William rose from the bed and looked down at the sleeping Anna. The same woman who had writhed with restless passion just hours ago now lay still and serene, her breathing soft, her expression peaceful—so much so, it was hard to believe she was the same person.
Moving quietly, he leaned in and gently brushed his hand through her hair, fingers gliding over the silken waves of her loose curls. They felt warm and soothing against his skin, like something delicate he didn't dare disturb.
The sensation stirred something strange in him.
When he had first seen Anna again after all those years, he'd felt nothing but pity for her.
It struck him as pathetic—how a woman once so radiant, driven, and full of compassion had allowed herself to crumble into a hollow version of who she used to be, all because of her blind devotion to a man like Robert Hyde.
