Off to the side, a man stood apart from the welcome line. Khaki field shirt, sleeves rolled to the exact same height on both forearms. Well-fitted field trousers, close through the hips, reinforced where it mattered. A faded cap pulled low enough toshadow his eyes. A holster rested clean and unadorned at his hip, matte black against dust-toned fabric.
He said nothing. Just watched.
The quiet stretched, expectant. Someone else might have filled it. I didn’t.
When I looked his way, he stepped forward. Lean through the waist. No excess anywhere. His attention didn’t settle on my face. It tracked lower—my phone, the pen between my fingers, the exact second my hand tightened before I stilled it.
All right, then.
I straightened, lifting my chin until his steady, unreadable blue eyes met mine.
The silence stretched as our eyes locked. He didn’t blink.
“Ms. Wilder.”
“Juliette,” I said, because I always did.
“Nick Mercer,” he replied.
I waited for the rest—the welcome, the handshake, the professional smile. None came.
“I’ll be responsible for your safety while you’re here.”
His voice carried an accent I couldn’t neatly categorize—a trace of British that refused to settle long enough to confirm. Controlled. Polished. Annoyingly neutral. His gaze dropped to my boots—structured leather, low heel, tread built for the environment. For a moment, he looked almost disappointed he couldn’t send me back to the tarmac.
“Thank you, but I don’t require special treatment.”
He held the look without softening, the silence stretching long enough to turn the surrounding bird calls into a roar. My spine straightened. I didn’t look away.
“That’s not how this works,” he said.
The lodge manager cleared her throat, hovering on the edge of intervention. He didn’t acknowledge her.
“This is a private reserve,” he continued evenly. “Most weeks, guests never see the protocols. This week, you will. We’ve had increased poaching activity along the eastern boundary. Every retreat guest is assigned a ranger.”
“I’m here as part of a group,” I said. “I'm not a fragile princess.”
“You’re still my responsibility.”
The corner of my mouth lifted before I could stop it. "Then fair warning, Mr. Mercer. I've been told I'm a delight to supervise."
Nothing in his face moved. Usually, this was where the polite laughter happened.
Tough room.
I tucked my phone into my bag and gave him a sharp nod.
“Understood.”
He studied me, as if revising an initial verdict, and then he turned away. “Vehicle’s ready. Your bush suite is three miles out. We're clear to go.”
There was no request and no wait. I followed.
The safari jeep smelled like leather and sun—open frame, mounted radio, suspension tuned for uneven ground. Immaculate despite the dust. I took the front seat he gestured toward as the bush swallowed the vehicle, the lodge fading behind us while we rolled into the scrub along a path barely visible, its surface hardened by repetition rather than design.
He drove with a relaxed, terrifying efficiency, and up close he was a study in economy.
His forearms were corded, sun-browned. A cleanly trimmed beard traced a sharp jawline. Matte-black Oakleys shielded his eyes. Nick Mercer was efficient to look at, devoid of the vanity that usually came with a face like that.
