For a split second in that room, the past had tried to swallow him whole. Sicily, the blood, the younger, hungrier version of himself that used to care about Isabella.
It had all been there, reaching out through her touch.
But then he had thought of Anastasia.
He thought of the sharp, broken edge of her voice when she called herself a prisoner.
And every bit of desire Isabella had tried to stoke turned into a cold, hard knot of protective rage.
He didn't go to his office to wash off the night. He went straight to their bedroom.
Matteo pushed through the bedroom doors, his pulse still hammering with a residual, violent adrenaline.
He expected to find Anastasia pacing or curled on the bed, pretending that she wasn't spiraling, wondering if he had been in Isabella's room. But the room was empty.
The balcony curtains were fluttering in the draft of the open door, but the terrace was vacant of where he usually caught her standing and watching the house from.
