Page 17 of Claimed By A Blue Eyed Menace

I narrowed my eyes as I watched Shooter disappear into the walk-in closet and reappear with just boxer briefs and socks on. He held a crisp fitted black tee, looking unbothered as hell as he slipped it on along with a pair of black designer jeans. I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply through my nose. This silence was making me crazy. “You’re not gonna say nothing?” I tried again, folding my arms as I faced him fully. “Not even an excuse?”

Still nothing. Shooter fastened his belt, grabbed his iced out watch from the nightstand, and slipped it on, along with a platinum Cuban link like this was just another morning. Like he didn’t owe me a damn explanation. Like, I wasn’t his wife.

My fingers twitched. “Sebastian…”

He sprayed cologne and then moved to the other side of the room, kneeling in front of the safe. With a smooth twist of the dial, it clicked open, and he pulled out his gun along with a huge stack of cash, thick and neatly wrapped in rubber bands. He turned and tossed it on the bed before he tucked his gun in the back of his jeans.

My lips parted, but before I could say anything, Shooter stepped closer. Towering over me as he took me in from head to toe. I swallowed, my breath hitching slightly under the weight of his stare. His blue eyes flicked down my body, dragging slowly over my fitted workout set, lingering on my bare arms, my waist, my hips.

Then his lips curved into a smirk. It was the first reaction I had gotten out of him, and my stomach flipped. But before I could even process that, he turned and walked out. Just like that. Not a single word. I heard the front door shut in the distance, leaving me standing there in his bedroom, staring at the fat stack of cash on the bed.

What the fuck is going on?

SHOOTER

I b a r e l y h e l dback a smirk as I slid into the backseat of my Lambo, the door shutting with a solid thud behind me.

Parker’s ass was pressed. I saw it all over her face. The way her eyes had darted to my neck, clocking the hickeys like she had a right to be mad. The way her lips had parted, ready to go off, only for me to strip down butt ass naked and step into the shower in the en suite guest bathroom like she wasn’t even there. I could eat, shit, shower and sleep anywhere in that fucking house. It was mine.

She hated it and hated the silence even more. She hated that I’d been gone for three days and not knowing what the fuck I was up to. Good. Her ass needed to learn. I was her problem now. Her headache. And I’d break her down piece by piece until she fell in line.

Truth was, I hadn’t been doing shit but handling business and teaching her a lesson. And yeah, I needed to get my dick wet, so I hit up one of my old hoes. But the crazy part? I ain’t even enjoy the shit like I should’ve. The whole time, I was thinking about Parker. That smart ass mouth. That attitude. That body. The way she looked at me when she was mad like she wanted to swing on me and fuck me at the same damn time.

This marriage wasn’t just a game to me. She was mine and she was gon’ learn what that meant.

Pulling out of the garage, I reached for the blunt I’d rolled up when my phone lit up in my lap. The number was unknown. I answered on the second ring. “Talk.”

“Boss—it’s Gino—I—I ain’t know who else to call,” the voice stammered, frantic, panicked.

I narrowed my eyes, my gut already tightening. Gino wasn’t built to panic unless shit wasreallysideways. “What’s the problem?” I asked, my tone flat, trying to stay calm..

“The shipment… the guns… we—we got fuckin’ hit! Couple crates gone. Some niggas are dead, man.”

I sparked the blunt with one hand and pushed my whip with the other. “You still at the spot?”

“Yes, sir,” he rushed out.

“Aight.” I hung up before he could say another word. The streets blurred past me as I gripped the wheel tightly, my trigger finger already itching. I called Ren on the way. “Hit on warehouse seventeen,” I barked before he even said hello.

He huffed, already knowing it was about to be some shit. “Say less.”

By the time I pulled up behind the warehouse, Ren was already waiting in his matte black Jeep, engine humming low, headlights off. He hopped out, a semi-auto in one hand, another piece tucked into his waistband. We moved around the back, staying low, our steps silent across the gravel.

I could see Gino pacing near the loading docks, jittery as fuck, his head snapping around like he was waiting to get popped next. He spotted us and jogged over, damn near tripping over his own feet. “They—they got two of the crates. They left out the back in a black Escalade.”

“You see their faces?” I asked coldly.

He shook his head, sweat pouring down his face even though it was cold as hell outside. “N-no. Masks.”

Ren sighed, disappointed. “Niggas always get bold with masks.”

I lifted my chin toward the warehouse. “Anybody still inside?”

Gino swallowed thickly. “One. Damen’s still breathin’ but barely.”

I nodded once. “You got anything else to tell me?” I asked, voice low.

He shook his head frantically. “No, boss. I swear.”

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