Page 41 of You've Got The Love
The reminder sends a shiver through me. The ferry. A choke point we can’t avoid. We’ll have to queue with other cars, trapped in a metal box with no easy escape if someone recognises the van. I swallow hard and keep my gaze fixed on the grey horizon.
I press my forehead against the window, the cold seeping into my skin, grounding me. The world outside streams past in a watery blur—farms, trees, and puddles stitched together into a smear of grey and green.
The question whispers again, stubborn and sharp.
What are we, really?
I don’t say it out loud. Ican’t. Not yet.
Chapter 23
Bastiaan
Idon’t park in the market lot. Too open. Too easy for someone to box us in. Instead, I ease the van into a narrow side street where I can see the market from a distance but still have a clean exit if we need it. Always leave yourself a way out.
Amber stirs beside me as I cut the engine. Her curls are a messy halo, her blue eyes soft with sleep—but the second she catches my expression, they sharpen.
“We’re stopping?” she asks, voice tight.
“Briefly. Supplies only. We don’t linger.” I hold her gaze until she nods. “And you come with me. I don’t leave you alone.”
Relief flickers in her eyes before she hides it. Leaving her in the van was never an option. I’d sooner leave my heart on the dashboard.
We step into the cool Danish air. The market square smells of wet stone, bread, and smoked fish. Gulls screamoverhead. I keep Amber close, my hand a steady pressure at the small of her back, as we weave through the stalls. We grab bread, bottled water, apples, cheese, and a couple of warm pastries. She bites into one, and for a heartbeat, her lips curve in the smallest smile.
Almost enough to let me breathe.
Almost.
Then I see it.
A black van idles at the far edge of the square. Engine running. Windows tinted.
A man leans against the driver’s door, smoking, talking to two guys on bikes. His jacket shifts, and I catch the edge of a leather cut.
My gut twists.
I don’t need to see the patch to know.
They’re here.
Amber feels the change in me instantly. She stiffens. “Bas?”
“Keep walking. Slow. Don’t look,” I murmur, steering her toward the side street. My pulse hammers, every muscle coiled. Protect. Move. Survive.
We slip behind a row of stalls and reach the van. My keys are already in my hand.
Once I start the engine, I don’t waste a second. I pull out slowly, casually, then take the first turn I can, then another, winding us through the wet streets until the market is out of sight.
Amber looks in her wing mirror. Her breath catches. “Bas… they’re following us.”
I check the mirror.Fuck. She’s right. A few cars back, the black van slides into the same lane.
“They know,” I mutter, jaw tight.
Amber clutches her seatbelt, voice shaking. “What do we do? Bas, what do we do?”
“We keep moving,” I say. “No stopping. No mistakes.”
