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81. One Dollar Bet for Misha
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2025-07-10 08:01:29We filed down the stone steps like spectators at a coliseum, but my heart felt nothing like a spectator’s. It pounded wildly, like it was trying to escape. Maybe because it knew I couldn’t. The further we descended, the heavier the air became. Damp. Hot. And filled with something primal.
The corridor opened into a wide, circular chamber with vaulted ceiling, buzzing overhead lights, iron railings above low benches, shadowed alcoves lining the walls. And at the center was the ring.Bare. Brutal.Waiting for sacrifices.Knuckles was already rolling his neck in the center of the pit, shedding his suit jacket and dress shirt with theatrical flair. He flexed like a man who knew the crowd was behind him. Scars rippled over his shoulders. A butcher’s build. His fists looked like they’d been broken and reformed by rage.And then, Misha handed me his watch with all the calm of a man about to check the mail.I grabbed his wrist, fingers ti
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The sound cut through the ring.Misha stumbled, legs giving out beneath him, and hit the floor hard. His palms and knees scraped against the floor.A brief hush.Then someone whistled low. “There it is.”“Finally,” another said. “I was starting to think this was gonna be embarrassing.”But I couldn’t hear the rest.Misha didn’t move. Still on his hands and knees, hair falling over his face, shoulders tight with the aftershock. From where I sat above the pit right beside Vincent, I could see him perfectly. His jaw was angled toward us, and for one horrifying second, I saw the expression behind it.Shock. He didn’t expect that. His eyes were wide, stunned, blinking like the room tilted sideways.My heart seized. He was shocked and hurt.The audience roared with approval.“Down so soon, pretty boy?”“C’mon, get up! I thought you said this was foreplay!”“Shoul
Accidentally Kidnapped the Warlord and Became His Wife 81. One Dollar Bet for Misha
We filed down the stone steps like spectators at a coliseum, but my heart felt nothing like a spectator’s. It pounded wildly, like it was trying to escape. Maybe because it knew I couldn’t. The further we descended, the heavier the air became. Damp. Hot. And filled with something primal.The corridor opened into a wide, circular chamber with vaulted ceiling, buzzing overhead lights, iron railings above low benches, shadowed alcoves lining the walls. And at the center was the ring.Bare. Brutal.Waiting for sacrifices.Knuckles was already rolling his neck in the center of the pit, shedding his suit jacket and dress shirt with theatrical flair. He flexed like a man who knew the crowd was behind him. Scars rippled over his shoulders. A butcher’s build. His fists looked like they’d been broken and reformed by rage.And then, Misha handed me his watch with all the calm of a man about to check the mail.I grabbed his wrist, fingers ti
Accidentally Kidnapped the Warlord and Became His Wife 80. A Fight to Finish
“No!” I gasped. My chair scraped loudly behind me as I pushed half to my feet, heart slamming against my ribs like a fist. I didn’t even realize I’d shouted until every head jerked toward me.For one awful second, I thought I’d see blood. That Knuckles would land a hit on him. That Misha would retaliate. That it would all happen right here, in front of me. My legs locked in place, frozen between trying to stop it and knowing I couldn’t. “Enough.” Vincent’s voice cracked like a gunshot.Everyone froze.Even Knuckles.“I said not at my table,” he repeated, icily calm. “Or should I assume you’ve forgotten what that means, Royce?”Knuckles’ jaw worked like he was chewing glass. His fists curled and uncurled. But after a beat, he stepped back with a sharp exhale, tossing a glare at Misha that promised this wasn’t over.“Sit,” Vincent said, and Knuckles obeyed like a whipped dog. Bitter but beaten.
Accidentally Kidnapped the Warlord and Became His Wife 79. You're Not My Problem
I felt Misha’s fingers tap twice against his knee. I was beginning to recognize it as a rhythm. A warning. Not to me or anyone else, but to himself. Then he leaned back just slightly and spoke in a casual, lazy tone. “What are you looking at, dipshit?”The word landed like a blade between steak and wine. Forks froze. Breaths hitched. A single muscle ticked in Wade Brent’s jaw.Royce ‘Knuckles’ Dalton tilted his head. “Excuse me?”“You’ve been staring,” Misha said, still not looking away. “If you’ve got a problem, say it.”I closed my eyes. Misha, no. No no no—“You know what I see?” Knuckles let out a low chuckle, but there wasn’t anything funny in it. “A man who walked into this house, marked the boss’s daughter like a dog, and thinks that makes him untouchable.”Heat rose to my cheeks, panic prickling along my spine. This wasn’t going to end with a witty quip and another glass of wine, I knew for sure. “I see a woman
Accidentally Kidnapped the Warlord and Became His Wife 78. The Long Lost Mafia Boss's Daughter
“Gentlemen, this is my long lost daughter, Lorraine. She’ll be staying here with me, as it always should have been.”Vincent let it sit in the air like a brand.“And this is her husband… Misha Ashford.”The pause between those introductions said more than any threat ever could. But Misha gave a small, respectful nod but made no effort to hide the smile playing at the corner of his lips.Vincent didn’t look at him again, smoothing the moment over like it had never happened.But it had.Oh, it had.Instead of dwelling on that, Vincent’s palm pressed gently against the small of my back, a guiding pressure that brooked no argument. Instead of steering me straight to the candle-lit seats, he angled toward the balustrade that edged the mezzanine with my cheeks still burning and heart still thudding, I realized I wasn’t ashamed of the marks.Not really.They were mine.And so was he.The rail
Accidentally Kidnapped the Warlord and Became His Wife 77. Love Bites, Obviously
Misha’s arm subtly brushed against mine, grounding me. He didn’t glance left or right, ignoring the whispers and stares that followed us as we climbed the grand staircase.At the top, the hallway narrowed into a mezzanine level, elegantly carved out as a private overlook above the raucous dining below. Here, the wealth finally showed.Polished floorboards gleamed under the soft amber lighting. A single long table stretched like a throne room centerpiece. Gold-rimmed glasses sparkled under the glow. Embroidered runners trailed like banners of old bloodlines. The chairs were tall-backed, carved, and intimidating, looking like they came with titles and obligations. Thirteen seats, but only nine were set.Five men already sat along the left flank of the table, impeccably dressed, eyes sharp and unreadable. Their suits were dark, their presence heavier than the crystal glassware before them. One watched us openly, like he was cataloging threat levels.
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