Biker's Temptation:Owned by Knox Vance

Tea & Blood

Westlands didn’t sleep. It watched.

The old tea factory sat behind rusted gates and bougainvillea, pretending to be abandoned. But the 20 cars parked inside said otherwise. Coast Properties had turned it into a fortress. Guards at every entrance. Floodlights cutting the rain.

And Knox was inside. Chained. Bleeding.

_Come back for me._

I parked the Range Rover three blocks down. Juma was already there, leaning against a black bike with 6 other men. All armed. All angry. All wearing the same look: _ready to die_.

“You shouldn’t be here, Prosecutor,” Juma said. But he handed me a Kevlar vest anyway.

“I told you.” I strapped it on over my leather jacket, checked my gun. “I’m not his employee.”

Juma’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Boss is gonna kill me for letting you in.”

“He can yell at you when he’s unchained.” I chambered a round. “What’s the plan?”

“Plan?” One of the men laughed. Bleak. “We go in. We shoot. We get the King out or we die trying.”

No tactics. No backup. Just loyalty and bullets.

So Vance.

“Fine,” I said. “Then I’m going first.”

Six guns raised at me.

“Like hell—”

“You need me alive,” I cut Juma off. “Mwangi wants Knox to sign transfer papers. He thinks I’m the leverage. If I walk in, he won’t shoot immediately. He’ll talk. Monologue. Villains love that shit.”

Juma stared. Then nodded once. “You get 30 seconds before we breach.”

“Make it 60.” I pulled my hair up, wiped rain off my face. “I want him to see me first.”

---

The front doors of the tea factory were steel. Locked.

I knocked.

A slot slid open. Eyes. Gun barrel.

“Ministry audit,” I said, holding up my badge. My voice didn’t shake. “I’m here for Knox Vance.”

A pause. Laughter.

The doors opened.

David Mwangi stood in the center of the factory floor like he owned it. Tailored suit. Silver hair. Smile like a shark. Behind him: Knox.

He was exactly like the picture. Chained to a metal chair. Shirt gone. Blood dried on his ribs, fresh on his shoulder. Head down. But breathing.

_Alive._

Knox’s head snapped up when he heard my heels on concrete.

His eyes found mine.

Storm-gray. Furious. Relieved. _Terrified_.

“Aria.” It was broken. Rough. “No.”

“Prosecutor Aria Wekesa,” Mwangi said, spreading his arms. “Right on time. We were just discussing your boyfriend’s real estate portfolio.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said.

Knox’s jaw ticked. Even chained, bleeding, he was jealous.

_Idiot._

“He’s my case,” I continued. “And you’re under arrest, Mwangi. Ministry fraud. Bribery. Attempted murder. Six counts of conspiracy to commit—”

Mwangi laughed. “You brought a badge to a gunfight, sweetheart?”

Twenty guns pointed at me.

I smiled. “No. I brought backup.”

The windows exploded.

Juma came through first, firing. His men followed. Gunfire tore the air apart. Mwangi’s men scattered, shouting.

I dropped, rolled, came up shooting.

One. Two. My bullets hit.

I was a prosecutor. But today, I was war.

Knox roared. Metal screamed as he tore one arm free of the chains, blood pouring from his wrist. He grabbed a guard’s gun mid-fight, shot the lock on his other wrist.

He was on his feet in seconds.

Bleeding. Furious. Magnificent.

He looked at me across the chaos.

And he smiled.

Bloody. Unhinged. _Proud_.

“That’s my girl,” he mouthed.

Mwangi ran.

I went after him.

“Aria, NO!” Knox shouted.

But I was already moving. Through the smoke. Past bodies. Into the back office where Mwangi was shredding papers.

He saw me. Pulled a gun.

We fired at the same time.

Pain exploded in my side.

His hit the wall behind me.

Mine hit his chest.

He dropped.

I staggered, hand going to my ribs. Warm. Wet. The vest caught most of it, but not all.

“Aria!”

Knox was there. Catching me before I hit the floor. His hands—big, warm, shaking—pressed against my side.

“Look at me,” he ordered. His face was inches from mine. Blood and gunpowder and fear. “Hey. Eyes on me, Prosecutor. Stay with me.”

“You... came back... for me...” I coughed. Tasted copper.

“I told you to run.” His voice broke.

“You told me... to come back.”

A sound tore out of him. Not a laugh. Not a sob. Something wrecked.

He picked me up like I weighed nothing. Carried me through the factory, over bodies, past Juma who was shouting orders.

“Hospital,” Knox barked. “Now.”

“No.” I grabbed his shirt. “Promise me...”

“Anything.”

“Promise me... you don’t sign. Don’t give them... your city.”

Knox stopped walking. Looked down at me. At the blood on his hands. My blood.

“Aria,” he said, soft. Dangerous. “I’d burn Nairobi to the ground if it kept you breathing.”

Then he kissed me.

Not gentle. Not sweet.

A brand. A vow. A war cry.

The King of Nairobi had chosen his queen.

And the city would bleed for it.

---