Page 6 of Claimed By A Blue Eyed Menace

The words settled over me like a death sentence. A shiver ran down my spine as he slid the diamond wedding ring onto my finger, his grip firm, possessive. He didn’t smile. Didn’t even pretend as I slipped the wedding band my father purchased for me to give to him on Shooter’s finger. And when the priest finally said,You may kiss the bride,Shooter did something I wasn’t expecting.

He gripped my chin, tilting my face up, and brought his lips so close to mine that it tickled. He grinned and whispered, “Good girl.”

The ballroom was decorated in gold and ivory, elegant and extravagant, filled with people drinking, laughing, and celebrating. Of course, I played my part flawlessly. I smiled, mingled, and danced. I let Shooter’s hand rest possessively on my waist as we made our rounds, greeting family members and business associates.

But resentment simmered beneath my skin. I was trapped, and everyone who knew knew. Shooter never let me stray too far. He watched me, those cold blue eyes tracking my every move. At one point, I felt the weight of his gaze from across the room, and when I turned, he lifted his glass in a silent toast. A warning. A promise. I scowled and turned away. But my pulse betrayed me, thudding hard against my ribs. I couldn’t wait for this day to be over with.

T h e r e c e p t i o n e n d e dlate, and I was exhausted. Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. Shooter and I rode in silence, and I was glad. I didn’t have shit to say. I knew my clothes, shoes, and other belongings had been dropped off during the ceremony, and I would be given my phone back once settled in.

My hands twisted in my lap, the wedding ring on my finger like a fucking shackle. This nigga sat beside me, his arm stretched along the back of the seat, relaxed. Confident. Like a man who had won.

When we finally pulled up to his penthouse, I barely waited for the limo to stop before pushing the door open and stepping out. Shooter followed at his own pace, his presence a force behind me. The moment we stepped off the elevator, I rolled my eyes at the guards on standby and turned to Shooter. “I want my own room.”

His lips twitched, but his expression remained unreadable. “You’ll take whatever I give you.”

I lifted my chin. “I’mtakingthe guest room.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t push. He just stared, that unreadable blue gaze locking onto mine before he finally spoke.

“Lock the door if it makes you feel better.” His voice was low, taunting. Like he knew it wouldn’t matter. Like he knew, eventually, I wouldn’t want it locked at all.

I swallowed hard and turned on my heel, walking away before he could see how much he got under my skin.

Shooter

T h e m o r n i n g a f t e rthe wedding, I woke up after a couple of hours of resting my eyes feeling more alert than I had in weeks. It was a new day. A new chapter. And my wife was still locked away in the guest room, probably thinking she could ignore reality a little longer.

I let out a low chuckle, sitting up and rubbing a hand over my face before swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. Rising up, I made my way to the bathroom, taking my time under the hot spray of the shower. I let the water beat against my muscles, thinking about the day ahead. Today was about setting the tone. Parker needed to understand what it meant to be a Mosley, what it meant to be mine.

After throwing on a black fitted tee, black jeans, fresh Timbs, and my chains, I grabbed my Glock, checked the clip, and tucked it into my waistband. Business was waiting. And so was my wife. I knocked once on her door, then used the key above it to unlock it. She was still in bed, wrapped up in the covers like a damn burrito, her dark curls spilling over the pillows.

“Time to get up,” I said, voice rough from the first words of the morning.

She groaned, shifting beneath the covers but not making any real effort to move. “Go to hell.”

A smirk tugged at my lips. “Already been there, baby. Get dressed. You’re coming with me.”

Parker peeked out from beneath the covers, eyes narrowed, voice still husky with sleep. “For what?”

“You’ll see.”

I walked out before she could argue, making my way to my home office. I dropped down into my chair, rolling up a blunt while I waited. Forty minutes later, she walked in. Annoyed. Beautiful. Her long legs were on full display beneath a fitted black dress, and her skin glowed even under the dull lighting.

I exhaled a slow stream of smoke, letting my gaze drag over her before I leaned back in my chair. “Took you long enough.”

Parker folded her arms. “I’m only coming because if I stay here, I might actually break something.”

“Try it and see how that works out for you,” I said smoothly, pushing up from my chair. “Come on.” The moment we were in my car, I laid down the law. “You’re my wife now, so let’s get some shit straight.” I gripped the wheel with one hand, the other tapping lightly against my thigh. “You’re gonna act like it. That means no fucking around with other niggas, no embarrassing me, and you keep all that ratchet shit to a minimum.”

Parker let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, so I have to be your obedient little wife now?”

I glanced at her, amused by her sarcasm. “You’re catchin' on.”

She rolled her eyes. “This ain't the 1800s, Shooter. I might’ve been forced into this marriage, but you can’t force me to play the role you want.”

I smirked. “Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

The rest of the ride was quiet, tension simmering in the space between us. She was fighting this with every ounce of strength she had, and I respected it. Hell, I liked it. But at the end of the day, it didn’t change a damn thing.

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