Chapter 33 Amber
Amber
The peaceful bubble we’d found on the houseboat in Copenhagen feels like it’s getting stronger, like it wouldn’t just take a breath of wind to burst anymore.
It’s the kind of calm that settles in your bones—slow and warm, deceptively still.
But under the surface, the tension coils like a live wire, waiting for a spark.
Bas and I sit close in the cramped cabin, knees brushing under the little table that doubles as a desk and a dining spot.
The air is thick with the woody tang of smoke from the tiny stove, and the faint scent of coffee clings to everything.
My fingers trace lazy patterns into the grain of the wooden wall beside me, but it’s just a way to distract myself, to calm the whirlwind inside.
“We can’t stay here much longer,” Bas says quietly. His voice is low, weighted, like he’s been turning the words over in his mind all day and only now lets them fall. His eyes are dark with worry, flicking toward the frosted porthole window like he half-expects someone to be watching us through it.
I nod slowly, even though I’ve been avoiding those same words. They’ve been sitting like a stone in my chest, cold and heavy. “What’s next?”
He exhales through his nose and runs a hand through his hair, loosening the knot in his man bun until a few strands fall around his face.
“Oslo,” he says finally. “My friend has a cabin in ‘Nordmarka’. Deep in the woods. No roads unless you know where to look. It’s remote, safe. We can lay low for a while.”
The thought of moving again—of crossing into yet another country, another unknown—makes my stomach twist. I’ve grown used to the quiet rhythm of this boat, the creaking of the wood, the gulls crying in the distance, the slow, steady days spent hiding in plain sight.
The idea of boarding a ferry, of being surrounded by strangers, noise, movement—it presses in on me like a wave about to break.
Bas must sense it. He reaches over, resting his hand gently on my knee. “We’ll be careful,” he murmurs. “I know the routes, the quieter times to travel.”
“Do you think they’re close?” I ask, my voice thin and tight.
He hesitates. Just for a second. But it’s enough.
Then he nods. “They probably know we’re here.”
The words hit like a stone skipping across the calm water I’ve been pretending we’re floating on. “They’re still tracking us.”
Bas shifts closer, pulling me into him. His arms wrap around me, solid and warm, and I press my cheek to his chest. I can hear the steady thud of his heart through the layers of fabric. “I won’t let them near you,” he says. There’s steel in his voice now—a promise.
I want to believe him. God, I want to. But the fear is still there, curling at the edges of my mind like smoke under a door.
The morning of the ferry, we pack in silence. Every zip of a bag, every clink of dishes being stowed away sounds too loud, too final. I stuff Bas’s hoodie into my bag, fingers trembling as I try to focus on something small, something I can control.
Bas moves quickly and efficiently, his movements clipped but not rushed.
He brushes my hand as we climb up to the dock, and I grab hold of his fingers like a lifeline.
It’s not much, but it steadies me. Even as the morning chill wraps around us and the dock sways underfoot, his presence is the only solid thing I can cling to.
The ferry looms ahead, a giant silver beast slicing through the grey waters of the North Sea. Bas told me this was the safest way to get to Norway—more discreet than driving across two borders. But it still feels like a risk.
We move slowly up the gangway, my eyes scanning every face. It’s just early morning commuters, tourists, and truck drivers. No leather cuts. No Reapers. But still—I can’t shake the feeling that eyes are on us.
Inside, the air is cool and smells of diesel, salt, and over-brewed coffee.
We find a small table near the window, the kind of seat nobody lingers in unless they’re looking for a quiet crossing.
I sit facing the water, watching the waves churn and rise, the horizon dissolving into a soft, grey blur.
Bas disappears for a few minutes and returns with two drinks. He sets them down and leans close, whispering, “Koffie verkeerd. My favourite.”
I smile, grateful for something that feels normal. “I’m guessing this one’s milky tea?”
He nods. “I know you too well, Bell.”
We sit in silence, sipping and watching the sea. The hum of the engines fills the space between us. For a moment, I let myself pretend we’re just two people taking a ferry to Oslo for fun, not two people on the run from a violent outlaw MC.
Then I pull out a new burner phone.
“Maybe I should call Dad,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, even though my heart has already kicked up in my chest.
Bas’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “Just keep it short. And don’t give him specifics.”
The line crackles when I call. I brace myself.
“Amber?” My dad’s voice is low and sharp, immediately alert. “You alright?”
“I’m okay. We’re heading somewhere quieter. Further north.”
There’s a pause. Then: “They know you’re movin’. The Reapers are widenin’ their net, sendin’ guys across Sweden, Norway, and Denmark. Tryin’ to catch you on the move.”
My stomach flips. I glance at Bas, who watches me over the rim of his coffee.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “And Andrea? Jess?”
“Ain’t gotta worry ’bout me, babygirl. You know I’m a survivor. Andrea’s good as gold. But your mate Jess—Christ, she’s a fuckin’ menace. Been givin’ Pirate a real headache.”
“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 some interesting stories at the shop.”
The hours stretch as the ferry carries us closer to Norway.
We talk in quiet murmurs—about his childhood in Alphen 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 stretching endlessly 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.