Page 3 of Claimed By A Blue Eyed Menace

His gaze dragged over me slowly, possessively. “Not yet.” I turned on my heel and stormed off before I did something reckless—like slap the smirk off his perfect face. His voice followed me, soft and lethal. “The wedding is in three days.”

A chill crawled down my spine. I had three days to stop this. To get out. Because if I didn’t… I’d be Mrs. Sebastian “Shooter” Mosley.

Shooter

I n e v e r a s k e dto be born. That was the first thing my father ever taught me: life is a privilege, not a choice. You take what you’re given, and you carve out your place, whether you want to or not.

My mother, his snow bunny mistress and best kept secret, didn’t have a choice either. With eyes matching mine, she died the day she brought me into this world, bleeding out on a hospital bed while my father stood there, watching. Waiting. Maybe even deciding right then and there if I was worth the price she paid. He never said it out loud, but I knew what he thought. I was a curse. The bastard son. The unwanted one. I learned to live with the shit.

Silas was the golden boy. The heir. The one people loved, trusted, and feared in just the right way. He was charming when he needed to be, ruthless when it counted. He could talk his way out of anything, into anything, and he was supposed to be the one to carry the Mosley name forward. And then there was me.

I was the insurance policy. The one who handled the shit Silas wouldn’t dirty his hands with. The one who didn’t hesitate. While he was level-headed and handled things properly behind the scenes, I put bullets in the heads of the men who thought they could fuck with our family. While he played Mr. Powerful, I handled the dirt beneath the surface—the bodies, the threats, the whispered names of men who wouldn’t live to see another sunrise.

Silas was the king, and I was the knife at his side. But now this nigga was dead. And my father decided it was my turn to step up, to take my brother’s place in ways I never wanted. I was my own boss; fuck I look like helping my Pops run his shit? But nonetheless, I had to start with cuffing Parker Whitmore.

I had always thought Parker was fine as fuck. Bad from head to toe with her thick ass. From a distance, of course. She wasn’t mine to touch, wasn’t mine to look at too long, not when she was promised to Silas. But I noticed her anyway—the way she carried herself, all uppity but low key ratchet as hell. Parker was the kind of woman who had been raised on power and expectations, but she had never let them define her. And that was why this marriage shit was gonna be a problem. I knew it from jump. She wasn’t the kind of woman who fell in line easily, but she would. She didn’t have a fucking choice.

I ran a hand over my jaw, my patience wearing thin as I sat at the Whitmore family’s dining table, listening to Parker’s father drone on about business, about arrangements, about everything except what actually mattered. His daughter. My soon-to-be wife.

“She can be a handful,” Antwon said finally, sipping his coffee like we were discussing a minor inconvenience rather than his daughter’s entire future.

I smirked, leaning back in my chair. “I expect that but I can handle her ass.”

He sighed, setting his cup down with a quiet clink. “She doesn’t understand the weight of this. She thinks she can refuse. That she has a choice.”

“She doesn’t,” I said flatly.

“No, she doesn’t,” he agreed. “But she’s stubborn. She’s never had to sacrifice for this family before. Spoon-fed. A princess in her right.” His gaze met mine, assessing. “Make no mistake, Shooter. While I am away, your father and I are expecting everything to run smoothly on the business side of things. Silas is gone and well, it’s on you.”

I arched a brow. Who the fuck did this old nigga think I was? I knew what came with this shit and I was prepared to handle my business. As far as Parker went, she wasn’t some delicate little thing, easy to manipulate. She was a fighter, and that meant I had my work cut out for me. I leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “Let me be clear about somethin’, Ant,” My voice was calm, steady, but there was no mistaking the edge beneath it. “I can handle whatever comes my way. Your daughter? Won’t be an issue. She’s gon’ be my wife. That means she falls in line. She does what I say. She learns her place. And if she doesn’t?” I tilted my head. “I’ll teach her.”

Antwon’s expression tightened, but he nodded. “Understood. Take care of my baby girl, Shooter.” He leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together. “You have my word. She’ll be ready for the wedding.”

Ready.

Like she was something to be packaged up, wrapped in a pretty bow, and presented at the altar. She’d hate that but she’d learn. I pushed back my chair, rising to my feet. “Three days,” I said simply.

Antwon nodded once. “Three days.”

I didn’t look back as I let myself out. Parker thought she could fight this. She had no idea who she was fucking with.

Parker

I g l a n c e d a tmy phone, ignoring the calls and texts from my girls, wondering what was going on. All they knew was that I was getting married in three days to one of the Mosley brothers. They knew what that entailed, but I couldn’t bring myself to even speak on it. Not to mention, they weren’t allowed at the wedding.

My father couldn't stand my friends; they were “ghetto” and “beneath me”, according to him. Little did he know, we were all the same, but I was better at hiding it since high school. Truth be told, I needed my girls at a time like this, but I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the phone.

I was stuck. Sick to my stomach. Writing in my journal like that was really going to help. The ink bled across the pages in frantic, angry strokes as I poured out the words I couldn’t say out loud.

This isn’t happening.

I don’t belong to him.

I had been writing those same words, over and over, trying to convince myself that I could manifest them into truth. But no matter how many times I filled the pages, the reality wouldn’t change.Shooter was everything I feared, everything I loathed in a nigga. He wasn’t interested in love or partnership. He wantedownership.And I refused to be owned.

My phone buzzed against my nightstand, snapping me from my thoughts. I hesitated, my chest tightening. It was past midnight. No one should be texting me right now. I reached for it, my breath catching as I read the message.

Come outside.

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