That seemed to settle it.
The sommelier moved in with admirable timing, refilling glasses with generous arcs that no one pretended to moderate. Graham’s second sip bordered on athletic. Victor did not botherpacing himself. Even Owen abandoned restraint, draining what remained before offering his glass again without eye contact.
Adrenaline metabolizes best with Cabernet.
Dessert arrived moments later—small plates bearing dark chocolate torte dense enough to hold its shape under lantern heat, edged with a spoon of naartjie curd and a scatter of toasted macadamia. The citrus carried a bright, almost defiant note against the lingering smoke in the air. Somewhere beneath it, honey and rooibos threaded through the cream.
The kind of dessert served to people who think money can buy a clean conscience.
Conversation resumed, though it skimmed now. Lighter topics. Safer anecdotes. Laughter that arrived half a second late. The staff moved with the eerie calm of people who had drilled for interruptions and preferred guests not know the difference.
No one referenced the hyena again.
Footsteps approached from the direction of the lodge.
Nick emerged from the dark without announcement, dust marking the hem of his trousers. He scanned the perimeter first, then the table. When his gaze reached mine, it held for a fraction longer than necessary.
Not relief. Verification.
He spoke briefly with the ranger near the steps. Quiet. Efficient.
“Everything resolved?” Graham asked.
Nick turned his head. “Yes.”
The answer landed without ornament. No one pressed for more information.
The cicadas resumed their layered chorus. Glasses were refilled. Conversation resumed at a controlled volume.
Chairs scraped against wood as the lodge manager approached to coordinate transport for those of us going back to the ridge.The air carried a sharper chill now, sliding beneath fabric and settling against skin.
I moved toward Nick's jeep, warm metal beneath my palm as I gripped the frame and climbed in. The leather was cool, smelling of dust and utilitarian soap.
Nick sat at the wheel, his profile a study in high-tensile stillness. He didn’t look at me as he shifted into gear. The muscle at his temple tightened once before he eased the cruiser forward.
“The wine was excellent,” I said, as the cruiser began its slow crawl toward the guest suites. “In case you were wondering if the infrastructure had collapsed entirely in your absence.”
He didn't bite. He stayed locked on the track, the headlights cutting a yellow swathe through the tall grass.
“I assume the radio chatter wasn’t about the vintage,” I prompted.
His hands adjusted on the wheel, tightening just enough to register. “It was a breach of protocol.”
“You say that like it’s personal.”
“It becomes personal when I’m responsible for what happens next.”
The road curved. Dust lifted in a pale ribbon behind us.
“This place doesn’t forgive improvisation,” he said. “The fence is there so people don’t wander.”
“And if they do.”
“Then I go after them.”
I tilted my head, watching the way the shadows played across the hard angles of his face. “Is that what you were doing? Chasing somebody down?"
Nick shifted his grip on the wheel, the leather creaking under his hand. He didn’t look away from the track.
