Chapter 53: The Kind of Royalty No Crown Can Name
Pollsmoor Prison smelled of bleach and boiled cabbage, the fluorescent lights humming like insects trapped in glass. The visiting room buzzed with murmured conversations—families speaking in hushed tones, children fidgeting on plastic chairs, the occasional bark of laughter swallowed quickly by the weight of the walls.
Ragnak sat motionless at the chipped Formica table, his fingers laced in front of him. His suit was immaculate, navy wool against the institutional beige, the only spot of precision in the room. He didn’t check his watch. Didn’t shift in his seat. Just waited.
When Emily appeared, it was like watching a bird with a broken wing try to fold itself smaller. Her uniform—dull gray, oversized—hung off her slight frame, the sleeves swallowing her wrists. A fresh bruise bloomed across her cheekbone, purpling at the edges.
She stopped three steps from the table, arms wrapped tight around herself. "You came."
Ragnak didn’t answer immediately. His gaze cataloged the damage—the split lip, the way she favored her left side, the tremor in her hands she couldn’t hide. Something dark coiled in his stomach. Not anger. Not pity. Something more unsettling.
"Sit," he said, voice low.
Emily hesitated. Then she slid into the chair across from him, her fingers knotting together on the table. "Sorry. I look—"
"Don’t."
She flinched.
Ragnak exhaled through his nose. He reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a folded handkerchief. Pristine linen, monogrammed. He pushed it toward her. "Your lip."
Emily hesitated before pressing it to her mouth. The fabric came away pink. "Cafeteria fight," she muttered. "Wasn’t even my business. Just got too close."
Ragnak’s jaw tightened. He knew the calculus of prison violence—how easily the innocent were ground between gears meant for others. "Who?"
"It doesn’t matter."
"It does."
Emily’s laugh was brittle. "What, you gonna storm the guards’ station? Pull a John Wick?"
"If necessary."
The starkness of it silenced her. She studied him—the sharp angles of his face, the utter lack of humor in his eyes. "...You mean that."
"Always."
The word landed between them, heavier than the shackles around Emily’s ankles.
Outside, a guard’s radio crackled. Someone coughed. A baby wailed three tables over.
Emily toyed with the edge of the handkerchief. "They moved my cell yesterday. Nearer to the showers. It’s… louder."
Ragnak recognized the unspoken fear—the vulnerability of being isolated, exposed. He leaned forward slightly. "Do you want out?"
Emily’s head snapped up. "What?"
"Answer."
She stared at him like he’d spoken in tongues. "Of course I—" Her voice cracked. She swallowed. "But my appeal’s stuck in paperwork hell, and my public defender won’t—"
"Not the legal route." Ragnak’s voice dropped lower. "Do you want out?"
Understanding dawned. Then fear. Then something like hunger. Emily’s fingers shook. "You can’t just—"
"I can."
The air between them thickened. Emily’s pulse fluttered in her throat. For a wild second, she imagined it—the gates swinging open, the sun on her face, the taste of real air. Then she slumped. "No."
Ragnak tilted his head.
"I can’t run." She smoothed the wrinkled handkerchief with trembling fingers. "That’d make me guilty. And I’m not."
A beat. Then Ragnak did something unexpected.
He reached across the table and took her hand.
Emily froze. His palm was warm, his grip steady. No one had touched her gently in months—not since the arrest, not since the world decided she was disposable.
"You’re bleeding," he murmured.
She hadn’t noticed—the crescent marks her nails had left in her own palm.
Ragnak turned her hand over, inspecting the wounds with clinical detachment. "Prison breaks people in two ways." His thumb brushed the welt. "Those who become what the system says they are. And those who refuse."
Emily’s breath hitched.
"You," he said quietly, "are the second kind."
The fluorescent lights buzzed. Somewhere, a chair scraped.
Emily’s vision blurred. "I don’t feel brave."
"Bravery isn’t a feeling." Ragnak released her hand. "It’s a decision."
She wiped her eyes with the handkerchief, smearing blood and tears. "Why do you keep coming here?"
The question hung between them. Ragnak studied her—the stubborn set of her jaw beneath the bruises, the way she still held herself like someone who believed in justice.
"You remind me," he said finally, "of someone."
"Who?"
"Me."
Emily blinked.
Ragnak stood abruptly, straightening his cuffs. "I’ll visit more often."
"You don’t have to—"
"Yes." The word left no room for argument. He paused, then added, softer: "You carry a different kind of royalty, Emily Botha."
She laughed wetly. "What, like princess of the shiv fights?"
"No." His gaze was steady. "The kind that survives."
The guard tapped his baton against the doorframe. "Time’s up."
Ragnak didn’t acknowledge him. Just held Emily’s stare a moment longer before turning to leave.
She clutched the bloody handkerchief. "Wait—"
He glanced back.
Emily swallowed. "Thank you."
Ragnak inclined his head—just once—and walked away. The doors clanged shut behind him.
Emily sat there, the fabric clenched in her fist. The baby had stopped crying. The overhead lights flickered.
Slowly, she folded the handkerchief into a careful square and tucked it into her waistband, right over her ribs. Like armor.
Outside, the wind rattled the barbed wire, humming a tune that almost sounded like freedom.
=====
The highway to Bloukrans Bridge cut through dense Tsitsikamma forest, sunlight splintering through ancient yellowwoods to paint the asphalt in shifting patterns. Kungawo gripped the passenger seat door as Ragnak took a curve too fast, tires spitting gravel. "Christ man, you drive like someone promised you a kidney if we crash before noon."
In the backseat, Caleb chuckled darkly, his work-roughened fingers tracing the scar on his wrist—the one shaped like teeth marks. "Relax, code-boy. Worst case scenario, we die fast."
"Comforting," Kungawo muttered, watching the altitude gain on his phone. His stomach dropped faster than the numbers climbed.
Enzo sat rigid beside Caleb, knuckles white around his knee. "I scheduled panic attacks for Thursdays. This is... inconvenient."
Ragnak downshifted without looking, the engine growling like a caged animal. "You'll reschedule."
The bridge loomed suddenly—a concrete beast draped across the gorge, its underbelly strung with steel cables. Kungawo's breath hitched. From this angle, the jump platform looked like a diving board over the mouth of hell.
Caleb whistled low. "Fuck me sideways."
Parking was an afterthought. Ragnak killed the engine and turned to face them, sunlight glinting off his aviators. "Rules."
Enzo blinked. "There's rules?"
"One confession each." Ragnak's voice carried the weight of a judge passing sentence. "Something true. Then you jump."
Kungawo's pulse hammered in his throat. "That's it?"
"That's everything."
The walk to the platform stretched longer than the bridge itself. Wind howled through the gorge below, carrying the scent of fynbos and diesel from tour buses. Harness straps dug into Kungawo's thighs as the crew triple-checked his rig.
Caleb went first. He stood at the edge, toes curling over nothingness, the valley yawning 216 meters below. Sweat darkened his t-shirt between his shoulder blades.
"Truth time, ranger," Ragnak prompted.
Caleb's laugh sounded broken. "I talk to trees more than people. Not 'cause I like nature." His voice dropped. "'Cause plants don't ask why I came back from Mozambique alone."
The silence that followed was heavier than the harness.
Then he was gone—a blur of limbs and a wordless scream swallowed by the gorge. The cord snapped taut. Caleb's laughter echoed up the cliffs, wild and unburdened.
Enzo stepped up next, shaking like a leaf in a storm. His confession spilled out in one breath: "I've timed my orgasms since college. Four minutes, optimal efficiency. Last month I... I couldn't finish at all. Just laid there counting seconds in her disappointed face."
Kungawo snorted. Then winced in sympathy.
Enzo didn't scream when he jumped. He whimpered—a soft, human sound—before the freefall stole his breath. When the cord rebounded, he was sobbing with laughter, snot shining on his upper lip.
Then it was Kungawo's turn. The platform vibrated under his sneakers. His mouth tasted of copper and adrenaline.
"Your truth," Ragnak reminded.
"I..." The words stuck like gum in his throat. He thought of Emily in her prison scrubs, of Ava's kaftan fluttering in Bo-Kaap's wind. "I fake every algorithm. Copy-paste from Stack Overflow and pray no one notices. I'm not a genius. I'm just... really good at hiding."
The attendant counted down. Three. Two.
Wind roared in Kungawo's ears as gravity took him. The world flipped—sky below, earth above—and for one crystalline moment, he wasn't falling. He was flying.
The rebound jolted his teeth together. His scream turned to laughter, then to something raw and wordless as the cord swayed. Above him, Caleb and Enzo leaned over the railing, shouting nonsense that the wind tore apart.
Ragnak watched from the platform, motionless as a sentinel. When the crew hauled Kungawo up, his harness straps had bitten bloody lines into his shoulders. He didn't care.
"Your turn," Kungawo panted, gesturing to the edge.
Ragnak didn't move. "I don't jump."
"What? Bullshit!" Caleb wiped sweat from his brow. "You dragged us out here—"
"To watch you choose fear over shame." Ragnak removed his aviators. Sunlight exposed the scars around his eyes—thin, precise, like surgical incisions. "I don't need the lesson."
Enzo opened his mouth. Closed it. Something unspoken passed between them—an understanding that needed no bridge.
The drive back was quieter. Kungawo's legs still trembled. Caleb kept flexing his hands like he was testing gravity. Enzo stared out the window, his reflection smiling faintly in the glass.
Seven days left.
At a roadside stall, Ragnak bought packets of biltong without asking preferences. The salty, gamey scent filled the car. Kungawo tore into his with teeth still chattering from adrenaline.
"That," Caleb said around a mouthful of dried meat, "was the stupidest fucking thing I've ever loved."
Enzo snorted. "Wait till you see my spreadsheet rating the experience."
Kungawo lobbed a piece of biltong at his head. It stuck in his hair like an absurd trophy.
Ragnak said nothing. Just drove, the afternoon sun painting the N2 highway gold. Behind them, the bridge shrank in the rearview mirror—but the echo of their laughter still hung in the air, stubborn as the taste of salt and freedom.
=====
The laughter died somewhere past Somerset West, replaced by the rhythmic thump of tires on asphalt and the occasional crunch of biltong between teeth. Kungawo watched the vineyards blur past—neat rows of green stitching the valley’s golden skin—and wondered if Ragnak ever got tired of playing god with their nervous systems.
Mia’s text buzzed against his thigh: *Survivors?*
He thumbed back: *Barely. Enzo’s making spreadsheets in the fetal position.*
The car swerved onto the M5 without signaling. Caleb’s boot slammed the dashboard. "Jesus fuck, warn a guy."
Ragnak ignored him. "Next stop: Muizenberg."
Enzo groaned. "More bonding? I’ve reached my quota of near-death revelations."
"You’ll drown in shallow water," Ragnak said, and something about the way he said it made the air feel thinner.
Muizenberg Beach stretched before them like a postcard—colorful changing cabins lining the shore, surfers bobbing beyond the breakers like seals. The salt-stung breeze carried laughter and the tang of frying calamari. Ava stood barefoot in the sand, her kaftan flapping around her calves, shading her eyes as she watched their approach.
Mia sat cross-legged beside a pile of surfboards, rolling a joint with ER-quick fingers. "Took you long enough," she called without looking up.
Kungawo collapsed onto the sand beside her. "Blame the psycho who made us base jump before brunch."
Mia licked the rolling paper, eyes flicking to Ava. "He’s not the only psycho here."
Ava grinned, flopping down beside them. "Ragnak said swimsuits were optional. I opted the fuck out." Under the kaftan’s loose weave, the outline of her bare thighs pressed against the fabric.
Mia’s lighter sparked. "You’re gonna shred your clit on the wax."
"Worth it."
Ragnak tossed two wetsuits at them. "Beginner’s break. You’ll start there."
Ava held hers up—neoprene dangling like a skinned seal. "What’s the lesson? ‘Drown gracefully’?"
"Regulation." Ragnak’s gaze cut to Mia. "Not control."
Mia stiffened. The joint burned forgotten between her fingers.
The ocean breathed in and out, steady as a ventilator.
———
The first wave sent Ava sprawling, saltwater exploding up her nose. She came up sputtering, hair plastered to her face. "Fuck your regulation," she gasped.
Mia hauled her upright, hands firm on Ava’s hips. "Stop fighting it."
"I’m not—"
"You are." Mia’s thumbs dug into the dip of Ava’s waist. "You’re trying to carry the whole ocean. Let it carry *you*."
Ava’s pulse hammered where Mia touched her. The next wave came—a gentle swell, nothing like the monsters further out. This time she stayed still, let it lift her, *trusted* it. The board surged forward beneath her.
For three glorious seconds, she flew.
Then wiped out spectacularly.
Mia’s laughter rang over the crash of waves. "Again."
———
Two hours later, Ava’s muscles burned, her thighs rubbed raw from the board, and her lips tasted perpetually of salt. But she could ride the whitewash now, knees bent, arms out like wings.
Mia watched from waist-deep water, her wetsuit peeled down to her waist, sports bra clinging to sweat-slick skin. "Told you."
Ava paddled over, chest heaving. "Told me what?"
"You don’t always have to hold the weight."
Something cracked in Ava’s chest. She thought of Bo-Kaap’s endless needs, of the way her hands always ached from holding too much.
Mia’s fingers brushed her ankle underwater—just a flicker of contact. "Your turn to watch me."
———
Mia surfed like she triaged—all precision and economy of motion. But the third time she wiped out, Ava saw it: the clenched jaw, the white-knuckle grip on the board.
She paddled out. "You’re forcing it."
Mia wiped salt from her eyes. "I know what I’m doing."
"Bullshit." Ava grabbed her board, stopping her frantic paddling. "You’re treating it like another code blue. Sometimes the best move is to stop fucking compressions and *listen*."
Mia’s breath hitched. The waves lifted them, dropped them, indifferent.
"Show me," Mia whispered.
Ava guided her hands flat on the board. "Don’t grip. Just… let it be under you." She pressed closer, chest to Mia’s back, mouth grazing her ear. "The wave’s gonna do what it does. You just ride the motherfucker."
Mia’s spine arched. The next wave came. She didn’t fight.
———
Dusk painted the beach in bruised purples when they stumbled into Mia’s borrowed beachfront flat, sand grinding between their toes. The place smelled of mildew and someone else’s incense—a rental’s transient anonymity.
Ava peeled her wetsuit down to her waist, breasts heaving. "Fuck, I’m sore."
Mia tossed her a towel. "You’re gonna feel that tomorrow."
"Worth it." Ava caught Mia’s wrist before she could turn away. "You ever just… stop?"
Mia stilled. "Stop what?"
"Being the strong one."
The fridge hummed. Somewhere downstairs, reggae music pulsed through thin walls.
Mia’s fingers twitched in Ava’s grip. Then she surged forward, crashing their mouths together.
Ava gasped into the kiss, tasting salt and weed and the copper tang of her own split lip. Mia’s hands were everywhere—yanking the wetsuit down Ava’s hips, pinching her nipples, gripping her ass hard enough to bruise.
"Fuck," Ava panted, stumbling backward until her knees hit the couch. "Yes—*fuck*—"
Mia shoved her down, climbing astride her, grinding her soaked bikini bottoms against Ava’s thigh. "No more talking."
Ava arched up, biting Mia’s collarbone. "Make me."
Mia’s hand slid between them, two fingers pushing past the elastic to stroke Ava’s clit in rough, perfect circles. "You’re already wet," she murmured, lips dragging down Ava’s throat. "From the waves or from me?"
Ava’s hips jerked. "Don’t flatter your—*ohgod*—"
Mia’s fingers plunged inside her without warning, curling just right. Ava’s back bowed off the couch, a broken moan tearing from her throat.
"That’s it," Mia growled, fucking her with ruthless precision. "No control. No carrying. Just *take* it."
Ava came with a sob, her thighs clamping around Mia’s wrist, her orgasm rolling through her like a riptide.
Mia kissed her through it, swallowing her cries, her own hips stuttering against Ava’s thigh. When she pulled back, her lips glistened. "Again."
This time, Ava flipped them, pinning Mia to the couch. She yanked the bikini aside, licking a stripe up Mia’s soaking slit. "My turn to ride."
=====
Ava's tongue worked Mia with the same ruthless focus she'd used to navigate Bo-Kaap's back-alley disputes—all strategy and instinct. The taste of salt and musk flooded her senses as Mia's thighs trembled against her ears, the couch springs squeaking beneath their combined weight.
"Fucking *hell*—" Mia's fingers twisted in Ava's damp curls, hips bucking erratically. "Right there, just—*fuck*, lick it *slower*—"
Ava dragged her tongue through dripping folds, savoring the way Mia's abdominal muscles fluttered. "Make up your mind, trauma queen."
The insult dissolved into a gasp as Mia yanked her hair hard enough to spark white behind her eyelids. Ava moaned against her, the vibration pulling a ragged scream from Mia's throat as she came, back arching off the couch like a live wire.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside—heavy, measured. Ava barely had time to lift her head before the door swung open.
Ragnak stood silhouetted against the sodium glow of streetlights, his tailored suit untouched by the ocean's chaos. His gaze tracked the sweat gleaming between Mia's breasts, the way Ava's mouth still glistened with her.
Mia didn't bother covering herself. "We're closed, surgeon."
Ava wiped her chin with the back of her hand, watching Ragnak's pupils dilate. "Unless you're here to *contribute*."
The door clicked shut behind him.
For three heartbeats, the only sound was Mia's uneven breathing. Then Ragnak removed his cufflinks, one deliberate twist at a time, the platinum catching the lamplight as he set them on the counter.
Ava's pulse hammered. "That a yes?"
He undid his collar button. "On your knees."
The command hit like a cattle prod. Ava found herself moving before the thought fully formed, her bare knees hitting the scratchy rental carpet. Mia slid off the couch to join her, both women staring up at Ragnak as he unbuckled his belt with surgical precision.
Mia licked her lips. "Fuck, he's *huge*."
Ava wasn't prepared for the thickness that sprang free—the ruddy, vein-ridged weight of him that made her mouth water instinctively. She reached out, but Ragnak caught her wrist.
"Earn it."
Mia went first, her nurse's hands wrapping around the base as she swirled her tongue over the head. Ragnak's breath hitched—just once—before his expression smoothed back into ice.
Ava crowded in, licking up the salty precome beading at his tip. "Tastes like control."
Ragnak's fingers tangled in her hair, guiding her onto his length with relentless pressure. "Swallow."
The stretch burned. Ava gagged, tears pricking her eyes as he thrust deeper, the head hitting the back of her throat. Mia's fingers joined, stroking what Ava couldn't take, her other hand slipping between her own thighs.
Ragnak watched them with dark approval, his hips moving in shallow pulses. "Mia."
She knew what he wanted. Sliding behind Ava, she pressed her tits against Ava's back, one hand sneaking down to rub Ava's clit in tight circles. "Feel good, mediator?"
Ava moaned around Ragnak's cock, the vibration making his grip tighten. She could feel Mia's fingers, wet with her own arousal, smearing over her ass.
"Turn her." Ragnak withdrew with a slick pop.
Mia maneuvered Ava onto all fours, spreading her cheeks without ceremony. "Look at that pretty little hole."
Ava shivered as cool air hit her exposed flesh. "If you're gonna fuck me, *fuck* m—"
Ragnak's tongue cut her off—a hot, insistent stroke right over her tightest rim. Ava's arms gave out, her face pressing into the carpet as he ate her with the same methodical precision he used for everything.
Mia straddled her head, grinding her dripping cunt against Ava's mouth. "Return the fucking favor."
The world narrowed to sensation—Ragnak's tongue spearing inside her, Mia's fingers twisting in her hair, the building pressure in her belly. When Ragnak replaced his tongue with two thick fingers, scissoring her open, Ava screamed into Mia's pussy.
"Ready?" Ragnak's voice was rough now, his control fraying at last.
Mia lifted her hips just enough to gasp, "Do it."
The first thrust tore a sob from Ava's throat. Ragnak sheathed himself to the hilt in one brutal motion, the stretch bordering on pain. Mia sank back down, forcing Ava's tongue deep inside her as Ragnak set a punishing pace.
The slap of skin on skin, Mia's choked curses, Ragnak's labored breathing—it all blurred into a feedback loop of pleasure. Ava's vision whited out when Ragnak's thumb found her clit, rubbing just as he angled his hips to hit that devastating spot inside her.
Mia came first, her thighs clamping around Ava's head as she ground down, milking her tongue through the aftershocks. Ragnak followed, his rhythm stuttering before he buried himself to the root with a guttural groan, filling Ava in hot pulses.
He withdrew without ceremony, tucking himself back into his slacks with steady hands. Ava collapsed onto her side, her thighs sticky, her breath coming in ragged gulps.
Mia traced the bite marks on Ava's shoulder. "Still wanna ride?"
Ava's laugh was hoarse. "Give me... five fucking minutes."
Ragnak adjusted his cuffs, his gaze lingering on the mess he'd made of them. "Six days."
The door clicked shut behind him once more.
Mia exhaled, stretching like a satisfied cat. "Well. That happened."
Ava stared at the water stain on the ceiling, her body still humming. "Yeah."
Somewhere down the beach, waves crashed against the shore—endless, indifferent. Six days.
She closed her eyes.
Six days.