Chapter 6

Sacred Mountain Lodge, Noordhoek Beach.

“Here,” I said to Fiona, “you hold onto this,” And I held out the whip to her.

When I handed the whip to Fiona, she recoiled slightly, her arms staying close to her body as though the very sight of the thing made her skin crawl.

She shook her head vehemently. “I’d rather not touch that thing.” Her voice was thin but resolute, laced with an undertone of unease.

I studied her face for a moment, trying to read the layers of fear and revulsion that danced across her expression. “Did he whip you with this before?” I asked, my tone dropping into something gentler.

“No,” she said quickly, but there was a tremor in her voice. “No, never before with that thing.”

The way she said it made my hate of Anderson go up a notch. ” ... never before with that thing...” meant he did whip her before. I leaned closer, keeping my voice steady and low.

“Fiona,” I said, “I need you to be honest with me. Did Anderson ever lay a hand on you before?”

Her eyes welled with tears almost instantly, and she began to shiver, her whole frame trembling as though a cold wind had passed through her. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “He did, but ... I don’t want to talk about it now.”

“Okay,” I said softly, holding her gaze, “you don’t have to talk about it now.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement. One of Anderson’s goons was stirring, propping himself up on his hands as though trying to shake off the fog in his head. I straightened and turned my attention to him.

“You want some more, asshole?” I barked, taking a step toward him.

“No,” he croaked, raising one hand in a weak attempt at surrender. “No ... Let me go.”

“Then get your boss and your buddy loaded up and get the hell off my property,” I snapped. “Scram!”

The guy nodded weakly and started crawling toward the others. Anderson was already trying to get up, groaning as he moved. He managed to crawl to his car, reaching out for the door handle. The moment his hand touched it, though, he let out a scream and crumpled back to the ground, clutching his side.

I turned back to Fiona. “Get in the cottage,” I said firmly.

She hesitated, glancing from me to Anderson, who was now writhing on the ground. “You’re not going to whip him again, are you?” she asked, her voice a mixture of worry and disbelief.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “I feel like it,” I admitted, “but no, I won’t.”

She looked at me for a long moment, as though trying to decide if she believed me. Finally, she nodded and turned toward the cottage. As she walked away, she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing as she caught sight of Anderson. The look on her face was one of pure, unfiltered disgust — a flash of hatred I hadn’t seen in her before. It sent a chill down my spine.

Once she was inside and the door clicked shut behind her, I moved to pick up the discarded gun one of the goons had left lying in the dirt. I checked it over quickly before tucking it into my waistband. Anderson was now using the car for support, trembling and moaning as he struggled to stay upright.

On my way over to him, I stopped by the other guy who was still sprawled on the ground, out cold. A quick pat-down revealed a nasty-looking revolver and a hunter’s knife. I relieved him of both, pocketing them as well. No point leaving any of this trash armed.

When I reached Anderson, he was clinging to the car door like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing entirely. I grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back, leaning in close so he could hear every word.

“Do you believe in an afterlife?” I hissed.

He didn’t respond. Just stared at me with those glassy eyes, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

“Well, asshole,” I continued, “if I catch you or any of your scumbag crew anywhere near Fiona or her parents again, you’ll find out if your preacher was right.”

His gaze flickered, a faint glimmer of fear breaking through his otherwise vacant expression.

“The deed to Fiona’s parents’ farm,” I said. “Overnight courier it to me at this address.” I rattled off the address slowly, making sure he understood. “Verstehst du?”

His head moved in a faint nod.

“Now get in your car, get on your jet, and disappear out of Fiona’s life,” I said, shoving him toward the open door. “The Star is not yours to hold.”

He hesitated for a moment, then croaked, “I ... I ... will ... get you ... for this. No one treats me like this.”

I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Remember the afterlife. If you ever come near me, Fiona, or her parents again, I will cut down your family tree back to the fifth generation. Do you understand?”

He said nothing, but the look in his eyes told me he got the message. I shoved him into the car, hard enough that his head smacked against the door frame on the way in.

“Sorry,” I said dryly. “You should’ve ducked.”

As he slumped into the seat, I turned and headed back toward the cottage, the whip dangling from my hand. I gave it a snap, more out of habit than anything else, the sound cutting through the still air like a firecracker. For a moment, it felt absurdly juvenile, like a schoolboy showing off a new toy. But then the weight of everything that had just happened settled back over me. The snap of the whip felt less like triumph and more like a hollow echo of a battle I wished we didn’t have to fight.

Somehow the driver of Anderson’s rented car managed to get past my SUV, and they disappeared down the road, the faint sound of the engine fading into the distance. The silence that followed felt heavy, almost suffocating, as if the cottage itself was trying to catch its breath after all that had just transpired.

I closed the door softly behind me, my eyes adjusting to the dim light inside. Fiona was huddled on the sofa, knees drawn to her chest, her face pale and eyes red-rimmed from crying. She looked so small, so vulnerable at that moment. The sight of her hit me harder than I expected, like a gut punch that left me reeling.

I walked over and sank down beside her, the cushions shifting slightly under my weight. Reaching out, I gently pulled her into my arms. She didn’t resist, leaning into me like she was searching for something solid, something safe.

“It’s over for now,” I murmured, my voice low and steady. “And I promise you, from now on I won’t let you out of my sight.”

She tilted her head to look at me, her voice barely above a whisper. “Roy ... where did you learn to be like that ... that monster you were just now?”

Her words stung. I cringed inside, swallowing the lump that had formed in my throat. “I was just protecting you,” I replied softly. “I’ll admit I was a little heated, but I needed to get control of the situation before it got out of hand.”

“And to drive your point across, your dark side took over?” she pressed.

I hesitated, the memories stirring in the back of my mind like a shadow I couldn’t shake. “It doesn’t happen often,” I said carefully. “But seeing Anderson with that whip ... seeing him about to hurt you brought back the nightmares. The Middle East ... women being raped, whipped to death ... some of them only children.” I shook my head, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “I’m sorry.”

Fiona’s eyes widened, her hand clutching the fabric of my shirt. “You’ve seen that?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Yes.”

“First-hand?”

I nodded, the weight of those memories pressing down on me. “I was a war correspondent. I was in the deep of it. Too deep. I’m sorry I overreacted.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she said firmly, her voice steadier now. “I think, for the first time in his life, Anderson met his match. Thank you, Roy.”

I let out a slow breath, nodding. “I hope you understand, Fee.”

“I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve witnessed ... but thank you.”

“It’s okay, Fee. I’m back to normal again. But what I can’t understand is why Anderson came all the way to Cape Town to do what he tried to do.”

She sighed, leaning back slightly but still holding onto my arm. “He wants to be in control. He wants to control everything with violence.”

“He’s the monster. Not me.”

“No,” she said softly, shaking her head. “You’re not the monster.”

“Let’s change the subject,” I suggested, forcing a small smile. “Go take a shower, so you’ll feel better. And dress in your denim. Riding a horse with that skirt isn’t going to cut it.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly, the hint of a smile creeping onto her lips. “So, we’re still up for horse riding?”

“Before the sun sets,” I confirmed.

“Sunset is still a long way off.”

“Yeah, but just now Ella brings that frying pan over, and I might be in the hospital till after sunrise tomorrow,” I joked, my tone light.

Fiona chuckled, the sound like music after the tension of the day. “I’ll just tell her I beat you good and show her that whip.”

“Noooo!” I exclaimed, feigning horror. “She’ll think we’re kinky!”

She burst out laughing, the sound filling the room and lifting the weight that had been hanging in the air. Seeing her laugh like that, I knew she was going to be okay. Good for her.

“It’s not what she thinks,” Fiona replied, a mischievous glint in her eye. “It’s what we know.”

“Go on, Fee,” I said, smiling now. “Take that shower.”

She wiggled out of my arms, standing up with a little more strength than before. “Alright,” she said, looking back at me with a playful smirk. “But you better not fall asleep before we ride.”

“Not a chance,” I promised, watching as she disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of running water soon followed, and I leaned back against the sofa, letting out a deep breath. For the first time in hours, I felt a sense of peace settling over the cottage.

The riding excursion along Noordhoek Beach went off as planned, but Fiona had a surprise in store for me. As soon as her horse’s hooves hit the cool, compact sand, she let out a whoop, dug her heels lightly into its sides, and took off towards the water’s edge. It caught me off guard. By the time I reacted, Fiona and her mount were already a good twenty metres ahead, her laughter trailing behind like the faint echo of a wind chime.

I urged my horse forward, though not with the same urgency she had shown. In all fairness, Fiona seemed to know what she was doing. The way she moved with the horse — fluid and confident — told me this wasn’t her first time galloping along the beach. A real horsewoman, I thought, with an admiring smile. She’d mentioned growing up on a West Coast farm. Horses and farms go hand in hand here in South Africa, but watching her now, it was clear she’d done more than just ride; she lived it.

Fiona proved her childhood experience with playful abandon, guiding her horse in a near-perfect trot along the water’s edge. With each stride, the horse sent seawater splashing up to its flanks, the droplets catching the afternoon sunlight and glinting like scattered diamonds. She lifted herself out of the saddle, standing gracefully in the stirrups with her knees bent and her upper body leaning over the horse’s strong neck. It was as if the two of them had merged into one effortless, free-spirited being.

The horse seemed to sense her mood, breaking into a happy canter. Together, they moved in harmony, kicking up a fine mist of white spray in their wake as they skirted the shimmering shoreline. The Atlantic roared alongside, its surf rolling in frothy crescents that hissed and crashed before retreating, leaving slick, glistening sand in their place. It was a mesmerizing sight — the kind of moment you wish you could bottle and take home.

Fiona kept the pace for a good eight hundred metres, a vision of raw energy and joy against the backdrop of Chapman’s Peak. The sun still hung high in the sky, casting its golden glow over the rocky slopes, while lazy, foggy clouds drifted along the horizon. The offshore breeze carried the salty tang of the ocean and tugged at Fiona’s windswept hair, which framed her flushed face like a fiery halo.

At last, she reined in her horse, easing it into a relaxed walk on the softer sand further up the shore. I caught up to her just as she turned to glance back, her cheeks pink from the exercise and her chest rising and falling with each breath. She wiped a stray strand of hair from her face with her right hand while keeping her left firmly on the reins, her horse obediently plodding along with her.

“Now that was fun!” she exclaimed, her voice ringing out with a breathless exuberance that made me grin.

“I can see you enjoyed yourself,” I said, reigning in my own horse beside her. “You’re no stranger to playing with a horse on the beach, are you?”

“Nope!” she replied, her grin wide and unapologetic. “I’ve done this more times than I can count.”

“Oh, yeah?” I asked, intrigued. “Is your parents’ farm near the sea?”

“About three kilometres inland,” she said, her tone light but tinged with nostalgia. “But my dad had a friend who trained racehorses for local events. He used to bring them to the beach for conditioning, and me at fourteen, fifteen — I was a willing jockey.”

“Good for you!” I said, the admiration in my voice genuine. There was more to Fiona than met the eye, more than just the bookworm, tomboy, or nerdy beauty I’d assumed her to be. She was dynamic — a mix of grit, grace, and a surprising dose of West Coast charm.

We slowed the horses to a steady walk, their hooves sinking slightly into the softer sand as we made our way north along the beach. The sun dipped lower now, casting long shadows across the shore and painting the world in shades of orange and gold. The ocean, ever relentless, roared and foamed at our side, while seabirds flitted overhead, their cries adding to the natural symphony.

“Shall we head up to the wreck?” Fiona asked, her eyes bright and curious as she looked at me.

“Yes, let’s walk the rest of the way,” I said, patting my horse’s neck. “It’s good to spare them. They’ve earned the break.”

“Agreed,” she said with a nod. “It’s still a long way back.”

We let the horses stroll side by side, their hooves pressing softly into the damp sand. The moment felt serene, almost timeless, as the ocean stretched endlessly to our right and the towering dunes to our left framed the path ahead.

The wreck wasn’t visible yet, but I knew it was waiting for us just beyond the curve of the beach — a remnant of history in a place that felt eternal.

We guided the horses at a leisurely pace, letting the tranquil rhythm of the afternoon settle over us. The world felt vast and timeless here, with only the crash of the waves and the crunch of hooves on sand to remind us of its steady pulse.