Chapter 43
Amber
The van smells like cold metal and fear.
It hangs in the air, clinging to the walls and the fabric seats, sinking into my skin like it belongs there. Every bump in the icy road rattles straight through me, setting my teeth on edge.
Bas is pressed up against the window in the back, the icy glass at his shoulder.
I sit as close to him as I can, my own side pressed into his warmth.
My hands won’t stop shaking. I bunch them into the folds of his hoodie, pulling it tighter around me and burying my face in the fabric for a moment just to breathe him in—clean soap, sandalwood, and that warm something I’ll never be able to name.
Usually, it steadies me. Tonight, it’s not enough.
Bas is close, knees touching mine, but his body is rigid. His hands are on his thighs, fingers flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them. His gaze stays fixed on the floor, jaw set hard enough that a muscle jumps in his cheek.
Dad is on my other side. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the narrow strip of windscreen between the driver and passenger seats.
One of his men drives, the low hum of the engine filling the space between us, along with the occasional clink of Dad’s rings when he shifts his hands.
It’s suffocating—the quiet, the closeness, the memory of hands grabbing me, dragging me, forcing me to the ground. I stare out the window, but all I see is that room. The cold floor. The smell of salty air, oil and cigarettes. The weight of eyes on me like I was a thing, not a person.
I blink hard, focus on my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. It doesn’t steady me.
“Amber,” Bas says finally, his voice low, raw. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head slowly. “No. Just… scared.”
He exhales like he’s been holding it for hours. His hand comes over mine, warm and firm, his thumb brushing over my knuckles once, slow and deliberate.
“I almost lost you,” he says.
I swallow. “But you didn’t.”
“I—” His voice cracks, just enough for me to hear it. “I can’t… I can’t go through that again, Amber. Tonight—” He stops himself, pressing his lips together.
Dad shifts, his voice cutting in, rough but steady. “She’s here now. That’s what matters.”
Bas’s gaze lifts, meeting Dad’s across me. “You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not grateful you were there? But if we’d been minutes later—”
Dad’s hand curls into a fist on his knee. “If you’d done your fuckin’ job, she wouldn’t have left the cabin on her own in the middle of the fuckin’ night.”
The air between them tightens. I put a hand on my dad’s arm, trying to pull the tension down.
“Dad, he kept me safe and hidden for weeks. He put his whole life on pause for me. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.”
Dad’s jaw works, but after a beat, he nods once, though his arm tightens around my shoulders. “You need to be somewhere safe. Somewhere you can breathe. You’ve been through hell tonight, Amber.”
I glance at Bas, hoping to see the protest I want from him. But it’s not there.
By the time we reach the cabin, I’m still waiting for it. The headlights of two bikes cut through the trees, engines idling low. The Oslo chapter boys—watching our backs. I should feel safer with them here. Instead, I feel cornered.
The van stops. Dad is out first, striding to the cabin. Bas steps down from the back, then turns, holding his hand out to me. I take it. His grip is strong, warm, steady—nothing like the way he’s looking at me.
Inside, the fire is lit. The smell of pine and smoke fills the small room.
I sit on the couch, twisting my hands together, hiding them in the long sleeves of Bas’s hoodie.
Dad paces. Bas leans against the wall near the window, his arms crossed, like if he doesn’t pin himself there, he’ll come to me.
“Dad,” I say quietly, “I’m not running away from my life because of this. I can’t just leave everything.”
“You almost didn’t make it back tonight,” Dad says. His voice is hard, but I can hear the tremor under it. “You think I’m gonna to stand by and watch you walk right back into harm’s way?”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were taken, Amber.” His voice spikes, then softens. “Do you get that? They put their hands on you. I can’t—” He stops himself, rakes a hand down his face. “You need space. Time. Somewhere you can heal away from harm’s way.”
I glance at Bas, and the look in his eyes nearly steals my breath. He’s staring at the floor, his hand flexing once at his side.
“Bas?”
He doesn’t look up. “He’s right.”
The words gut me. “What?”
“I couldn’t stop it.” His gaze lifts finally, and it’s like being caught in the wreckage of something beautiful. “I thought I could keep you safe. But tonight proved I can’t. If anything ever happened to you because of me…” He shakes his head.
My chest tightens until it’s hard to draw breath. “So you’re just letting me go?”
“I’m letting you live,” he says.
Dad steps closer. “Get your things, babygirl. You can come home with me. Rest. Let me look after you for a while.”
I want to tell him no. I want to tell Bas I’m not afraid, that I don’t care about what happened tonight because I’m here, we’re here, and that’s what matters. But the haunted look in Bas’s eyes stops me cold. He’s already halfway gone.
I nod, my throat tight, and go to the bedroom. My bag feels heavier than it should when I lift it. Every step toward the living room feels like a piece of me is being left behind.
Dad is by the door when I return, one hand on the handle, my coat already slung over his shoulder. Bas hasn’t moved from the window, but his palm is braced against the frame like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.
I stop in front of him, my pulse hammering in my throat. “Bas…”
His eyes lift to mine, and the look there guts me—want, sorrow, guilt, all tangled into something raw enough to strip me bare. I reach up and lay my palm against his chest, right over the steady, heavy thud of his heart, like I can hold on to it for just a second longer.
“I would have stayed,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I would have fought for us, no matter what.”
His jaw flexes, a muscle ticking hard. “And I would have broken you,” he says, each word like glass. “Not because I want to, but because I’m too broken to give you everything you deserve. You deserve the world, Amber… and all I’ve got to give are pieces.”
The sting of his words burns hot in my chest. I lean in before I can lose my courage, pressing my mouth to his. It’s soft, but desperate, tasting of salt—my tears or his, I don’t know. I want to pour every unspoken thing into that kiss, to make him feel how wrong he is.
But I pull back before I shatter in his arms.
Behind me, the door opens. Cold air rushes in, stinging my cheeks.
“Let’s go, babygirl,” Dad says, his voice low, steady.
I turn away before my resolve cracks. I don’t look back. If I do, I’ll never walk out that door.
The van is warmer this time, the heater humming low, but it doesn’t touch the cold lodged deep in my bones. Dad sits beside me, keeping me tucked under his arm like he used to when I was small and the world felt too big.
The hum of the tyres and the faint roar of the bikes behind us fill the silence, steady and relentless.
I lean into my dad’s chest, the leather of his cut rough against my cheek, the scent of him familiar in a way that both soothes and unravels me.
His arms close around me the way they always have—strong, unshakable, like nothing can touch me here.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice catching.
His hand moves over the back of my head, a slow, grounding touch. “Always, babygirl.”
I stay there longer than I should, clinging to him, listening to the steady beat of his heart until the knot in my chest loosens just enough to let in a breath. But it doesn’t ease the ache. It just gives it room to expand.
When I finally turn toward the window, snow is falling in thick, heavy sheets, swallowing the road behind us and erasing every track that could lead me back.
In my mind, Bas is still there in the cabin—standing at the window, one hand braced against the frame, watching the space where I should be. I can see him as clearly as if he were right here, the weight of his gaze pressing between my shoulder blades even now.
I press my forehead to the glass, the cold biting into my skin.
My eyes slip shut, but it doesn’t help. I can still feel the thud of his heart under my palm, still hear the crack in his voice when he told me he was too broken to give me everything.
Still feel the moment something inside me gave way under the truth of it.
And it hurts in a way I know won’t fade when the snow does.
Bastiaan
The door shuts behind them, and the cabin exhales into silence. Only the fire remains, its crackle faint and dying, the embers sinking low like they’ve given up.
I stay standing for a moment, staring at the empty space where she was, then my knees give out. I sink to the floor in the exact spot she stood, my palms pressing to the worn boards as if I could still catch some trace of her warmth.
My chest is hollow, scraped clean, like something vital has been scooped out and carried away. My arms feel useless without her weight in them. Her scent still hangs in the air—soft, warm, achingly familiar—and it cuts through me like glass.
She’s gone. And it’s my doing.
I could have fought. Could have made her stay. But I didn’t. I had to let her go, because keeping her would have meant holding her in a world I can’t keep her heart safe, with a man too broken to give her everything she deserves.
Now what’s left in me feels like ash—cold, drifting, weightless. The only thing heavier is knowing I put it there myself.