Page 33 of No One Has To Know

I’m not heartless. I’m not a fool, either. I know the only reason I’ve come so far with her is that she believed she could trust me. If I tested her again right now, she’d be gone in a heartbeat, even knowing that she’d be risking my temper—and punishment. I could see it in the way her eyes went cool.

Lying next to her like I have been? Even I know that’s out of the question right now.

So once I leave her alone in the basement, I go to my bedroom. That thought playing on a loop in my brain, I open my laptop. One button and the basement fills the screen. I have to make sure that Angela is still there. Though I know there’s no way she could’ve left me, I won’t be content until I see it for myself.

For one terrible moment, I think she’s gone. Impossible, but it’s not like I’m thinking clearly right now. When I can’t find her anywhere, my pulse starts thudding, settling only when the bathroom door opens and she appears, drying her hands on her towel.

A pit forms in my stomach. I have no right to be pissed that she washed my come from her hand but, fuck it, I am. Even if I pushed her, the primal part of my masculinity was proud that she carried the scent of my spunk of her. I would’ve rubbed it in if I thought I could get away with it without making her break.

And she fucking washed it off.

My jaw tightens. I almost want to go back down there and do it again. I know I can’t, but the possessive urge is one I’ve fought against from the second she so innocently offered me the daisy.

Taking a deep breath through my nose, I continue to stare at the screen.

I have five different cameras hidden in the basement. Scrolling through each feed, I settle on the one that gives me the best angle of her as she moves back toward the cot and lays down. As though she knows where they are, she turns her back on the lens. That’s okay. The room’s wired for sound, too. If she thinks she can cry again and I won’t know, she’s wrong.

And if she does? I fucking deserve to hear it because, damn it, it’s all my fault.

* * *

Angela falls asleep longbefore I even feel tired enough to try.

Like I’ve done every night for weeks, I find peace in watching her rest. Just because I’m not sneaking into her apartment to watch her anymore, that doesn’t mean I’m going to deprive myself of the one thing that keeps my darker side at bay.

There’s only one thing that triggers it. When I was trying to keep my obsession with the pretty little florist on the down low, I couldn’t do shit when Angela suffered from her nightmares.

Tonight? When she has the first one since I brought her to my cabin? Nothing can stop me.

She’s whimpering, and it’s not the good kind. Not like when she first woke up and realized that I’d taken her home with me. That whimper was a promise of what forever with Angela would look like.

This whimper is one of fright that has me tossing the laptop to the foot of my bed before getting up and storming for the basement door.

First the tears, then the nightmares...

I might have caused the tears. And while my actions could have brought the nightmares back, at least those aren’t because of me.

I know why she has them. I know everything—except for one thing.

Her eyes are closed, the whimpers reaching me even as I’m standing at the top of the stairs. I take them two at a time, almost tripping in my hurry to get to her. I don’t have to be the suave image of Officer Burns she has in her head. I can be the man she wants—the man she needs—and the only one she’ll ever have.

I drop to my knees by the edge of the bed. Her whimpers become a frightened moan that has me fisting my hand in fury before I flex my fingers, then stroke her hair.

She jolts.

“Angel,” I whisper. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Her lashes flutter. Half asleep and most likely still trapped in her dream, she jerks her head away from me. “No. Don’t touch me.”

If I thought she meant me, I’d listen. “Angela…”

She’s blinking. Slowly coming to, a wrinkle in her brow I want desperately to kiss away. Finally, she screws up her face, searching for me in the darkness. “Burns?” Her voice is hoarse. “What are… I thought you were… oh my God.”

God can’t help her, but Mason Burns can.

I get up, sitting on the cot with her. She scoots away from me. I don’t like that. Grasping her arm, I tug her so that’s right next to me.

“Who made you like this?” I ask her softly. “Who did this to you?”

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