Page 20 of Claimed By A Blue Eyed Menace

A shiver ran down my spine, but I played it off. “And what exactly do you need me there for?”

Shooter leaned back again, tapping a finger against the table. “It’s about optics,” he said smoothly. “Niggas in my lane? We don’t just build power. We maintain it. And a man who has everything—money, respect, fear—also has a wife at his side. A woman who shows that everything in his world is under control.”

I arched a brow. “So I’m just a prop?”

Shooter chuckled. “Nah, baby,” he said, his voice like silk laced with poison. “You’re my queen. And tomorrow night, you gon' act like it.”

I scoffed, shaking my head. “You really think you can just parade me around like—”

“Like my wife,” he cut me off, his tone firm, unwavering. “Exactly like that.”

I sat back, crossing my arms. “And if I say no?”

Shooter smirked, tilting his head slightly. “Then I’ll make you come.”

Heat flared through me, unwanted, uninvited. I hated how my body reacted to him, how he got under my skin so easily. I exhaled sharply. “Fine,” I muttered. “Whatever.”

Shooter nodded like he already knew I would. But then he grinned, slow and smug. I grabbed a piece of toast and threw it at his head. He caught it midair, laughing. I hated him. I really fucking did.

After finishing my food, I leaned back in my chair, satisfied and full, watching Shooter as he wiped his mouth with a napkin, like he wasn’t the most aggravating man on the planet. Then, casually as hell, he stretched his arms over his head and said, “I’m bouta take a nap. When I wake up, we goin' shoppin’.”

I blinked. “We?”

Shooter stood, rubbing his chin, his blue eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Yeah, we,” he said, like I was slow. “You need shit, don’t you? Them clothes from your old life ain’t sittin’ in my crib.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I could just go by myself.”

His smirk was taunting. “Nah. I wanna be there.”

I frowned. “Why?”

Shooter didn’t answer. Instead, he pushed back from the table, his tall frame moving with ease, and sauntered toward the hallway that led to the bedroom. I tried not to watch him. I really did. But damn it, he was too fine. Tall, built, moving like he knew he was the baddest man in the room. His tattoos peeking out, his chains glinting, and my traitorous eyes followed the way his slacks sat on his waist like he was sculpted from stone.

God, I hated him. Shooter stopped at the entrance of the hallway, like he felt my stare. He turned his head slightly, smirking without even looking at me. “Try not to miss me too much while I sleep, Mrs. Mosley,” he said before disappearing into the bedroom.

I rolled my eyes so hard my head almost fell off. But I was fed, satisfied, and my mood was better. Now I knew what that stack of money was all about and I planned to blow it all and then some.

H o u r s l a t e r, t h elate afternoon sun streamed through the massive penthouse windows as I stood in front of the mirror, putting the final touches on my look.

Shooter hadn’t told me where we were shopping, but I was going to make sure I was seen while doing it. I slipped on a fitted nude jumpsuit, one that hugged my body like it was painted on. The fabric clung to every curve, the neckline dipping just enough to tease, but not enough to give it all away.

I paired it with an oversized cropped denim jacket, my wrists and fingers adorned with gold jewelry. My hair was styled in big curls, framing my face perfectly, and my makeup was soft but sultry—neutral tones, glossy lips, and lashes that could cause a small breeze when I blinked.

Shooter was already in the living room when I stepped out, dressed in all black yet again, his usual ice around his neck and wrists. I knew the second he saw me. His eyes dragged over my body slowly, taking in every inch, every curve, like he was committing it to memory. He didn’t say shit. Didn’t even nod in approval.

I lifted a brow, smirking. “We leaving or what?”

Shooter’s jaw flexed. “Let’s go.”

When we stepped off the elevator, he decided on the car he wanted to push for the day. The ride was smooth, the engine of the black Lamborghini purring beneath us as we sped through the city streets. The interior was luxurious as hell, and I made sure to get comfortable, leaning back against the plush seat, my long nails tapping against my phone screen as I browsed online for what I planned to cop.

Shooter glanced at me before refocusing on the road. “So,” he said, resting one hand on the wheel, “what’s your favorite color?”

I frowned at the randomness. “What?”

“Your favorite color,” he repeated. “What is it?”

I studied him, but he looked unbothered, waiting for an answer. “Green.”

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