Page 32 of You've Got The Love
I was so far gone I didn’t even think about the risk. Her dad. The MC.The Reapers. All of it went to hell the second she kissed me. And now I’ve had her—felt her wrapped around me, tasted her cries—I don’t know how the fuck I’m supposed to let go.
She made me lose control.
And I liked it.
She’s still curled up in the warmth of where we wrecked each other last night, her lips slightly parted, like she’s still breathing me in. My chest aches with the urge to climb back into that bed, press my mouth between her thighs, and make her come again, slow and deep, just to hear how she begs when no one else is listening.
God, the things I’d do to her if we had more time. If we were safe. If this wasn’t all temporary.
But permanence isn’t a luxury I can give her. Not now. Not with the Reapers still hunting for blood. Maybe not ever.
I leave her a quick note—just in case she wakes while I’m gone—and slip off the barge, tugging on my jacket against the crisp morning air.
We need food. Bottled water. Fuel for the generator. If we’re staying even another night, I have to be ready. I have to keep her safe. Especially now. Especially after what we shared.
The market isn’t far. Cobblestones still slick with last night’s mist. The air thick with the scent of fresh bread and strong coffee. Normally I’d soak in the calm—the way Amsterdam wakes slowly, with bicycles clattering and shop shutters lifting—but today my gut’s tight. My gaze scans every alleyway, every shadow, every moored boat.
I can’t afford to miss anything.
And then I see them.
Two men loitering by the cheese vendor, their postures casual, too casual. But the leather vests give them away. Black. Bold white emblem stitched across the back like a fucking brand.
The Reapers.
They’re here.
My pulse kicks up, but I don’t flinch. Just pivot toward the vegetable stall, pretending I’m another local doing the morning run.
I grab what we need—bread, canned food, water—cash only, no questions.
But I feel them.
Watching.
Searching.
When I glance back, one of them is facing the canal, eyes sweeping the boats. My stomach drops.
They’re not just here. They’rehunting.
Her.
Fuck.
I keep moving, careful, controlled. But as soon as I round the corner out of their line of sight, I pick up my pace, adrenaline thrumming like war drums in my ears.
I jog the last stretch back to the barge, groceries thudding against my side.
Amber’s already up, hair scraped into a messy bun, bare feet on the wood. One look at my face and her expression shifts.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice still husky from sleep.
God, even now—hair wild, face flushed, freckles taunting me, wearing only one of my shirts—she makes my heart stutter.
“We’re leaving.” I brush past her, heading straight for the emergency duffel stashed beneath the bench. “Pack what you can. We’re not staying another night.”
“Bas?” Her voice cracks with concern. “What happened?”
