Page 65 of Break Me Apart
Amsterdam lingers like warmth in my bloodstream. Especially the kiss on the bridge. The way Ari had hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second and then decided, fuck it, anyway.
That’s the thing that keeps replaying.
Not the rave or the hotel, just that choice.
He chose visibility, for us.
I didn’t realise how much that mattered until it happened. Now everything feels steadier and less fragile. We’re not operating on borrowed time anymore.
He told Niko. He’s thinking about contracts, movement, and neutral ground. We’re not guessing at the future anymore. We’re making one.
I feel — Not euphoric, that's probably the wrong word. Settled, maybe. There’s something dangerous about feeling settled in a place like this.
I’m halfway down the corridor toward the barracks when I hear something slam against metal. Hard. It’s a dull,heavy sound. It’s not the accidental bump of kit against a locker. It’s something with weight behind it.
Then I hear a laugh.
I know that laugh. I recognise it instantly. My pace speeds up automatically when I see Connor stagger into view around the corner. But he doesn’t see me at first; he’s too focused on staying upright.
One hand is pressed flat to the wall while the other is clamped tight against his ribs. His mouth is split open again — worse than before. Blood runs in a thin stream from his nose, and a fresh cut blooms above his eyebrow. He nearly misjudges a step and catches himself badly against the wall. The injuries are fresh — minutes fresh.
He looks up and sees me. “Don’t,” he says immediately.
Behind him, footsteps approach at a casual pace. My bag slips from my shoulder and hits the floor. Harris rounds the corner with two of his usual orbiting shadows trailing just far enough back to pretend they’re uninvolved.
He sees me and smiles. “Varrik,” he says lightly. “Back already?” Connor straightens slightly. “Lad’s got no coordination,” Harris adds with a shrug. “Tripped over his own ego.”
I manage to contain my rage and force my tone to stay neutral. “How clumsy,” I say evenly.
Harris steps closer. “You look concerned,” he replies.
Connor shifts behind me. “Leave it,” he mutters. I don’t look back at him. Instead, I take one deliberate stepforward and drive Harris straight into the lockers behind him.
The sound of metal rattles down the corridor, and he shoves at my chest in retaliation — looking more surprised than angry. I let him commit to the movement before hooking his leg clean out from under him.
He hits the floor hard, flat on his back. Out of anger — because I can’t stop myself — I grab him by the T-shirt, pull my fist back, and punch him square in the face; his head snaps to the side from the force of it.
Silence follows, and for a minute, he lies there, stunned. “You’re taking his side?” he asks, looking up at me.
“Yes,” I say with no hesitation.
“You can’t be serious,” he laughs sharply.
“I’m as serious as Bosnia.” His expression shifts at the reminder.
“That was years ago,” he mutters.
“Maybe, but you remember who dragged you out?” I ask calmly. “In fact, if memory serves, you wouldn’t even be here if he didn’t go back and drag your arse out.”
“That was his job.”
“And this is yours?” I cock my head toward Connor without looking at him.
Harris pushes himself up slowly. “You don’t know what he’s been—”
I move closer, smirking. There’s a moment — a small, almost invisible second — where our eyes lock, and something changes in his expression.
He knows.
