Page 18 of Claimed By A Blue Eyed Menace

I stared at him, the weight of the silence making him twitch harder. This nigga was trembling, looking nervous as fuck. My gut told me something wasn’t right. I hated snakes, and I hated weak men even more. Gino had been a part of my warehouse crew for years and I never thought I’d see the day his ass would try to play me.

“I can smell a setup a mile away. You know that?” I asked, pulling out my Glock and thumbing off the safety. “You done disappointed me, Gino.”

He stumbled back, hands up. “P-please, Boss! I—I’ll fix it! I’ll-I’ll bring—”

Boom.

The bullet tore through his forehead before he could finish. He dropped like a ragdoll, blood pooling under him, soaking into the dirt.

Ren reappeared at my side, casual as hell. “Cleanup?”

I stared at Gino’s lifeless body.

“Yeah,” I said, shaking my head. “Get the drop on the niggas who hit my shit and send this nigga home to his mama in a body bag. Let her deal with this snake ass muthafucka.”

Ren nodded. “Say less.”

We made our way inside the warehouse, the stench of blood and motor oil thick in the air. Bullet holes riddled the walls. Empty crates were scattered everywhere. I crouched down by one of the busted crates, running my fingers through the sawdust and splinters.

“Can’t believe this nigga,” I muttered. “Gon’ set up my shit to be hit? Worst mistake.” I stood, sliding my Glock back into my waistband. We left the warehouse without looking back, the blood of traitors still wet on the ground behind us.

M y s t o m a c h w a sdamn near touching my back as I pulled up to a breakfast spot and ordered a spread with steak, eggs, pancakes, the works. As I waited, I found myself ordering something for Parker, too. I knew she probably hadn’t eaten shit all day, just sitting around being mad, writing in that little journal of hers or plotting on how to piss me off next.

The cashier handed me the bags, and I peeled off, heading back to the penthouse. When I stepped off the elevator and into my space, the first thing that hit me was the music. Loud as hell. Some R&B song about niggas not being shit, and I smirked before even seeing her.Oh, she’s still mad.

I walked into the kitchen, setting the food down just as Parker came storming in like she was ready to fight. She was in a cropped tank and some tiny ass shorts, her hair up in a messy bun wild, skin still dewy from a fresh shower. And she was looking at me like I was the problem.

I took my time pulling out a chair, sitting down, rolling up a blunt while she stood there, arms crossed, lips pursed. The tension was thick. I licked the blunt slow, sealed it, then finally met her glare.

“You gon’ sit down, or you just gon’ keep mean-muggin’ me?” I muttered.

Her eyes narrowed. “Three… fucking… days.”

I sparked the blunt, inhaled deeply, and let the smoke roll from my lips. “So, you can count.”

Her jaw clenched. “You left.”

“And?”

She sucked her teeth, stepping closer. “You had hickeys on your neck.”

I exhaled, watching her. “You were out shakin’ your ass with your little friends.”

Parker scoffed. “I’m yourwife.”

I smirked. “Act like it then.”

She was fuming. “You left,” she said again, voice tight. “Didn’t call, didn’t text. Just vanished. Then you come back like nothing happened?”

I took another hit. “Pretty much.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

I shrugged, gesturing to the food. “Eat.” She glanced at the bags, hesitating. Her body betrayed her, stomach growling loud as hell, and she looked so pissed about it. I chuckled. “Come sit down, Parker.”

For a moment, she stood there, still mad, still trying to hold on to it. But then she sighed, snatched a plate, and sat across from me. I smirked to myself. Good girl.

PARKER

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