Page 39 of You've Got The Love
I focus on the task, moving stall to stall. Bread. Milk. Apples. Cheese. The basics—enough for a few quiet meals in the tiny apartment we’ve been hiding in. My shoulders and back ache from sleeping last night with Amber curled against me, her curls in my face, her hand fisted in my shirt like she was holding on for dear life. I’m not used to sleeping with someone anymore; my back isn’t forgiving. But I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Even with the tension coiled in my spine like barbed wire, feeling her weight against me—alive, safe—makes the discomfort bearable.
Still, the strain is eating me alive. I move through the market like a man with a target on his back, my eyes flicking from one cluster of people to the next. Tourists with umbrellas and guidebooks. A man arguing with a vendor over the price of smoked salmon. A little boy running between the stalls, a blue balloon bobbing behind him.
For a fleeting second, I let my guard dip—just a fraction.
And that’s when I see them.
Two men at the far end of the market, leaning against a black van. Even at a distance, I know. Leather cuts over hoodies, jeans tucked into boots. They’re too still, too aware, standing like men who aren’t browsing or waiting for a coffee—they’re scanning.
Predators.
The patches on their cuts aren’t fully visible from here, but I don’t need to see the symbols. I know the energy. The way they stand, the way their heads move like radar as they watch the crowd.
Hunting.
My pulse spikes hard enough to make my vision narrow for a second. I turn slightly, pretending to examine the oranges on the stall in front of me. Keep it casual. Head down. My eyes never leave the reflection in the metal trim of the stall.
They’re looking for us.
I force myself to finish paying the vendor, fingers tight on the damp bills, and then move on. Careful. Steady. No sudden movements. Panic is as good as a gunshot in a place like this. I take the long way around the market, cutting through a row of stalls selling cheap jewellery and knockoff scarves, my boots splashing lightly through the puddles. I pass a stand selling candied nuts, the smell almost cloying now, too sweet for the acid burn of adrenaline in my blood.
I circle the block, glancing in every reflective surface I can find—shop windows, car mirrors, the oily surface of a rain puddle. My jaw aches from how tightly I’m clenching it. Finally, I duck into a narrow side street where the smell of damp stone and old fish hits me like a wall, and for a moment, the world is quieter.
The burner phone in my pocket buzzes.
I freeze.
We’ve barely touched this phone since Jack gave it to us. Every call is a potential landmine. My thumb hesitates over the answer button before I force myself to swipe.
“Ja?” I murmur automatically, then catch myself. “Hello?”
“Bas, it’s Jack.” His voice is low and urgent, wind whipping across the line. “You need to move.Now.”
My stomach turns to ice. “What happened?”
“Word’s out. They know she’s with you. They know the van. I don’t know how far the leak goes, but if they’re in Denmark already, you’re out of time.”
I glance back toward the market. The men in cuts are gone.
That’s worse than seeing them.
“Understood,” I say tightly. My voice doesn’t shake, but my heart is a jackhammer. “We’ll be on the road within the hour.”
“Good. Stick to the back roads where you can. Call when you’re clear.”
The line goes dead.
I shove the phone into my pocket and start walking fast, but not too fast. Don’t draw attention. Don’t look like prey. My senses are on overdrive now, every nerve alight. I hear the distant slap of the harbour against the stone walls, the rattle of a bike chain, the faint echo of footsteps behind me. My fingers twitch for a weapon I left back at the apartment with Amber.
It’s the same feeling I get when Abel runs too close to the water without a life vest—pure, razor-sharp awareness that one wrong move could change everything.
By the time I reach the apartment, my jacket is damp from the mist, my hair curling at the edges, and the cold has seeped all the way to my bones.
Amber meets me at the door, her curls a messy halo, worry etched deep in her blue eyes. She’s barefoot, wearing one of my hoodies, and she looks so small in that moment it punches the air out of my lungs.
“Bas?” Her voice is soft, tremulous. “What is it?”
“We have to go,” I say, pushing inside. The groceries hit the counter with a heavy thud. My voice comes out clipped, urgency leaking into every word. “Your dad called. They know we’re here.”
