Page 63 of You've Got The Love
“Pirate?” I blink. “You mean that guy from the barbecue? The one who was showing off his… erm…pierced… you know?” I cringe. “Oh God. She’s gonna love that.”
“Yeah, that’s him. Navy vet. Knows how to handle himself. But Jess ain’t exactly easy.”
I almost laugh.Almost. “No, she’s really not.”
“Keep that burner close,” he says, his voice dipping lower. “I’ll call when I’ve got more. And Amber? Watch your six.”
“I will.” I hang up, my hands a little shakier than I want them to be.
Bas glances over, already reading me. He reaches out and threads his fingers through mine, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a slow, grounding stroke. “Everything okay?”
I nod, exhaling. “They know we’re on the move. And Jess is being babysat by a biker with a pierced dick.”
Bas snorts—then chokes on his coffee and bursts into laughter. “Jesus.” He wipes a hand across his mouth. “That’s gonna make for someinterestingstories at the shop.”
The hours stretch as the ferry carries us closer toNorway. We talk in quiet murmurs—about his childhood inAlphen aan den Rijn, about his dad teaching him how to fix bikes and gut fish. I tell him about my nan’s garden, about the time Jess and I tried to grow sunflowers on the roof of the shop and nearly got fined by the council.
And when I catch him looking at me—really looking—I feel it down to my bones.
“You’re brave, Amber,” he says, voice rough.
I laugh softly. “Not really.”
“You are,” he insists. “You keep going. Even scared. That’s brave.”
I lean into him, resting my head against his shoulder. His hand finds mine again, and we sit like that, the sea stretchingendlessly around us.
But no matter how quiet this moment is—how soft, how full of hope—there’s a storm behind us, and it’s not done chasing.
Chapter 34
Amber
The cool evening air hits us as soon as we step off the ferry, sharp and clean, laced with the scent of sea salt and metal. It’s a jarring contrast to the stale cabin air we’ve been breathing for the last eight hours, and I pull my coat tighter around myself as we move through the nearly deserted terminal.
Bas leads the way, eyes scanning every shadow, every passerby. His pace is brisk, calculated, and without speaking, I match it. I focus on the rhythm of his boots against the tiled floor, steady and sure, like a drumbeat I can follow through the nerves churning in my stomach.
“This city feels so different fromCopenhagen,” I murmur, trying to break the silence, if only to ground myself.
Bas glances sideways, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oslo’squieter. Built into the wild, in a way. You can drive just ten minutes and find yourself in themiddle of a forest. That’s why we’re here. It’s easier to disappear.”
A man waits at the edge of the terminal, beyond the glow of the overhead lights, just like Dad promised. We follow him without a word. He’s dressed in a scuffed leather jacket, head buzzed short, with the kind of face that looks carved from stone—sharp angles, no warmth. There’s a weight to him, a silent menace that reminds me too much of my dad.
He doesn’t speak. Just gives a single nod when he sees us.
He leads us to a matte black van parked on the street, its windows tinted, engine silent. We stop beside it, and he glances at me first, then at Bas, before holding out a single key.
“This the one?” I ask, voice low.
Another nod.
Then, without a word, he turns and melts into the shadows like he was never there.
Bas and I climb into the van. The engine purrs to life instantly, and as soon as the interior lights flicker on, we see what’s been left behind for us.
In the back: three boxes—one of non-perishable food, one packed tight with bottled water, first-aid supplies, flashlights, and maps. The third is smaller and heavier. Inside, there’s cash. Stacks of it. Euros and kroner. No note. Just quiet, unmistakable support.
Bas doesn’t say anything. He just lets out a slow breath through his nose and pulls onto the road without a word.
