His heart twinged at the desperation in her words and expression. He took her in, pushed down the spiraling attraction as he noticed the way her dark hair seemed to both absorb the light of the moon and refuse it at the same time. He had the craziest thought that she seemed carved of starlight, its gravity pulling him in closer…
“I’m sorry.” Though her right cheek twitched in anger and her gaze bounced from him, he stepped closer. “You’re right, and I’m sorry I scared you. Truly sorry.”
A shiver rippled through her frame as he held her in place, a move that had been intended to ground her. Help her abandon the panic. That shiver told him it was working, that she was crashing after the adrenaline spike of believing he’d abandoned her.
She looked away again, then back at him. “I…panicked.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe I overreacted. I’m sorry too.”
“Your reaction was justified.” There were not many people who would own their actions like that. It hiked his respect for her another notch, and good night, he loved having her close. But this wasn’t the time for romance—not with the wildlife out there. He made himself release her. “It’s okay. I get it.” He cocked his head down the road. “We should get moving. It’s going to take an hour or more on foot to reach camp.”
Another twig snapped to the left, and in the near distance behind Leighton, Owen noticed a shadow riffle through the brush. He paused a half step, let Leighton continue, then circled around to her left to put himself between whatever threat lurked in the shadows beyond the reach of his limited sight in the darkness.
She frowned at his repositioning but didn’t ask what he was doing. “Why do you think he left us?” Her nerves were talking now.
Knowing very well she knew that answer, he let the question go—it’d only induce panic, scare her. She also hadn’t seemed to notice they were being paced, and he was glad—she didn’t need any more fear. It did strange things to people, and she’d experienced enough in her life. So for now, he kept their pace smooth and steady—all while keeping his head on a swivel and paying close attention to their surroundings.
“Owen…?” Her voice pitched, insisting on an answer.
“That rise in your voice says you already know…” A soft thump in the field made his heart do the same. Slowly, he slid his gaze alone in that direction and searched the shadows. For a split-second, he thought he saw a rustle of amber—a mane.
God, help us.
Leighton skipped a step to keep up. “Hey, I know you’re used to marches with that big backpack on?—”
“Ruck.”
“—but I’m not,” she said pointedly. “Maybe we could slow down before I collapse.”
And here he’d thought he’d been doing that, taking a steady pace so he didn’t make them look like prey running for their lives to the predators. He just really did not want to be so slow the entire pride caught up with Mufasa, who seemed to be pacing them, in order to take on the two interlopers on their road. He cursed himself for not nabbing a gun or knife off someone. But he’d had nowhere to stow it, and the last thing they needed was for him to get caught with a weapon.
Crack.
Owen flinched, his heart kick-starting. Was it his imagination, or was the big cat closer? Training his ears on the fields, he scanned for a stick. Rock. Anything was better than bare hands. He was no Samson or David. Had no experience killing lions. No donkey jawbones. As he surreptitiously scouted for a makeshift weapon, he spotted the multi-level stone sign/monument-style thing.
“You’re quiet,” Leighton huffed as they moved. “What’s wrong?”
Another rustle came from the left.
Definitely closer.
They were too open, too vulnerable out here. Afraid to alarm her and exacerbate the threat by sending fear pheromones into the warm, sticky air, he caught her hand. “We have to get off the road.” With that, he diverted toward the monument.
“What are you?—”
“Quiet,” he rasped, then jutted his jaw toward the multi-tiered monument signs. “Put your spine to that structure.”
“What?”
“Do it,” he hissed, gaze roving the shadows. Seeing a predator in every blinking shadow and flicker of grass. “Nice and slow.” He edged from the last spot he’d heard the lion, maneuvering in front of her. “Hold on to my shirt as you move to guide me.”
“You’re scaring me,” she said as her fingers coiled in his shirt. “W-what is it?”
Owen lifted his arms wide, recalling a long-ago lesson about making oneself look as large as possible to wild cats and to never put your back to them. “Our visitors from earlier.” Even as he said it, reflective eyes blinked back at him from the tall grass. His muscles contracted involuntarily, that all-too-powerful fight-or-flight instinct demanding flight.
“The lions?” Her grip tightened on his shirt.
“Keep your back to the stone and your head down. Slowly but surely climb to the second-highest level,” he said in a low voice.
Then, as if their change in behavior drew the big cat, its head slid forward, parting the tall grass. Both relief and alarm speared him—it was the lioness.
