad side?” I didn’t answer. Didn’t breathe. His smirk deepened, like he could feel my pulse kicking against his fingers. Then, just as easily as he grabbed me, he let go. “Let’s go, Mrs. Mosley.”

The way he said my name—his last name—made something in my stomach twist. I ignored it and followed him out the door.

The car ride was tense, silent except for the faint sound of rap music playing through the speakers. I kept my gaze fixed on the window, watching the city roll past, refusing to look in Shooter’s direction. But I could feel him watching me. I wasn’t sure what pissed me off more—the fact that he’d forced me into this shit or the fact that a part of me was aware of just how good he looked sitting there, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh, fingers adorned with expensive rings.

I shifted in my seat, arms crossed. “You can stop staring,” I muttered.

Shooter chuckled, low and deep. “Who said I was?”

I side-eyed him. His smirk widened, and he shook his head, turning his attention back to the road.

The rest of the ride continued in silence, tension thick in the air between us. When we finally pulled up to the upscale restaurant, a valet was already waiting. Shooter barely put the car in park before stepping out, walking around to my side to open the door.

I hesitated for a beat before taking his outstretched hand, ignoring the way his fingers curled just a little too tightly around mine. He leaned in slightly as I stepped out, voice dropping to a quiet murmur only I could hear. “Behave.”

I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze head-on. “We’ll see,” Shooter smirked, his grip tightening for half a second before he released me. I smoothed my dress, inhaled deeply, and followed him inside.

The restaurant was filled with all the right people—powerful, wealthy, untouchable. Politicians, crime bosses, socialites. This wasn’t just brunch. This was a gathering. Shooter led me through the tables with an easy confidence, nodding at familiar faces, gripping hands in brief greetings. He was respected here. Feared. And I was on display. A few people whispered as we passed. I caught fragments of conversation.

“That’s the new Mosley wife?”

“She’s gorgeous. Wonder how she feels about Silas’s death.”

“Shooter’s different. That girl’s gonna have a time with him.”

Shooter pulled out my chair at a private table near the back, waiting until I was seated before lowering himself into the seat beside me. I forced a smile as drinks were poured, as conversations started, as my father greeted me with a proud nod across the table. I wanted to vomit but I played the role.

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