King's Ransom
879 Words
The hospital smelled like bleach and bad decisions.
Knox hadn’t let go of me since the tea factory. Not when Juma hotwired a car. Not when we blew through three red lights. Not when the ER nurses tried to take me from his arms.
“Touch her and die,” he’d snarled.
So now he sat in the plastic chair beside my bed, covered in my blood and his own, holding my hand like it was the only thing keeping him human.
The bullet grazed my ribs. Missed everything vital. “Lucky,” the doctor said.
Knox looked ready to murder him for calling it luck.
“You’re awake,” Knox said when my eyes opened. His voice was shredded. Like he’d been screaming for hours. Maybe he had.
“Wanjiru,” I croaked. Throat dry. “It’s Wanjiru.”
His thumb brushed my knuckles. “I know, Prosecutor.”
“You called me Wekesa in your head.”
A ghost of a smile. “I called you a hundred things in my head, Aria Wanjiru. _Reckless_ was the nicest.”
The IV tugged when I tried to sit up. Pain lanced through my side. Knox was there instantly, one hand on my shoulder, the other bracing my back.
“Easy.”
“Did we get him?”
“Juma’s men have Mwangi.” Knox’s eyes went flat. Cold. King again. “He’s breathing. For now.”
“Good.”
“Aria.” He said my name like a prayer and a curse. “You took a bullet for me.”
“You took one for me first.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?” I demanded. “Because you’re the King and I’m just—”
“Because you’re _you_.” He cut me off, fierce. “Because the city can lose me. It can’t lose you.”
The monitor beeped faster. My heart. Or his.
“Knox—”
The door slammed open.
Juma filled the frame, gun still on his hip, blood on his boots. “Boss. We got a problem.”
Knox didn’t look away from me. “It better be dying.”
“Coast Properties hit the warehouse again. And your apartment. And the docks. All tonight.” Juma’s face was grim. “They’re not stopping. Mwangi gave orders before we took him. It’s scorched earth.”
“Then we burn them back.”
“They have cops, Boss. Judges. Half the Ministry on payroll.” Juma’s eyes flicked to me. “Present company excluded.”
I pushed past the pain. “Judge Odhiambo signed my audit. He’s dirty. I have the files.”
“Files aren’t enough,” Juma said. “They’ll bury them. Bury you.”
“No,” Knox said slowly. Standing now. Towering. Lethal. “They won’t.”
He looked at me. Really looked.
“You said you weren’t my employee, Prosecutor.”
“I’m not.”
“Be my partner.”
The room went silent. Even the monitors seemed to pause.
Juma choked. “Boss—”
“Not in business,” Knox said, eyes never leaving mine. “In war. You want to burn them? We burn them together. My guns. Your badge. Your brain.” His hand found mine again. “Your heart.”
My heart that was currently trying to beat out of my chest.
“You’re asking a Ministry prosecutor to go to war with you,” I whispered.
“I’m asking Aria Wanjiru to choose.” He leaned down, forehead to mine. His breath shook. “Choose me. Choose the city. Choose to stop running and start ruling.”
_Run, Prosecutor. Come back for me._
I’d run. I’d come back.
Now he was asking me to stay.
“What about the law?”
“What about justice?” he countered. “Odhiambo killed six men. Mwangi put a bullet in you. The law let them. I won’t.”
He pulled something from his pocket.
The transfer papers. For his territory. Half-burned. Bloodstained.
He ripped them in half.
“I’m not signing,” he said. “Not for them. Not for anyone.”
He dropped the pieces on my hospital bed.
“But I’ll sign anything for you.”
Juma made a sound. Disgust or awe, I couldn’t tell.
I stared at the torn paper. At Knox’s bloody hands. At the future burning in his eyes.
I was a prosecutor. Sworn to uphold the law.
But I was also the girl who ran _toward_ gunfire.
The girl who chose a bleeding king over a clean escape.
The girl he kissed like a vow.
“Okay,” I said.
Knox stilled. “Okay?”
“Okay, King.” I squeezed his hand. “Partners.”
The sound he made was wrecked. He crashed his mouth to mine, careful of my ribs, careless with everything else.
Juma walked out. “I’ll give you two minutes. Then we plan how to take Westlands back.”
Knox pulled back just enough to look at me. His thumb brushed my jaw. My name on his lips:
“Aria Wanjiru.”
Not Wekesa. Never Wekesa.
_Mine._
“Rest,” he ordered. “Then we go to war.”
I smiled, bloody and bruised and his.
“Can’t wait.”
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