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 scream overhead. 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.”
Her fingers fumble for the burner phone. “I have to call Dad. I—” She swallows hard. “I’m scared, Bas.”
“Call him.” My voice is firm. “Do it now.”
She dials with trembling hands. The call connects after one ring.
“Amber.” Her dad’s voice is low, wind in the background. “Talk to me.”
“Dad—” Her voice cracks. “They’re here in bloody Copenhagen. They’re following us right now. A black van—I can see them in the mirror—”
I glance at her. She’s pale, knuckles white around the phone.
Jack’s voice hardens. “You listen to me. You keep movin’. Don’t stop. The Reapers have chapters all over Europe. Sweden, Denmark, Germany, France… hell, even Spain. They’ll know someone who knows someone everywhere you go.”
Amber’s breath shudders. “So they’re really hunting us?”
“They are,” Jack says. “And I’ve got one of my Denmark chapters tryin’ to get to you, but the fuckin’ Reaper cunts are causin’ hell.
They’re hittin’ my guys with distractions, keepin’ ‘em fuckin’ busy.
Until they can break free…” He hesitates, and I can hear the weight in his silence. “…you’re on your own.”
Amber squeezes her eyes shut. “We can’t outrun them forever, Dad.”
“You fuckin’ can,” he says firmly. “You have to. Stay off main roads when you can. Don’t stop unless you have to. And Amber—” His voice softens, all the sharp edges turning to ache. “—make sure you stay alive. I ain’t livin’ without you.”
Her gaze flicks to me, and I give her the smallest nod.
“I love you, Dad,” she whispers, her chin wobbling, holding on as best she can.
“Love you too, babygirl. Call when you’re clear.”
The line goes dead.
Amber lowers the phone slowly, her hand trembling. Then she reaches for mine like she’s afraid I might vanish.
“I’m so scared,” she whispers, raw and small.
“I know.” I squeeze her hand once, grounding her. “But I’ve got you.”
Rain streaks the windshield as we merge onto the highway. The tyres hiss against the wet asphalt, and my eyes flick constantly to the mirrors. The black van lingers like a shadow, just far enough back to keep me guessing.
Whatever this is between Amber and me—fear, adrenaline, or the slow burn I’ve tried to deny for years—one thing is sure.
No one is taking her from me.