Page 62 of You've Got The Love
“We can’t stay here much longer,” Bas says quietly. His voice is low, weighted, like he’s been turning the words over in his mind all day and only now lets them fall. His eyes are dark with worry, flicking toward the frostedporthole window like he half-expects someone to be watching us through it.
I nod slowly, even though I’ve been avoiding those same words. They’ve been sitting like a stone in my chest, cold and heavy. “What’s next?”
He exhales through his nose and runs a hand through his hair, loosening the knot in his man bun until a few strands fall around his face. “Oslo,” he says finally. “My friend has a cabin in ‘Nordmarka’. Deep in the woods. No roads unless you know where to look. It’s remote, safe. We can lay low for a while.”
The thought of moving again—of crossing into yet another country, another unknown—makes my stomach twist. I’ve grown used to the quiet rhythm of this boat, the creaking of the wood, the gulls crying in the distance, the slow, steady days spent hiding in plain sight. The idea of boarding a ferry, of being surrounded by strangers, noise, movement—it presses in on me like a wave about to break.
Bas must sense it. He reaches over, resting his hand gently on my knee. “We’ll be careful,” he murmurs. “I know the routes, the quieter times to travel.”
“Do you think they’re close?” I ask, my voice thin and tight.
He hesitates. Just for a second. But it’s enough.
Then he nods. “They probably know we’re here.”
The words hit like a stone skipping across the calm water I’ve been pretending we’re floating on. “They’re still tracking us.”
Bas shifts closer, pulling me into him. His arms wrap around me, solid and warm, and I press my cheek to his chest. I can hear the steady thud of his heart through the layers of fabric. “I won’t let them near you,” he says. There’s steel in his voice now—a promise.
I want to believe him. God, I want to. But the fear is still there, curling at the edges of my mind like smoke under a door.
The morning of the ferry, we pack in silence. Every zip of a bag, every clink of dishes being stowed away sounds too loud, too final. I stuff Bas’s hoodie into my bag, fingers trembling as I try to focus on something small, something I can control.
Bas moves quickly and efficiently, his movements clipped but not rushed. He brushes my hand as we climb up to the dock, and I grab hold of his fingers like a lifeline. It’s not much, but it steadies me. Even as the morning chill wraps around us and the dock sways underfoot, his presence is the only solid thing I can cling to.
The ferry looms ahead, a giant silver beast slicing through the grey waters of theNorth Sea. Bas told me thiswas the safest way to get toNorway—more discreet than driving across two borders. But it still feels like a risk.
We move slowly up the gangway, my eyes scanning every face. It’s just early morning commuters, tourists, and truck drivers. No leather cuts. NoReapers. But still—I can’t shake the feeling that eyes are on us.
Inside, the air is cool and smells of diesel, salt, and over-brewed coffee. We find a small table near the window, the kind of seat nobody lingers in unless they’re looking for a quiet crossing. I sit facing the water, watching the waves churn and rise, the horizon dissolving into a soft, grey blur.
Bas disappears for a few minutes and returns with two drinks. He sets them down and leans close, whispering, “Koffie verkeerd. My favourite.”
I smile, grateful for something that feels normal. “I’m guessing this one’s milky tea?”
He nods. “I know you too well, Bell.”
We sit in silence, sipping and watching the sea. The hum of the engines fills the space between us. For a moment, I let myself pretend we’re just two people taking a ferry to Oslo for fun, not two people on the run from a violent outlaw MC.
Then I pull out a new burner phone.
“Maybe I should call Dad,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, even though my heart has already kicked up in my chest.
Bas’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “Just keep it short. And don’t give him specifics.”
The line crackles when I call. I brace myself.
“Amber?” My dad’s voice is low and sharp, immediately alert. “You alright?”
“I’m okay. We’re heading somewhere quieter. Further north.”
There’s a pause. Then: “They know you’re movin’. The Reapers are widenin’ their net, sendin’ guys across Sweden, Norway, and Denmark. Tryin’ to catch you on the move.”
My stomach flips. I glance at Bas, who watches me over the rim of his coffee.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “And Andrea? Jess?”
“Ain’t gotta worry ’bout me, babygirl. You know I’m a survivor. Andrea’s good as gold. But your mate Jess—Christ, she’s a fuckin’ menace. Been givin’ Pirate a real headache.”
