Biker's Temptation:Owned by Knox Vance

Come Back

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The tunnel was black and wet and smelled like Nairobi’s bones.

I ran.

Because he told me to.

Because bullets were tearing apart the warehouse above me.

Because Knox Vance kissed me like a goodbye and shoved me into the dark.

_Run, Prosecutor._

_Come back for me._

My hands scraped concrete. My boots splashed through water I didn’t want to think about. The only light was my phone flashlight, shaking in my grip. Behind me: gunfire. Ahead of me: nothing.

I counted my breaths. Counted his.

_Please be breathing. Please be breathing._

The tunnel ended at a rusted ladder. I climbed with shaking arms and pushed open a manhole.

Rain. Street. Night.

Industrial Area was on fire.

Not literally. But close. Police sirens screamed three blocks over. Black SUVs—not Knox’s—peeled away from the warehouse. The building itself was dark now. Silent.

Too silent.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

_You shouldn’t have left him. – K_

Not Knox. Someone else.

My blood went cold.

I ran for the warehouse.

The front doors were hanging off their hinges. Bullet holes stitched across the steel. Inside: destruction. Splintered crates. Blood on the floor. Too much blood.

But no Knox.

No bodies.

Nothing but shell casings and the smell of gunpowder and the ghost of his voice: _I’ve bled worse._

“ARIA!”

I spun, Ministry knife out.

A man stepped from the shadows. Not one of _them_. One of his.

I recognized him from the crime reports. Juma. Knox’s second. Tall. Scarred. Eyes like a knife.

“Where is he?” I demanded.

“Gone.” Juma’s lip was split. His shirt was bloody. “They took him. Coast Properties. We got here late.”

The world tilted. “Is he—”

“Alive.” Juma spat blood. “For now. They want him alive. Dead kings don’t sign over territory.”

My knees almost gave out. _Alive. For now._

Juma tossed me something. Keys. “Black Range Rover. Two streets over. Boss said if he didn’t make it, you’d come back.”

He _knew_. He knew he might not make it and he still sent me away.

“Why me?” My voice broke. “I’m Ministry. I’m the enemy.”

Juma’s laugh was ugly. “You’re the first person who ran _toward_ the gunfire for him. Boss don’t get that. Ever.”

He turned to go.

“Wait.” I grabbed his arm. “Coast Properties. He told me to check the Ministry files. The judge who signed my audit—”

“Judge Odhiambo.” Juma nodded. “Bought. Paid. Dirty. We’ve known for months. Didn’t know they’d use _you_ to get to him.”

_Use me._

The audit. The missing containers. The fire at the docks. It was all to isolate Knox. To get him alone. Bleeding.

And I walked right into it with my badge and my bravery and my stupid _capable_ heart.

“Where did they take him?”

“Don’t know yet.” Juma’s eyes went flat. Dangerous. “But we will. And when we find him...”

“We burn them,” I finished.

His head snapped up. For the first time, he looked at me and saw something other than a Ministry rat.

“Yeah, Prosecutor,” he said slowly. “We burn them.”

---

I didn’t go home.

I went to the Ministry.

1:17 AM. The building was empty. My keycard still worked. My office still smelled like coffee and justice.

I pulled the Coast Properties files.

And I found hell.

Shell companies. Fake exports. Bribed officials. Three judges on payroll, Odhiambo at the top. Land grabs in Westlands. Warehouse fires labeled _accidents_. Six names with black lines through them.

Knox’s men.

And at the bottom of every file: the same signature.

_D. Mwangi_

David Mwangi. CEO of Coast Properties.

The man who wanted Knox’s territory.

The man who killed his men.

The man who had Knox now.

My phone lit up.

A picture message. No number.

Knox.

Chained to a chair in a room with no windows. Shirt gone. Blood on his ribs. Head hanging, but alive. His tattooed names visible. A timestamp in the corner: _23:44_.

Under it, text:

_Sign the transfer papers, King. Or we send the Prosecutor pieces of you._

I threw up in my Ministry trash can.

Then I wiped my mouth. Opened my desk drawer. Pulled out the gun I wasn’t supposed to have.

Ministry auditors don’t carry guns.

Prosecutors do.

And I was done being an auditor.

My phone buzzed again. Juma.

_We found him. Westlands. Old tea factory. 20 men. Maybe more._

I typed back with hands that didn’t shake:

_Send me the address._

Three dots. Then:

_Boss said to keep you out of it._

I looked at the picture of Knox. Chained. Bleeding. _Come back for me._

I wrote:

_I’m not his employee, Juma._

_I’m his Prosecutor._

_And I’m coming._

I grabbed my leather jacket. Checked the gun.

And I walked out of the Ministry for the last time.

Because Knox Vance bled for me.

Now I was going to burn for him.

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