Chapter 17
Bastiaan
The morning after feels deceptively calm.
The sunlight cuts across the canal in golden ribbons, the barge rocking gently beneath my feet. Amber is still asleep, curled up in the sheets, her hair a golden halo across the pillow.
She looks peaceful. Like nothing could touch her here.
And I’ll be damned if I let anyone take that away from her.
I watch her for a second longer than I should—eyes fluttering beneath closed lids, the rise and fall of her bare back beneath the duvet. The curve of her spine, the way one knee pokes out from the tangled sheets.
My jaw clenches. It’s burned into me now. The sounds she made last night. The way she gasped my name, like it meant something. Like I meant something.
Fuck.
I scrub a hand over my face and exhale hard through my nose. I shouldn’t have let it happen. I told myself a hundred times to stay away from her like that. That she deserved better. That if I touched her, I’d never stop.
And I didn’t.
Not when her body was arching beneath me, not when her fingers clawed at my shoulders like I was the only thing holding her together.
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’re hunting.
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?”
“Reapers,” I say, short and sharp. “In the market. They’re here.”
The blood drains from her face, but she doesn’t argue. Doesn’t waste time. She disappears into the bathroom, already grabbing our things. I catch a flash of bare thigh beneath the shirt she’s wearing, and my brain short-circuits for a split second.
Last night slams back into me—her on top of me, panting, riding me slow and desperate, like she needed it as bad as I did. Her hands braced on my chest; her eyes locked on mine when she shattered.
I can still feel her.
I shouldn’t be thinking about that now. But Jesus, how the hell do I forget something like that? How soft she sounded when I whispered filthy shit in her ear. How fucking tight she was, like she was made just for me.
Focus, Bastiaan.
I kill the shore power and secure the deck while she finishes packing. We cast off just as the street above the canal starts to stir.
I keep my eyes on the banks, scanning for bikes. Boots. Leather.
Nothing.
We make it out. Barely.
Thank fuck.
Hours later, we’re in the van, the barge left moored somewhere out of sight. The motorway hums beneath the wheels as we head north. Amber’s curled up in the passenger seat, dozing again, her head resting against the window.
I glance over at her. Her hand rests lightly over her stomach. Lips parted. Long lashes fanned over her cheeks.
So fucking beautiful it hurts.
But in the pit of my gut, there’s a lead weight. Because I don’t know what last night meant for her. I don’t know what it means for us. All I know is I’d die before I let anyone lay a hand on her.
She let me in. Touched parts of me no one’s come near in years. And now I don’t know how to be near her without wanting her all over again.
She deserves more than a man like me.
But I’m selfish.
Because last night… I didn’t hold back.
And now that I’ve had her, now that I know how she tastes, how she moans, how she clenches around me when she comes—I don’t think I can go back to pretending she’s just Amber, the woman I’ve been quietly obsessed with the past two years.
Not anymore.
Copenhagen’s still hours away, but my mind is stuck back on that barge. On the way she whispered my name. On how her thighs trembled after I made her come on my tongue.
She’s mine now.
Even if I’m too much of a coward to say it out loud.
Even if the world’s trying to take her away.
They’ll have to go through me first.