All Chapters of Accidentally Kidnapped the Warlord and Became His Wife: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

“You always this stiff?”The voice came from behind me, too close and too loud like a beer bottle clanking against the pavement. I didn’t turn my head. Just a glance was enough to register the approach.“What are you, a gargoyle?”“I heard you cross the street,” I said. “You walk with your heels.”“Pfft. So now you profile footsteps too?”I ignored that. My eyes stayed on the zoning building. The front entrance hadn’t reopened. No sign of Klemens. No sign of the fedora.Roth stepped up beside me, sneakers scraping faintly against the concrete. He had another pastry in his hand. Almond. Sugar-dusted. Half-wrapped in wax paper. Third one today.“What?” He caught the glance. “This look like a crime scene to you?”I said nothing.He shifted the pastry to his other hand, exhaling. “Don’t give me that stare. I paid for this, all right? Paid for yours too, you ungrateful grumpy cat. That coffee and c

I snorted the line clean and stood up. “There. Still me.”“Fucker, you did that out in the open?!”“It’s a public bench, Roth. Not the Vatican.”He looked around again. A jogger passed. The old man with the breadcrumbs was still lecturing pigeons. No one paid us any mind.Then, without a word, Roth knelt and mirrored what I’d done. He moved faster than he probably meant to, his shoulders tight, fingers slightly trembling. One clean inhale. Then stillness.For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then a long exhale, slow and dragged out, like tension was peeling off him layer by layer.“Ohhh, fuck.”I waited.“Gotta say,” he muttered, letting out a low laugh, “That’s good, bro.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and leaned into the bench like gravity had stopped mattering. His foot tapped. His voice picked up speed. “Like, real good. You calibrate that? You had to calibrate that. That’s like a one-way expr

The noon heat burned like a welder’s torch, turning sidewalks into silver streaks. I moved through them quietly, scanning glass fronts and skimming reflections more than faces. By two o’clock I had a string of half-leads and one solid thread. Klemens always dropped off grid every Friday at three, exactly two hours, no calendar entry, no visible tail.That wasn’t golf.I pulled the pattern, ran his comm gaps against transit pings. James sifted the back-end metadata, ghosted tower handoffs, and scrubbed ride-share blurs until an address hardened from noise. Uptown midrise. Sister towers that some developer named the same brand with a 1 and 2 tacked on like an afterthought. Our man’s signal geofenced to Tower One most weeks, service-core level, high floors.By four I was in the service stair of Tower One with purpose.Sometimes the cleanest way into a skittish asset is to come in wrong.Through a narrow pane of tempered glass I wat

Ernest Klemens stared at the folder like it contained a live charge. In a way, it did. Paper cuts deeper than bullets when the ink carries weight.“Go on,” I said casually, “You already know what’s in there.”He opened it slowly, eyes moving in jerks across the first page. The Southpoint zoning reclassification. I watched his micro-reactions. Brow compression, a fractional breath hitch, the shift in posture when fight-or-flight pings his nervous system. Classic stress tells.“You’ve signed similar before,” I reminded him. “Same process. Different parcel.”Klemens’s eyes stayed on the folder, but the set of his shoulders changed. Angles sharpened. He wasn’t broken yet. “You think you can walk in here and—what? Scare me?” His tone had weight now, brittle but braced. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”There it was. The shift from fear to posturing. Common defense reflex. False spine built on habit.“Wrong variable t

I pulled against the cuffs, testing their give. No budge. “Since you liked the zap upstairs...” Truck One clipped one lead to the chair arm, the other hovering near my inner forearm. Skin there thin, nerves chatty.The smaller one I dubbed Truck Two, wheeled the stainless cart closer, towels folded in neat stacks beside a cracked plastic jug of water. Controlled drowning, waterboarding with hardware store chic. Why not.“Silas hates hospitals,” he added, crouching low enough for me to see the tobacco stains on his teeth. “He sends clean bodies out, no complications, no charts. And you,” he jabbed a finger in my chest, “You drugged one of his guys and handed him to civilians. Like dumping trash on the wrong curb.”“More like recycling,” I muttered.The bigger one barked a laugh and hit the switch.Electricity tore through me like a white-hot wire in my veins. Every muscle clamped. My vision whited out, and when it came back the overhead light was swinging harder. A taste of copper and