Page 55 of No One Has To Know

I’m going back on duty tomorrow. The two weeks have been a whirlwind, and if I thought that giving up the job would make Angela happy, I’d quit tonight. She likes knowing I’m a cop. That’s one of the things that attracted me to her in the first place and I’d be a fucking moron if I gave that up until I had my wife completely locked down.

The idea of leaving her behind doesn’t sit right with me. I can’t bring myself to put her back in the basement, but I know I’ll live up to my name and burn the whole fucking world down if she gave me her body, then tried to run. I want to believe that I did enough to convince her that I’m the best man for her.

I want to, but my angel is a complicated woman.

Thank fucking God for the journal.

As much as I’d prefer spending every second until I have to go back on patrol with Angela, I sneak away the night before. I’ve been trying to show her that I stopped thinking of her as my prisoner—not that I truly ever did—and she’s taken well to having free rein of the whole cabin.

I left her in the living room, tucked beneath a blanket, watching some kind of Halloween special. After kissing her and promising I’ll be back before the next ad, I slipped away to the bedroom.

There’s got to be something I missed in her journal. Something that can help me figure out what move to make next to keep Angela dangling on my hook. I like to keep her on her toes. If she stops and thinks too long, she might realize she can do so much better than me.

She can. I refuse to let her.

I’ve read this journal cover to cover at least ten times. It spans the entire time she lived in Springfield, and I’ve marked the pages when she mentions me in particular. The rest is just noise. My temper gets too hot to handle when I read about other guys or the shit hand she’d been dealt. It’s only ever been about me and her.

I have to keep it that way.

“Come on,” I mutter under my breath, going from page to page. “Come on—”

“Burns?”

Fuck. My head jerks up, dropping the journal in my lap. It’s too late. She already saw what I had.

My angel is a fucking goddess. Standing there, tousled hair hanging over her shoulders, my tattoo a dark brand on her creamy skin, I love seeing her in the flesh. It’s my favorite fucking sight in the world.

But not when she loses all color as she stares at the book I dropped. “Where… where did you get that?”

Fuck!

ANGELA

I’m naked.

These last few days, with Burns’s desire to spend as much time inside of me as he can, and my willingness to let him… I haven’t seen a reason to get dressed. When I didn’t want to distract him with my pussy or my tits, I grabbed his SPD shirt—well,mySPD shirt now—and tugged it on, knowing it was only a matter of time before I was yanking it off again.

Burns loves playing with my boobs during sex, but that’s nothing compared to his masculine pride when he sees the healed tattoo of his name and badge number branded on my chest.

But though I’m completely bare right now, I’ve never felt more vulnerable in my life than when I walk into the bedroom and see Burns rifling through my journal.

Myjournal.

It was the therapist I saw after my assault who suggested I work through my emotions by journaling. In writing down how I was feeling, I might find some kind of peace. The opposite happened. The things I wrote down… the secret thoughts I admitted because no one was supposed to know them… I realized just how broken I am.

How broken I think I’ve always been.

And Burnsknows.

I hold out my hand. I can stop this. I can pretend it’s not happening. If only I can get that book out of his hand…

“Give it to me.”

“Angela—”

“Give it to me!”

“Angel, baby… let’s talk about this.”

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