Grown-up Millie had curves and a body so soft that in another lifetime, he’d have done everything to have it beneath him. But now she hated him, and he needed her hate to fuel his focus.

The doorbell rang, and she gasped. He held his finger to her lips, and her eyes widened.

His finger lingered longer than necessary.

But he was a bodyguard now, not a teenager. He was a man who’d seen and done the worst things imaginable.

He dragged his finger away and grabbed the key from his pocket, slipping it into the backdoor and turning it with barely a click.

Chilled spring air hit his skin as he stepped into the back garden.

Her heat against his back threatened his resolve as he squinted left and right. Leaves crackled as a cat dared to test the boundaries of the garden, and feathers fluttered as a bird took flight.

“Cherry cola,” Millie murmured.

He chanced a glance over his shoulder. The tip of Millie’s tongue peeked out, and she licked where his finger had touched her.

His jaw slackened as her tongue swept her lips again.

Her eyes flashed to his, and she jumped away.

He stuttered, “Come with me. I came through the sneak route. Your parents still haven’t fixed it. They need to improve their safety measures.”

As he locked the door and returned the key under the rock, she said sardonically, “I’ll tell them how much you care.”

He tempered his bristling shoulders as they crept to the fence, where several planks had been moved to the side. The gap was his sneaky route when they were teenagers. He pushed her through and followed after her. His bulk made it difficult to slip through, but he’d already done it once that night.

As they reached the backdoor to his house, someone banged on the front.

His pulse sped, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose like red flags waving his impending doom, but adrenaline was his friend.

“Hide in here.” He eased open a now-empty kitchen cupboard.

“Are you fucking serious?” Millie hissed between gritted teeth.

“Yes.” The banging was relentless.

“How small do you think I am? Just because I’m not the size of a fucking action hero like you—”

“You’ll fit, Millie. Get in.”

She stared back at him. Sweat beaded her forehead, and her nostrils flared. He needed to make her safe before she froze with terror. That he enjoyed controlling her, just as he had in his fantasies, was something he couldn’t fixate on.

“You never spoke to me like that when we were young, even when I pressed all your buttons.”

“News alert, we’ve both changed. Get in that fucking cupboard now, or I’ll throw you in,” he snarled.

She slunk to her knees and crawled in, grumping as she went.

Don’t linger on her obedience or the way her bum looks. He was usually so fucking professional that he pissed off his team, but five minutes in Millie’s presence and his thoughts jumbled.

“I told you you’d fit. Listen to me next time.” He shoved the glittery memory box in with her and closed the door.

“Fuck you,” she grunted, and he wiped off his smirk as he walked to the front door.

A ginger police officer with an earnest face and furrowed eyebrows greeted him as he opened the door.

He knew more about Millie than she realised. The only thing dangerous about her social media was the dark romances she read and that he’d enjoyed too much himself.

“Can I help you, officer?” Strike asked with an authoritative edge.

The officer pulled his shoulders back and eyeballed him, but his youthful face proved he’d not experienced the kind of life Strike had survived. “We’re looking for Millie Haven. She lived next door. I believe her parents still live there. Have you seen her?”

Strike scratched his chin, feigning ambivalence. “I haven’t seen her in ten years. I don’t live here. I’m packing. My parents are selling this house.”

“Are you sure you haven’t? Her car is parked down the street.”

“I’ve had my head down. I’m leaving soon.”

“Where are you going?”

His stomach flared, but he stilled his face. “I have a holiday booked in Wales and won’t be easily contactable,” he lied. Until he knew the facts, Millie was his to keep safe. “If there’s anything else I can help you with, call my office.”

With a move akin to a hedge fund manager rather than a former soldier who’d killed for his own safety, he slipped him a business card as another guy joined the officer.

Hugo Dankworth. He’d recognise the prick anywhere.

“You worked for my dad.”

Strike fought to stop his shoulders from hunching. I saved your good-for-nothing arse the night of a carol concert. “What’s Miss Haven supposed to have done?”

“We found her ID at a crime scene where a man was stabbed in a side street in London. We believe she was a witness.”

“She did it,” Hugo screeched. His pupils were dilated, and he rapidly tapped his fingers against his arm.