Page 16 of Claimed By A Blue Eyed Menace

Nails flawless? Check.

Shopping spree? Absolutely.

I met up with my girls, spent time at the mall, and even slid into a bar, sipping on overpriced drinks while laughing at their stories. And through it all, I waited. Waited for Shooter to storm in, that lethal energy wrapping around him like armor, ordering me to get my ass up and go home with that deep, no-nonsense tone. But he never did.

By the time I stumbled into the penthouse drunk, half-expecting to be dragged out by my wrist, I realized he wasn’t coming. And that’s when the excitement started to slowly fade.

By the second day, my mind started to wander. Where was he? What was he doing? Probably out somewhere being the ruthless criminal he was. Hurting people. Ordering his goons around like he was king of the world. Making moves. But not once had he called me. And that shit bothered me.

Not that I cared. I didn’t. But I was his damn wife. Didn’t I deserve some kind of check-in? It wasn’t like I wanted him to show up and start barking orders, but this silent treatment? Like, I didn’t even matter? Like I wasn’t even on his mind? Annoyed, I turned on my shows, curled up on the couch, and ignored the way my stomach twisted.

By the third day, I woke up pissed off to still be in an empty penthouse again, sunlight stabbing through the floor-to-ceiling windows like a damn crime scene. My head pounded. Where the hell is he? I rolled over, grabbed my phone, and started texting every twenty minutes.

Oh, so you just not coming home?

No call, no text?

I’m your damn wife, Shooter.

You got me fucked up.

I waited. Nothing. I called. No answer. Now I was really mad. I threw the covers back, stalking toward the bathroom. I turned the water on hot, steam rising instantly, and stepped under the spray, sighing as the heat washed over me. I shouldn’t care. I didn’t care. I was just irritated. He had me all tied up in this damn marriage, treating me like a possession, but now he wanted to disappear? Oh, hell no. The least he could do was argue with me. Something.

I sighed, squeezing my eyes shut, letting the water rush over my face. Fuck him. I reached for my body wash, lathering up, and just as I started rinsing off, I felt it.

My breath caught. Slowly, I turned my head toward the doorway of the bathroom. And there he was. Leaning against the frame like he owned the whole damn world, arms crossed, blue eyes dark and unreadable. Dressed in all black jeans, a black sweatshirt, and chains glinting around his thick neck. His skully pulled down just enough over his head.

And that’s when I did a double take and narrowed my eyes on his neck. Hickeys. Bright. Obvious. Undeniable. A sharp pain hit my chest. My stomach twisted, my heart raced, and I hated it. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” I snapped, grabbing my towel and wrapping it around my body, my hands shaking.

Shooter didn’t blink. Didn’t react. He just looked at me. I stepped out of the shower, gripping the towel tight, fury bubbling in my chest. “So that’s where you’ve been? Out with some bitch?” Silence. I scoffed, shaking my head, heat rising to my face. “You disappear for three damn days and come back like this? No call, no nothing? You really think I’m some dumbass who’s just gonna sit here and…”

Shooter reached for the hem of his sweatshirt and pulled it off, tossing it onto the floor along with a black wife beater. I froze as my throat went dry. Because damn. His body was all muscle; cut, powerful, tatted from his face to his neck to his hands. The cross inked over his chest stood out against his golden-brown skin, and the deep ridges of his abs flexed as he reached for his belt.

He unbuckled his belt, popped the button on his jeans, and stepped toward the shower…my shower… kicking off his sneakers. I stood there, staring. Shooter stripped the rest of the way down, completely unfazed by my anger.

This man was beautiful in the scariest fucking way. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Chest and abs like they were carved from stone. His V-line was deep, disappearing into the dark trail of hair leading to his thick, veiny dick between his long, tatted bow legs.

Focus, Parker. Wait. Did this nigga step into my shower like I’m not even standing here?I clenched my jaw. “Hello! You have your own damn shower!”

Still nothing. He let the water hit his body, steam rising, those blue eyes finally locking onto mine as he ran a hand over his face. He looked good. Too good, and I hated that I even noticed. I folded my arms, shifting my weight. “You’re an asshole, you know that? You’re just gonna ignore me?”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even blink. He just grabbed the bar of soap and started washing himself as if I weren’t even worth a response. Like my rage didn’t matter. And that made me even more pissed off. Infuriated. I hated that I felt this way. That I cared enough to be mad.

That the thought of him being with another bitch made my chest tight. That my heart was racing for reasons I couldn’t explain. I turned on my heel and stormed out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I needed to get a grip. Shooter wasn’t mine. I wasn’t his. This marriage wasn’t real. But if that was the case, why the hell did it feel like he had just played me?

I yanked my lotion off the drawer, aggressively squirting a dollop into my palms before rubbing it over my arms. My skin was still damp from the shower, but I needed to hurry up and get dressed before he walked out of that bathroom.

I was still heated. The nerve of him coming home after three damn days with hickeys on his neck and not saying one word? Acting like I didn’t even exist? I massaged the lotion into my legs, my hands working faster as irritation burned in my chest. Fine. If he wanted to play this game, I could play too.

I pulled on my black sports bra and matching high-waisted leggings, tying my sneakers tight before grabbing a hoodie. I was hitting the gym—needed to sweat this shit out before I ended up throwing something. Just as I was about to head for the door, the bathroom opened and steam rolled out first.

Shooter stepped into the guest bedroom, completely bare, water dripping down his chest, gliding over every ridge of his muscles like a fucking tease. Dick looking like a third leg, bouncing against his thigh. My breath caught, and it took all of my willpower to tear my gaze away.

Snap out of it, Parker,I told myself, turning toward my dresser as he walked out. Still… not… saying… shit.

Oh, he really had me fucked up. Storming into the master bedroom, I sneered, “So, that’s how it is now? You just come and go when you feel like it? Ignore me? Walk around here like you're King Tut?”

Silence.

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