The wind on the back of the lion was like a thousand needles made of ice. We moved through the tall grass of the Serengeti with a speed that blurred the world into a smear of gold and gray. Behind us, the smoke from the collapsed mountain rose like a funeral pyre, marking the grave of the man I had loved and the man who had played me like a violin.
My heart felt like a hollowed out shell, echoing with the Matriarch’s laughter. He was your handler. I clutched Leo’s metallic mane, my knuckles white. The lion let out a low, rhythmic vibration that pulsed through my thighs. He wasn't just running; he was searching. He was sniffing the air for a frequency that didn't belong in the wild.
"Christine, look!" the little girl shouted, pointing toward a cluster of distant lights.
It wasn't a city.
