Page 1 of Claimed By A Blue Eyed Menace

She was promised to power. He was born to kill.

Parker Whitmore was raised in a world where image is everything and loyalty is law. As the poised, sharp-tongued daughter of a respected businessman with criminal ties, she always knew her future would be strategic—but never did she expect to wake up married to Sebastian “Shooter” Mosley, the city’s most feared, unhinged enforcer. Cold-blooded and deadly with an icy blue stare that silences rooms, Shooter is the last man she ever wanted.

What begins as a forced arrangement rooted in power quickly spirals into something neither of them saw coming. Shooter is used to obedience, not attitude. But Parker’s fire drags him into obsession. And Parker? She swore she’d never fall for a man who solves problems with bullets. But when he touches her, her world tilts—and her rules start to crumble.

In a marriage built on control, secrets, and enemies at every turn, they’ll have to decide if love is worth falling into or if it will be the very thing to destroy them.

Parker

I n e v e r w a n t e dto marry Silas Mosley.

When my father, Antwon Whitmore, sat me down in his office, his dark eyes filled with expectations I had spent my entire life trying—and failing—to outrun, I knew my fate had been sealed. He spoke of legacy, of power, of the importance of alliances. Of duty. Of bullshit.

“You are aWhitmore,”he told me, as if that explained everything. And in this world, it did.

The Whitmore name was a currency, a weapon, a crown. We built empires with our last name, forged futures through cold, calculated moves disguised as business deals. And my engagement to Silas Mosley had been one of those moves—two dynasties coming together to ensure control over the streets, underworld, and industries that most people never even thought twice about.

Drugs. Guns. Oil. Private security firms. Things that operated in the background of society, quietly influencing everything from politics to power shifts in global markets. The Mosleys were kings in their own right, just as my father was. And in this world, a contract was binding. Even if that contract came in the form of a wedding ring. I was expected to smile. To accept. To do what was required of me.

Silas was handsome but corny in the way niggas born into wealth often were. He knew how to wear a suit, how to turn on a smile that made people believe he was someone worth trusting. But I knew better. I had spent enough time around his kind to recognize the lies beneath the charisma. A son tied to a gangsta.I tried everything to get out of it. I pleaded, I bargained, I threatened. My father remained unmoved, his face carved from granite as he reminded me,You were never meant to choose, Parker.

Then, Silas turned up dead.

It happened in the silence of the night. A single bullet to the skull, execution-style. No witnesses. No suspects. No hesitation. One moment he was alive, a living, breathing problem I had been trying to untangle myself from, and the next… he was a corpse in a pool of blood. The news broke before dawn, whispered through the city like a ghost. By the time the sun rose, every major power player in Havencrest knew: Silas Mosley was dead.

Just my fucking luck, right? For the first time in months, I could breathe. But I should have known it wasn’t over. Two days later, I sat in my father’s study, watching the tension gather like a storm between him and Silas’s father, Seth Mosley. They were friends or something like it. A bond built on blood and loyalty.

“The alliance stands,” Seth said, his voice thick with anger. “A promise was made.”

My father’s mouth was a hard, unforgiving line. “I agree, but Silas is gone. There is no one of his stature to replace him in this deal.”

Seth’s fingers curled into a fist on the polished mahogany desk. “Something can be arranged,” he said smoothly.

I straightened. A cold chill slithered down my spine. My father smirked, leaning into Seth, his voice quieter when he asked, “What are you suggesting?”

Seth’s gaze flicked to me. Unreadable. Calculating. Then, he leaned back, exhaling sharply. “My youngest will take Silas’s place.”

I froze.Oh, hell no.The possibility slammed into me like a physical force, my heartbeat roaring in my ears.

“Please tell me you have another son I don’t know about, Seth,” my father grimaced, fingers clenched into a tight fist.

Sebastian “Shooter” Mosley wasn’t like his older brother. He wasn’t laid back. He couldn’t switch the gangsta off. He wasn’t easygoing. He wasn’t the type to stand in the spotlight, flashing his wealth and power for the underworld to admire. No, Shooter was something else entirely. Cold. Silent. Ruthless. The kind of nigga people spoke about in hushed tones, as if saying his name too loudly might summon him.

I had seen him only a handful of times over the years, always lingering in the background watching me like he was stalking his prey. I hated it. I mean, yes, he was handsome–no, he was fine as fuck.

A six-foot-four, two hundred and fifty pound chiseled devil with icy blue eyes, tatted on damn near every part of his caramel skin and an expression that never wavered. Unlike Silas, who was groomed to be a king, to sit on the throne of Seth’s empire, Shooter was never meant to rule. He was always meant to play the background, but he was still a Mosley. And in their world, that meant he was next in line to claim what belonged to his brother.

The funeral for Silas was lavish. Over the top. The way only the powerful and the criminally connected could manage. Hundreds of people came to pay their respects, men in tailored suits, women draped in jewels that glinted beneath the cathedral lights. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and the murmured condolences of those who had profited from Silas’s existence.

I felt none of it. I was numb as hell. I stood near the front, my father beside me, accepting words of sympathy from strangers who barely glanced at Silas’s casket. But I damn sure wasn’t thinking about the man being lowered into the ground. I was thinking about the one standing in the shadows, watching me. Always watching me.

Shooter had arrived late, his presence consuming every inch of space without a single word. Dressed in a sharp black suit, his tie loosened just enough, observing. Watching me. His eyes—colder than I remembered—held me captive. There was no sympathy there. No grief. Just a quiet, unnerving intensity. People whispered about him. Stole nervous glances in his direction.

I understood why. He looked like the kind of nigga who knew how to kill with his bare hands. And I was sure he did. I forced myself to look away, to ignore the way my pulse jumped beneath his gaze. But I should have known better. When the service ended and I turned to leave, he was there. Standing too close. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the raw power coiled beneath his stillness.

“Parker,” he said. My name was a weapon in his mouth, slow and deliberate.

I swallowed hard, lifting my chin. “Sebastian.”

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