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The sand hissed underfoot as Mandla pivoted, his blade flashing in the firelight. Nick feinted left, predictable after thirty years, but Mandla wasn’t biting. He exhaled through his nose, shoulders loose, the salt breeze sticking to his skin. The knife felt like an extension of his wrist.
“You’re slowing down, boss,” Mandla grinned, tapping the flat of his blade against Nick’s ribs. First point. The older man huffed, rolling his shoulders. Sweat trailed down the grooves of his abdomen, soaking into the waistband of his loincloth.
Maeve stretched lazily on the driftwood log, propping her chin on one hand. Her bikini strings dug into the softness of her thighs. “He let you have that one,” she called, winking when Nick shot her a look. Sea-ah snorted, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. Her bare legs were crossed, one foot bouncing.
Second cut came fast, Mandla’s knife flicked out, grazing Nick’s bicep. A bead of blood welled, dark in the torchlight. Nick lunged, but Mandla sidestepped, their bodies brushing hot and brief. The fire popped, sending embers spiraling. Somewhere behind them, Pete crushed dried leaves between his palms, murmuring to Nadine.
The third strike was sheer audacity. Mandla flipped his grip mid-swing, the blade’s edge whispering over Nick’s collarbone. The older man stilled. For a heartbeat, they were close enough to share breath. Then Nick laughed, deep and full, clasping Mandla’s forearm. “Cheeky bastard,” he said, shaking his head.
Maeve uncorked a bottle with her teeth. “Again?” she asked, tipping it toward them. Sea-ah was already on her feet, hips swaying as she scooped up the fallen knives. The tide crept closer, foaming around their ankles.
Nick yanked Mandla into the surf first. The water hit like a slap, cold enough to steal his voice, salt stinging the cut on his arm. Mandla surfaced with a gasp, hair plastered to his skull. Maeve’s laughter rang out as she waded in, the waves lifting her, her body glowing under the moon’s gaze. Sea-ah dove under, a sleek shadow between them, and when she reappeared, she was grinning, flicking water from her lashes.
The dinner bell clanged again, Leilani’s deep, rhythmic strikes on the iron kettle by the firepit. The scent of slow-roasted pork and caramelized pineapple curled over the beach. Nick hauled himself onto the sand, droplets rolling off his shoulders. “Bet you she’s pissed,” he muttered, shaking his hair like a dog. Maeve pressed her wet mouth to his shoulder, tasting salt and sweat.
“Course she is.” Maeve’s fingers traced the shallow cut on his collarbone. “Watching Mandla pin you like a prize stag while she had to baste a fucking pig.” Her laugh vibrated against his skin. “She trained with those knives longer than he’s been alive.” Leilani appeared at the edge of the torchlight, arms crossed over her sarong, hips cocked. The firelight caught the tightness in her jaw.
The communal clearing hummed with movement, bodies pressing close over platters of charred fish still glistening with chili-lime glaze, fingers sticky with mango juice. Aitor crouched by the roasting pit, turning skewers of octopus with the same precision he’d use to disarm a bomb. Behind him, Salma reclined against Sisa’s thighs, feeding her slivers of pork fat with her free hand, the other tracing idle patterns in Sisa’s knee. The scent of rendered fat and woodsmoke clung to the humid air.
Leilani’s seaweed salad was a revelation: ribbons of emerald and burgundy kelp tangled with slivers of candied ginger, crackling under teeth like forbidden parchment. Nick scooped a handful straight from the communal bowl, licking brine from his palm while Maeve stole a bite from his fingers, her teeth scraping his knuckle. "You’re savage tonight," she murmured against his skin. Sea-ah materialized beside them with two clay cups of something frothing and golden, pressing one into Mandla’s grip without breaking stride, her bare shoulder brushing his as she melted back into the crowd.
Kaled’s fingers found the hide drum’s pulse, his wrists rolling in a
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