Chapter 18
Amber
By the time we cross into Denmark, I feel like I’ve been wrung out and left in the sun to dry. Nine and a half hours in the car has turned my legs to jelly, my head to fog, and my stomach to knots.
Bastiaan drives like a man with a mission.
He barely speaks, his hands firm on the wheel, his eyes constantly scanning the mirrors.
I’ve learned that his silence isn’t coldness—it’s him thinking, calculating, protecting.
Still, it leaves me alone with my thoughts, and that’s a dangerous place to be.
I can’t stop thinking about Bea, Andrea, and Jess.
Are they okay? It’s killing me that I can’t speak to Bea. I’ve never gone this long without talking to her before. I didn’t want to put anyone else in harm’s way, so I’m getting Jess to keep her updated.
Are the Reapers watching them? Did my disappearing drag them into this mess? Are Dad’s men looking after them well? I bet Jess is loving having a biker guard.
The urge to reach for my phone is a physical ache. I want to text Andrea something stupid and normal—Water the orchids. Feed the foxgloves. Or message Jess one of our silly memes about customers who think baby’s breath is edgy—anything to remind me that my life still exists somewhere.
But the burner phone sits in my lap, dark and silent, and I know that the second I use it, someone could trace us.
Someone could find us. If willing my dad to call me actually worked, he would have called by now.
But I know things aren’t sorted—the Reapers’ presence at the market proved that. They’re still after me.
I rub my thumb over the phone case and force myself to put it back in the glove box. I can’t risk them.
“Almost there,” Bas says, his voice low and rough from hours of quiet.
I blink and lift my head, catching the first sight of Copenhagen. Soft-coloured buildings rise against the evening sky, glinting water threading between them. Bikes zip along cobblestones. It’s beautiful, like a storybook.
I should be in awe. I should want to snap photos or soak it all in. But all I can think about is how danger could be anywhere.
Every car behind us makes my stomach twist. Every group of men on the street looks like they might pull a gun.
“Are we actually going to stay here?” I ask after a long stretch of silence.
“That’s the plan,” he says, eyes on the mirrors. “Quiet spot. No one will find us.”
“You sound so sure,” I murmur, curling my arms around my knees.
“I’m sure enough for both of us,” he says, and there’s a thread of dry humour in his tone that makes my lips twitch despite the tension.
“Confident much?”
He finally glances my way, his mouth pulling into the smallest smirk. “Would you rather I wasn’t?”
“No,” I admit. “You’re terrifying enough when you’re confident. I can’t imagine you second-guessing yourself.”
“I don’t second-guess. I adjust.”
“Adjust?”
He shrugs one broad shoulder. “If I see a threat, I just try and adapt. You worry enough for the both of us, so I get to be the calm one.”
I snort softly. “You call this calm? You’ve been glaring at every car that gets within a hundred meters for the last nine hours.”
“That is me calm,” he says flatly.
I laugh under my breath and then wince, because it’s half-hysterical. The sound feels too loud in the cocoon of the van, like I might shatter the thin glass of safety we’re holding onto.
We weave through the city, taking turns and crossing a narrow bridge over water that reflects the muted evening light. Bas takes two extra detours, doubling back once before finally pulling into a hidden courtyard behind a row of old warehouses.
It’s quiet here, tucked away from the street, shielded from casual eyes.
“This is it,” he says, killing the engine.
I glance up at the building. It looks like an old shipping office converted into apartments, the paint faded by sea air, shutters slightly crooked. You’d never notice it unless you were looking. Which, I guess, is the point.
“Charming,” I say dryly, unbuckling my seatbelt. “I was expecting something a little more… romantic-fugitive-chic.”
He gives me a look that tells me he thinks I’m ridiculous. “You want a hotel with rose petals on the bed, you’re on the wrong trip, Bell.”
“You could at least spring for a croissant,” I mutter, grabbing my bag.
He huffs a short laugh, that rare one that feels like a private gift. “I’ll get you a croissant if you survive the week.”
“Gee, thanks. Comforting.”
Inside, the stairwell is narrow and smells faintly of the sea. My boots scuff on the worn wooden steps as I follow him, my bag slung over my shoulder like I’m some exhausted fugitive—which, I guess, I am.
At the top, he unlocks the door with a key from the envelope that was left in the van, in case we needed a safe house, and nudges me inside first. The apartment is small but warm—wooden floors, big windows, and soft light filtering through the overcast evening sky.
Bas bolts the door immediately, checks the locks twice, then does a slow scan of the room. Only then does he set his gun on the counter. That tight knot in my chest loosens just a little.
I drop my bag and sink onto the sofa, my legs shaky from more than the long drive. He disappears into the kitchenette for a moment, opening cupboards, then crouches in front of me, his big hands warm on my knees.
“You okay?” he asks.
I let out a laugh that’s half-bitter, half-shaky. “Define okay.”
He tilts his head, eyes crinkling just a little. “Breathing? Not bleeding?”
“Both of those,” I admit.
“Then you’re okay.”
“You have a really low bar for wellness,” I tease, and my voice wobbles on the edge of tired laughter.
His thumb brushes a slow circle over my knee, and something tightens in my chest. He looks at me like I’m the only thing in the room. The only thing that matters.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “No one’s going to touch you.”
“I believe you,” I whisper, surprising myself with how much I mean it.
He leans back a little, but his hand lingers for a beat longer. “You hungry?”
“Starving. But also too tired to move.”
He stands and starts rummaging through one of the bags. “Great. I’ll whip up a feast of canned soup and bread. Michelin star stuff.”
“Wow. You really know how to romance a girl on the run,” I say, curling up into the cushions.
“Pretty sure last night covered the romance part,” he says under his breath.
My cheeks heat, and I bury my face in the pillow. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, you’re smiling.”
The memory of the barge surges up—his hands on me, the way he kissed me like he’d never let go. The world outside might be spinning with danger, but here, in this hidden corner of Copenhagen, I feel like I can finally exhale.
For tonight, at least, the world feels small and suspended.
And deep down, I know exactly where I want to end up when night falls—curled into his arms, where I finally feel safe enough to breathe.