Page 33 of Claimed By A Blue Eyed Menace

“Yeah. Maybe.”

He let out a short laugh. “Nah, Parker. Not today.”

I huffed. “Why not?”

“Because you don’t need to be out in the streets with me today.” His voice was final, leaving no room for argument. “Stay here, be good, and do what I said.” I rolled my eyes dramatically, yanking the sheet over my head like a child. Shooter laughed under his breath and walked out.

I laid there, fuming, before finally dragging myself out of bed. If I had to be here all damn day, I might as well make myself comfortable. I threw on a silk robe and padded to the kitchen, opening the fridge and pouring myself a glass of orange juice. That’s when I felt him behind me. Before I could turn, Shooter’s hands were on my waist, his body crowding me against the counter. His heat, his scent, his overwhelming presence wrapped around me, making my pulse skyrocket.

“Poutin' ain’t gon’ change shit,” he murmured, his minty fresh breath ghosting over the shell of my ear. “You ain’t comin’ with me today.”

I exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the counter as he pressed against me. “You act like you’re hiding something,” I muttered.

His lips curved against my skin. “Nah, I act like I want you to do what the fuck I say.” I sucked in a breath as his fingers trailed up my sides, brushing beneath my robe. My whole body responded instantly, and I hated that he had me like this. “Just ‘cause you got the dick last night don’t mean you need to go crazy over it yet,” he teased, his voice dripping with amusement.

I whipped around, glaring up at him, but before I could snap back, his hands were around my throat and his lips were on mine. Quick, deep, and possessive. Then, just as fast, he released me, smirking. “Be good, wifey.” And with that, he was gone, leaving me breathless, pissed off, and already wanting more.

I ended up making breakfast more out of frustration than hunger. Bacon sizzled in the pan, eggs fluffed up as I scrambled them, and the toast popped up golden brown. I wasn’t even thinking about eating—I was thinking about him.

Shooter had the audacity to wake up, look that good, kiss me like that, and then just leave me with chores like I was some 1950s housewife. Arrogant. Cocky. Annoying. I hated that he’d managed to get under my skin. Hated that last night was all I could think about. And even worse? I hated that I wanted more. I plated my food and sat at the counter, mindlessly picking at it. By the time I finished eating, I had no excuse not to do what he left me to do.

First was laundry. I gathered up our clothes—his smelled like weed and cologne, which pissed me off more than it should have—and threw everything into the high-tech washing machine. Then I moved on to cleaning the already immaculate penthouse, wiping down surfaces, fluffing pillows, and mopping even though there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere.

And the whole time, my mind was stuck on him. Every single thing reminded me of him. The lingering scent of his body wash in the bathroom. The slight indent of where he had sat at the breakfast bar. The gun he’d left on the nightstand, a stark reminder of who he was and what he did.

By the time I was done, sweat clung to my skin, and I felt like throwing myself onto the couch and never moving again. But I still had to figure out dinner. I opened the fridge, searching for something to cook. After a minute, I settled on some salmon, pulling it out to defrost while I grabbed a bottle of water and leaned against the counter to catch my breath.

And that’s when the buzzer rang. Frowning, I walked to the security panel and flipped on the camera. My breath caught in my throat. My father. He stood by the elevator, dressed sharp as always in a dark tailored suit, his presence commanding even through the screen.

I hesitated for only a second before pressing the button to let him up. A moment later, the elevator doors slid open, and he stepped out, his sharp eyes scanning the penthouse before settling on me.

“Parker.”

“Daddy.”

The tension was immediate. It had been two weeks since our last phone call. Since he’d been overseas handling oil business. Not that I expected much. My marriage to Shooter wasn’t about love—it was about power. About keeping the Whitmore and Mosley families connected in wealth, influence, and control. I swallowed down my emotions as he approached, his gaze assessing me.

“You look well,” he finally said, his deep voice carrying that authoritative weight it always had.

I forced a smile. “Thanks, I guess.”

His eyes swept over the space again before settling back on me. “How’s married life?”

I let out a short laugh, crossing my arms. “Oh, you know. Just thrilling.”

His gaze sharpened. “Parker.”

I sighed, rolling my eyes. “I’m doing fine, Daddy.”

“Good,” he said, nodding approvingly. “That’s what I want to hear.”

I should have known that was all he cared about. Not how I was actually feeling. Not how I was adjusting. Not what my life looked like now. Just that I was doing my job. He took a step closer, his expression unreadable. “This marriage is about securing our family’s future. Keeping the power where it belongs. I trust you’ve learned to understand that by now?”

I pressed my lips together, my fingers tightening around my arms. “I understand.”

“Then don’t fuck it up with that smart mouth of yours.” His voice was calm but firm. A warning.

Anger simmered in my gut, but I kept my expression neutral. “I won’t.”

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