Page 4 of Claimed By A Blue Eyed Menace

No name. No context. Just two words. I placed the phone down, ignoring the spike of unease in my gut. Maybe it was a mistake. A wrong number. Then, the phone vibrated again.

Now, wifey.

My breath hitched. This wasn’t a mistake. I knew, deep in my bones, who it was before I even saved his number. I clenched my jaw, my pulse hammering as I swung my legs over the side of my bed. I wanted to ignore him, to pretend like I hadn’t seen it. But something told me Shooter wasn’t a nigga who liked being ignored.

Grabbing my robe, I slipped into a pair of slippers and crept downstairs, moving as quietly as I could through the Whitmore estate. The house was silent, cloaked in the kind of stillness that only came in the dead of night. My father probably off smiling and grinning in the faces of politicians.

When I stepped outside, the night air kissed my skin, warm and humid. And then I saw it. A black Hellcat sat at the end of the driveway, its windows tinted so dark I couldn’t see inside. I swallowed hard, my heart slamming against my ribs as I approached. The passenger door unlocked with a soft click. I hesitated before pulling the door open and sliding into the leather seat, the scent of weed smoke and expensive cologne wrapping around me like a noose.

Shooter sat in the driver’s seat, one hand draped lazily over the steering wheel, the other resting against his thigh. His blue eyes cut through the darkness, pinning me in place.

I forced myself to meet his gaze, refusing to show an ounce of fear. “What do you want?”

His lips twitched, like he found me amusing. Like this was a game. “Glad you decided to listen,” he said smoothly.

I folded my arms. “I could’ve ignored you.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “But you knew better.”

My jaw tightened. “Say what you need to say.”

Shooter exhaled, his amusement fading. “I wanna make something clear.” He turned to face me fully, his presence suffocating in the small space. “This marriage is happenin’. Whether you want it or not. And since we’re doin’ this, we’re doin’ shit my way.”

I stiffened. “And what exactly doesyour wayentail?”

“You obey me. Follow my rules. Be a good lil’ wife.”

I scoffed. “Excuse me?”

He continued, “You don’t fuck around with no other niggas. You’re by my side when it matters. And everything you are—your mind, your body, your soul—belong to me now.” His voice was low, edged with something dark. Something final.

I stared at him, my pulse hammering. He couldn’t be serious. But the deadly calm in his eyes told me otherwise. A slow, bitter laugh spilled from my lips. “Y’all are all insane if you think I’m gonna accept this shit.”

Shooter tilted his head, studying me like he was debating something. Then he smirked. “I don’t need you to accept it. I just need you to understand it.”

I sucked in a sharp breath, anger curling hot in my stomach. “What if I paid you off?” His smirk didn’t fade. “I’m serious,” I snapped. “You know I’m good for the money. I can pay you whatever you want and then disappear.”

Shooter leaned in, the air between us shifting. His voice dropped to a near whisper. “I don’t want your money, Parker.” A shiver ran down my spine. “I wantyou.So, I’m gonna have you.” My breath caught in my throat. I stared at him, trapped between rage and something far more dangerous. He sat back, his point made. “We gettin’ married in three days.”

I swallowed hard. Three days. Three days until my life as I knew it was over. And no amount of money, power, or fighting would change that. A deal had just been made with the craziest nigga I knew.

Shooter

I t o o k along drag of my blunt, the smoke curling around me as I drove away from the Whitmore estate. The low purr of my car’s engine was the only sound against the silence, the tinted windows shutting out the rest of the world. My mind kept circling back to Parker.

She had looked nervous as hell sitting beside me, but she hid it behind that smart mouth and pouty lips. I smirked, the memory playing in my head. I liked my women soft, obedient, sweet on the tongue. Parker was none of those things. She was fire and resistance wrapped in designer silk, with a mouth that knew how to cut deep.

She was also fine as fuck. That body? A problem. That defiance in her eyes when I told her I wanted her? A challenge. One I was looking forward to winning. By the time I pulled into the underground garage of my building and parked in my private space, my blunt was finished.

I killed the engine, I sat there for a second, letting the quiet settle before stepping out. The second I walked into my penthouse, I knew I wasn’t alone. I smelled the liquor before I saw him and rolled my neck and shoulders. My father sat in my living room, the lights dimmed low, a crystal decanter of Hennessy on the table. He held a glass in his hand, swirling the dark liquid lazily. Another glass sat beside it, ready to be filled. I closed the door behind me and took my time removing my hoodie.

“Didn’t realize I was havin’ company.”

My father smirked, taking a slow sip. “Your security slippin’.”

I didn’t respond. I knew damn well my security was tight. If he was here, it was because he wanted to be. I stepped forward, my gaze cold. “What up?”

He leaned back, watching me with the same sharp, assessing stare I’d grown up under. “We need to talk.”

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