45. Strike
Strike
“Please,” Millie begged as Strike prepared her lunch.
“It’s not safe.”
“I need to get out, and those cupcakes at the bakery were incredible, and no one knows we’re here and—”
He pressed his finger to her lip. “What if something happens to you?”
“I’ve seen your panic in the tightness of your face and the curt way you speak at times. Your therapist helps you with your anxiety?”
He turned away from her, gripping the knife tightly in his hand. She eased his fingers, unfurling them from the utensil, but his shoulders still hunched.
“Yes, but watching Parky die changed me. I worked through PTSD with her, but when I can’t control things, when the anxiety gets too much, I exercise. In the past, I’d end up hitting walls, hurting myself.”
“But you can’t control everything, especially not people.
You could come with me so that you know I’m safe.
If the anxiety overwhelms you, I’ll help you.
Do you promise to tell me when it’s too much?
” She pressed kisses to his naked back. “I love this house, but I must get out, walk, and process everything. I fucked my former best friend, my bodyguard, for crying out loud.”
Strike rubbed his hands down his face. He couldn’t keep dictating the actions of those around him, while ignoring their feelings. All it did was shut them out. He was a good bodyguard. He could keep her safe. “Fine. I’ll come with you.”
They said a quick hello to Joyce before walking to the town. Strike kept a constant lookout as Millie danced down the road.
“Happy?” he asked, his lips quirking.
“Ecstatic.” The hem of her summer dress bounced as she walked. His need to fuck her again was like a hand around his throat, choking him.
Sex with Millie was incredible, better than he’d believed possible, but he wanted more. As his authority over their situation waned, the need to dominate her rose. But even if she insisted she was okay with that, they were both so inexperienced.
What if it messed up what they had?
“You’re not too much for me, you know?” she said, pulling him from his thoughts.
He froze. “How did you know what I was thinking?”
“I just do.” She reached up to cup his cheek. “You’re sweet, but you’re controlling, too. I want that side of you.”
“Stop distracting me. I’m supposed to be your bodyguard, not a horny teenager who’s always on the brink of coming in his pants.”
She laughed and ran ahead before wiggling her bum. It must be the endorphins. She must be blinkered to how dangerous this was. She winked at him over her shoulder. “I’ll race you.”
That need to chase her down and throw her over his shoulder was like a bomb on a countdown timer in his chest.
He sped up his strides but refused to run. He didn’t need to. He was faster than she anticipated.
In that summer dress, with its thin straps and a hem that shortened as she ran, she was everything he desired. He wanted to rip it off her and force her on her knees right here.
Too dark, Strike.
As they reached the edge of the town, his phone rang.
“Millie.” He sank onto a bench, and she joined him. “It’s Hugo. I haven’t decided what to do about your plan to meet with Randolph.”
“Answer it. Maybe he’ll confess or say something stupid we can use, and this shitty business will be over.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, and he opened an app to record the call before putting it to speakerphone.
“I thought you’d be too gutless to answer.” Hugo’s upper-class accent wasn’t dulled by his venom.
“Are you calling to hand yourself in, Hugo?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Millie snapped a hairband. Strike clutched her hand. “You stabbed someone.”
“That’s not how I remember it. I saw some bitch run out of the side road after stabbing a drug dealer,” Hugo replied, a sneer in his voice.
“You don’t call her that.” Darkness fuzzed Strike’s vision. If Hugo had said that in front of him, he’d have snapped his neck without hesitation. “Millie can testify that you roughed him up before stabbing him.”
He cackled. “Yet she hasn’t given a statement. She hasn’t gone to the police.”
Strike snarled, “Because you tried to shoot her.”
Hugo laughed harder before slurring, “With what army rifle training? I’m not a bloody sniper. That’s your style.”
“We have a video of you,” Strike said. “It shows you stabbing the man.”
“Liar. If you did, I wouldn’t be lounging in my father’s mansion. Where are you, Strike?”
“Hand yourself in,” he snapped.
Hugo cackled. “My father hired someone. He’ll find Millie and drag her back by her neck if he has to. I don’t give up.”
Strike paced. “Millie found that you were kicked out of every expensive school you attended and failed at each business you’ve linked yourself to. You’re good at giving up. From what I’ve seen, it’s the only thing you are good at. Your dad must be ashamed.”
“Fuck you. Don’t bring my father into this. You don’t know him,” he roared. “You’re not going to stop me. I’ll do whatever it takes to stop her from lying about me to the police.”
“Is that a threat?” Stike replied, his body stiff with tension. Millie ran her fingers across the back of his neck.
“I don’t need to threaten you. I know people. My father will never employ you again.” His voice dropped to a tone that implied promises rather than threats. “It would be awful if something happened to you and that little bitch.”
“I told you not to call her that.” He fisted his hand, desperate to punch Hugo until he was a bloody pulp. “You don’t fucking speak about her.”
“Does she mean something to you?”
“Touch her, and you die, you motherfucker.”
Strike punched the bench. The wood cracked.
“Your friends aren’t your only weaknesses,” he taunted.
“This isn’t over,” Millie replied. “I’ll tell the police what you did. You’ve avoided trouble for years because of your powerful parents, but this is a problem you can’t demand your way out of. Turn yourself in, or I’ll visit the police station with video evidence and make a statement.”
“Hello, Millie,” he rasped. “Make sure to tell me which station. I’ll have a violent welcoming committee waiting for you. Scrap that. As soon as you get to a police station, I’ll know about it. My mother is the head of the police.”
“Don’t threaten me, prick. We’ll get you,” Millie replied. She projected confidence into her voice, but her hands shook so violently that Strike grasped them in his. “And a bit of advice, stop telling people your mum’s the head of the police. It won’t go down well with your cellmates.”
“People like me don’t go to prison.” His laugh was less confident. “Watch your back. As soon as I find you, you’ll regret threatening me.”
The phone went dead. Strike snatched it. “I want to rip his fucking throat out.”
“No, you don’t. You want to see him behind bars.”
“Don’t be so sure about that, Sunset. Let’s return to the house.”
“No,” she begged. “I can’t go there and wait to be hurt. I’ve spent so much of my life hiding.”
“This isn’t like before. This isn’t hiding because you’re scared to reveal who you are. This is me protecting you.”
“He doesn’t know where we are, or he’d be here. Please, one hour.”
It took everything in him not to carry her back to the house.
“Fine. But you’ll not do anything to risk your safety. Are we clear?” he fumed. “And you will follow all my instructions.”
“Yes, sir. Anything you say,” she teased.
Fuck, if that didn’t make him want to force obedience from her.
He was too much for her, but he couldn’t let her out of his life now.