The Hollow Between Us

by bridgy

Summary:

After a car accident steals his memories, Will Graham returns to work at the FBI—unaware he has a husband, two daughters, and a dark past with the Chesapeake Ripper. Drawn to psychiatrist Hannibal Lecter and haunted by fragmented dreams, Will begins to unravel the life he lost. As memories resurface and danger closes in, Will must choose between duty and the powerful bond he rediscovers with the omega he once called home.

Chapter 1: Familiar Rooms, Unfamiliar Lives

The beeping was the first thing he heard.

Monotonous, steady. A sound that lived somewhere between life and death.

Will’s eyes fluttered open. Bright light stabbed into his skull. The scent of antiseptic burned in his nose. He tried to move, but something tugged at his arm—an IV. Tubes. A dull pain bloomed in his side.

He squinted. Blurry silhouettes. Nurses at the far end of the room, whispering.

“Poor man. That was a bad one.”

“I heard he rolled the car three times. It's a miracle he’s alive.”

“That’s Will Graham, isn’t it? From the FBI?"

Then darkness swallowed him again.

The second time he woke, it was quiet. The light softer. More natural. A shadow moved beside him.

Will turned his head, heavy with medication, and saw a man sitting in the visitor’s chair.

He was beautiful, in a way that unnerved Will. Refined features. European. Sharp cheekbones. Refined. A predator in human skin. There was also something delicate about him, yet undeniably powerful. His suit was immaculately tailored. His scent—something earthy and spiced—calmed Will's nerves even as his presence unsettled him.

The man sat with perfect stillness, watching him with unreadable eyes.

Will licked his lips. His voice was a rasp. “Do I know you?”

The man’s expression faltered, something cracking behind his dark eyes before his face went perfectly neutral again.

“No,” he said softly. “Not… right now.”

“I’ll get the doctor,” he said softly, with a European accent that brushed the air like silk. He rose, elegant and controlled, and disappeared into the hallway.

Will wanted to call after him. He didn’t know why. His chest ached with something heavier than pain.

By the time Dr. Mallory came in, Will’s headache had worsened.

“You’ve been through a lot, Agent Graham,” she said gently. “You were in a severe car accident. You’ve been unconscious for three days. Do you remember anything about the crash?”

Will’s brow furrowed. Nothing. “No.”

“That’s okay,” she assured him. “We believe the head trauma caused some memory disruption. Possibly retrograde amnesia. You remember who you are?”

“Yes. Will Graham. I teach at Quantico. I help with investigations.”

“Good. That’s your procedural memory. It's intact. The problem is your episodic memory—your personal life, recent events. That may take longer to return. And your personal life?”

Will hesitated. “I have a dog… Winston.”

Her face remained professionally composed. “Good. That’s something.”

Will was released a week later and driven to an apartment in Baltimore.

He hesitated at the front door, key in hand, heart pounding like he was breaking into someone else’s life.

Inside, everything was unfamiliar, empty, unlived in.

Books lined the shelves—mostly philosophy and obscure medical texts. A large desk sat under the window.

A soft bark startled him.

He turned. A scruffy dog bounded forward, tail wagging furiously.

“Winston?” Will guessed.

The dog whined and licked his hand in confirmation.

At least one connection hadn’t been erased.

He returned to Quantico a few days later.

Jack Crawford met him at the door with a quiet nod. “You sure you’re ready?”

“No. But sitting at home isn’t helping.”

The team welcomed him gently. Carefully. He could feel them walking on eggshells. Whispers followed him. Glances lingered.

No one mentioned his past life. 

When Will asked, Jack just said, “You need time. You’ll remember more if you’re not pressured.”

But Will wasn’t patient. He hated not knowing. And he knew—in the marrow of his bones—that something was being kept from him.

Someone.

That night, he dreamed of antlers.

And a pair of amber eyes watching him from the darkness.

---

The smell was what got to Will first.

It wasn’t the lingering scent of blood from Cassie Boyle’s body, or the forest damp that clung to her hair. It was the afterimage of something else—antlers. Not a smell, but a presence. Something ancient. Watching.

He stood in the field where her body had been posed like an offering, arms spread, lungs missing, head crowned by deer’s horns. A shrine.

Will shut his eyes. He saw it again. Not her—but him. The killer. He stepped into the killer’s shoes like old leather. Felt the hands move her. Cut her. Pose her. Felt the why start to bloom in his own chest like rot.

“He loved her,” Will said quietly, back in Jack’s office. “She was a proxy for the girl he lost. The one in the bed. She reminded him of what he lost. He had to… preserve that loss. Mark it.”

Jack frowned. “You’re not sleeping again, are you?”

Will didn’t answer.

Alana was the one who pressed gently. “Will, I think it might help to speak with someone. Professionally.”

Will bristled. “I am someone. Professionally.”

“We mean someone who can help you sort through the projections,” Alana said. “Not someone who sees them.”

Jack nodded. “I want you to talk to Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”

Will frowned. “Is that a real name?”

Alana smiled. “He’s a friend. And a damn good psychiatrist.”

Will was already standing. “I don’t need a damn good psychiatrist. I need a weekend and a bottle of bourbon.”

“Just one session,” Jack insisted.

Will sighed and rubbed his temples. “Fine. One session.”

---

The moment he stepped into the office, something in Will shivered.

It was warm. Luxurious. Rich woods and darker leathers. Everything precise, but not sterile. Like a museum someone actually lived in. The air was perfumed faintly with spice, cedar, and something older—something he couldn’t place.

And… he knew this room.

His fingers twitched. He stepped in slowly, eyes darting from the chairs to the antique clock to the framed drawings on the wall.

Familiarity clung to his spine like humidity.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Will turned.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter stood there. Tall. Elegant. A little too polished. A little too still. His amber eyes took Will in like a study in anatomy—sharp, unblinking, thoughtful.

“Will Graham,” he said softly. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Will hesitated. “Have we met?”

Something flickered across Hannibal’s face—too quick for anyone else to see. But Will noticed it.

A crack. Grief?

“No,” Hannibal said smoothly. “Not formally. But I’ve followed your work. Please.” He gestured toward the chair.

Will sat slowly, stiff as a spring. His gaze swept the room again.

“This place feels… familiar,” he said after a moment, voice low. “Like I’ve been here before.”

Hannibal’s head tilted. Just slightly. “How does it feel?”

“Like déjà vu. But worse.” Will’s fingers flexed on the armrest. “Like a dream I forgot but remember in pieces.”

Hannibal’s mouth curved. But his eyes—they stayed sad. “Memory is not a precise instrument, Will. It blurs. It rearranges. But it never truly leaves you.”

Will nodded. “So they keep telling me.”

Hannibal sat across from him, one leg elegantly crossed, hands resting in his lap. “You’re investigating Cassie Boyle’s murder.”

Will leaned forward. “I think she was a message. From the copycat. He took what the first killer did, but then he changed it. Elevated it. Made it emotional. Intimate.”

Hannibal’s smile barely moved. “He showed you the real motive.”

Will nodded. “He wanted me to see it.”

“And did you?”

Will hesitated. “Yes. And no. I feel it. But I don’t know what it means yet.”

Hannibal studied him with something like reverence. “You have a rare gift, Will. But you carry it like a wound.”

“Sometimes it feels like one.”

They sat in silence for a long moment. Will expected it to be uncomfortable. It wasn’t. For once, he didn’t feel like he was being watched. He felt seen. Understood. Like the silence was safe.

“I don’t usually talk to people like this,” Will admitted, fidgeting. “It’s hard for me. I see too much.”

Hannibal gave a small smile. “And yet you’re talking to me.”

Will blinked, then smirked. “Yeah. Weird.”

Hannibal didn’t reply. Just watched him. Quiet. Calm.

Eventually, Will shifted in his chair. “I’m still missing months. Years, maybe. Everyone keeps saying I’ll remember. But what if I don’t?”

“You will,” Hannibal said. The certainty in his voice startled Will.

“How do you know that?”

Hannibal leaned forward, voice low. “Because the truth is patient. And so are you.”

Will stared at him. “You really believe that?”

“I do.”

The session ended. Will rose slowly, grabbing his coat, and paused by the door.

Hannibal followed, his steps soundless.

“If you ever need to talk,” Hannibal said, voice warm and deep, “at any time—day or night—you may call me.”

Will turned back, surprised. “Do you offer that to all your patients?”

A glint of mischief passed through Hannibal’s eyes. “Only the special ones.”

Will frowned slightly. “You just met me.”

“Did I?”

Will opened his mouth to ask what that meant—but Hannibal was already opening the door for him.

That night, Will dreamed of a kitchen full of opera and blood. Of wine and laughter and a hand in his hair.

He woke up gasping, heart racing.

And the scent in the dream was the same one that lingered in Hannibal’s office.

Chapter 2: A Flicker of Something True

The second copycat murder mirrored the Minnesota Shrike’s methodology—surgical precision, but with distinct… flourishes. The killer had taken liberties again. A shift in ritual. Not just homage, but commentary.

Will stood in the field as forensics buzzed around him like flies.

He shut his eyes. He became the killer. Moved through the scene in a ghost’s skin. Cut. Posed. Admired. Not for cruelty. For clarity. A message only he was meant to understand.

I see you, the scene whispered.

Do you remember me yet?

That evening, Will showed up at Hannibal’s office without an appointment.

Hannibal answered the door wearing a dark shirt and no tie. Less polished. Looser. A human silhouette, rather than the marble sculpture Will had met before.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Will said, suddenly unsure.

“You’re not interrupting.” Hannibal stepped aside. “You’re… expected.”

Will gave him a strange look but entered. The warmth of the room greeted him like a dream half-remembered. He sat without being asked.

Hannibal poured them both tea.

“I felt something at the scene,” Will said. “Like the killer was talking to me. Personally. He wants me to feel what he feels. And I do. That’s what scares me.”

“You are uniquely attuned,” Hannibal said, handing him a delicate china cup. “Your empathy makes you vulnerable, but also extraordinary.”

Will stared at the tea, then at Hannibal. “You talk like you know me.”

“I’m trying to.”

“No. I mean—” Will frowned. “You talk like you already do.”

Hannibal smiled faintly. “Perhaps I recognize something familiar in you.”

Will nodded slowly. He didn't know why, but he felt safer in this room than anywhere else. There was an unspoken thread between them—frayed, but still intact.

---

The next afternoon, Will returned to his apartment, exhausted. He barely noticed anything amiss until the front door opened.

A girl stepped out. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Pale skin, black curls. Sharp eyes that studied him without blinking.

She looked... familiar.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

She blinked once. “You don’t remember me.”

Will’s breath hitched. “Should I?”

She tilted her head. “I’m Mischa.”

He stared. “Mischa?”

“Hannibal sent me,” she said, stepping forward. “He thought maybe… seeing me might help.”

“Why would he think that?”

Mischa hesitated. “Because you used to know me.”

Will’s mind buzzed. Mischa. 

“You’re… his niece?”

A pause. Then, “Something like that.”

Will stepped aside, letting her in without thinking. She set her bag down, went to the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and pulled out a cup like it was routine.

“You used to make tea at exactly four o’clock,” she said quietly, placing it on the counter.

Will sat down heavily. “I don’t remember that.”

She gave him a sad smile. “I know.”

They sat in silence until Winston padded over to her and placed his head in her lap.

Will watched.

Mischa looked down at the dog, her fingers threading through his fur like she’d done it a hundred times.

Will’s heart twisted.

That night, Will found himself dialing Hannibal’s number without conscious thought.

“You sent her,” Will said, when Hannibal picked up.

“Yes.”

“You said you were always available. That wasn’t a lie.”

“No,” Hannibal said softly. “Not for you.”

Will didn’t know how to respond. He sat in the dark, the line open between them like a thread.

“I don’t know who I am to her,” Will admitted. “Or to you. But part of me… wants to.”

Hannibal was silent for a long moment.

Then: “You will.”

The line went dead. Will stared at the phone.

He dreamed again. Of laughter. Of a little girl with dark hair calling him “Dad.” Of an elegant man smiling at him across a dinner table set with crystal and bone-white plates.

He woke with tears on his cheeks and the name Hannibal caught between his lips like a prayer.

---

The case dragged on.

Whoever the copycat was, he wasn’t trying to get caught. No fingerprints. No DNA. Just artistry. Messages only Will seemed to understand. The killer was shaping scenes like sonnets—gruesome, elegant, intimate.

And each murder felt like a note addressed directly to him.

Between crime scenes and fitful nights at his apartment, Will found himself returning to Hannibal’s office. Twice a week, sometimes more. It had started as an assignment from Jack, but now it was something else. A rhythm. A ritual. One of the few things in Will’s life that didn’t feel like it belonged to someone else.

Today’s meeting was quieter than usual.

They sat in their familiar chairs. The light from Hannibal’s tall windows was dim with winter cloud. Will sipped tea slowly, unsure how to start.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about... absence,” Will said eventually. “Not just memory. But... like there’s something missing in my life. Or someone. Like I used to come home to people.”

Hannibal's gaze didn’t waver. “Loneliness is sharpest when it echoes,” he said softly.

Will huffed a dry laugh. “You always sound like you’re quoting a book that doesn’t exist.”

Hannibal smiled politely. “And you always see what others miss.”

Will set the tea down. “Do you have a family, Hannibal?”

There was a pause. A breath held in the space between them.

Hannibal tilted his head. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know,” Will admitted. “You seem... like someone who wouldn’t be alone. But also like someone who chooses to be.”

Hannibal’s expression shifted—tightened, like a drawer closing.

Instead of answering, he gently redirected: “Do you want a family?”

Will blinked. “Me?”

Hannibal nodded once. “You have the instinct. The drive. Even if you don’t trust it yet.”

Will looked down at his hands. “I always thought I’d be a terrible father. Too much in my head. Too unpredictable. But lately I’ve been wondering… if maybe I’d like it. A family. Someone to come home to. Kids. Dogs. Chaos.”

“You underestimate your capacity for love,” Hannibal said.

Will looked up, surprised by the warmth in his voice.

---

A week later, Will arrived at Hannibal’s office early.

The front door was open. Music played faintly from the study.

Inside, a child’s voice echoed through the hall. “Are there snacks?”

Will blinked.

A small girl—eight, maybe—bounced out of Hannibal’s office holding a stuffed fox. She wore a fuzzy pink coat and red boots that squeaked on the hardwood.

Will stared. “Uh… hi?”

She stopped, blinked up at him with big brown eyes, and grinned. “You’re Will.”

He crouched instinctively. “And you are?”

“Abigail. I drew a picture. Do you wanna see?”

Before he could answer, she was already unfolding a piece of paper from her coat pocket. It was a scribbled family portrait: her, another girl (older, taller), and Hannibal—clearly him, with sharp eyes and too-perfect hair. Beside Hannibal was a smiling man with curly brown hair.

Will stared at the drawing. His heart thudded.

“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing to the man with curly hair.

Abigail tilted her head. “That’s you. Duh.”

Will’s mouth went dry.

“Abigail.”

Hannibal’s voice, sharp but calm, drifted from the hallway. He stepped into view, dressed impeccably as ever.

Abigail jumped slightly but didn’t look afraid.

“I told you to wait inside my office,” Hannibal said, his tone more weary than scolding.

“I was just showing him the picture!”

Hannibal gave her a gentle look. “It’s almost time for Will’s appointment.”

She nodded, tucked the fox under her arm, and bounced away down the hall. “Bye, Will!” she called.

Will stood frozen until she disappeared.

Then he turned. “You have a child?”

Hannibal’s gaze held his. “Two, in fact.”

“You’re a father?”

“I am.”

Will gaped. “That… surprises me.”

“Why?”

Will rubbed his face, flustered. “You’re so—controlled. Polished. I can’t imagine you covered in baby spit.”

To his complete shock, Hannibal laughed. A low, warm, genuine sound that lit the room like sunlight through stained glass.

Will stared. “Did I just make Hannibal Lecter laugh?”

“You did,” Hannibal said, lips still curved. “And I assure you, there was a time when I went nowhere without spare cloths and animal crackers.”

“I’m trying and failing to picture that,” Will said, still stunned.

“I wasn’t always who you see now,” Hannibal said, quieter. “Children change you. Especially when you carry them.”

Will blinked. “You carried them?”

“Yes.”

Will took a long breath. “You’re… an omega.”

“I am.”

“And you gave birth to both of them.”

Hannibal inclined his head. “I did.”

Will sank slowly into the chair. “Jesus.”

Hannibal’s voice softened. “Why does that surprise you so much?”

Will was quiet for a long moment. “Because… I think part of me knew. But I didn’t know how I knew.”

They sat in silence, Will staring down at the crayon drawing.

The man in the picture smiled gently. His arms were around Hannibal and both girls.

He looked like someone who belonged.

Will didn’t know that man.

But he wanted to.

Chapter 3: Where the Heart Knows

The body was displayed with intention.

The woman’s arms were folded, her dress torn but arranged carefully—intimate, not brutal. Her hair had been washed and braided after death. Even Jack looked unsettled.

Will stood beside the corpse, eyes glassy, slipping into the killer’s skin.

He loved her. Or thought he did.

This wasn’t a kill of rage—it was of grief.

He was making her clean again.

“The ritual is escalating,” Will muttered. “He’s more personal this time. More… performative.”

Jack nodded beside him. “You’re saying he knew her?”

Will shook his head. “Not exactly. She was like someone he lost.”

“Like Cassie Boyle?”

“Exactly.”

Jack sighed, rubbing his forehead. “We need to bring in another perspective.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

At that moment, footsteps approached from behind. Polished. Rhythmic. The scent of clove and bergamot brushed past Will before the voice even reached him.

“I hear there’s an artist among your killers, Jack.”

Will turned—and blinked in surprise.

“Hannibal?”

Dr. Lecter inclined his head gracefully, dressed in a charcoal coat and leather gloves. He looked painfully elegant against the chaos of the crime scene.

Will shot Jack a look. “You invited my shrink?”

Jack shrugged. “He consults occasionally. Sharpest mind I’ve got outside of Quantico.”

Hannibal smirked faintly. “Only occasionally, Will. I wouldn’t dream of stealing your spotlight.”

Will felt the twitch of a smile. “Steal away.”

The three of them stood over the body. Hannibal knelt beside the woman, his expression unreadable, clinical.

“He bathed her,” Hannibal said. “Even brushed her hair. A reverent gesture. A kind of… forgiveness, perhaps. For what he did. Or for what he failed to do.”

Will nodded slowly. “He wanted her to go into the next world… clean.”

The two men locked eyes for a moment. Something passed between them—an unspoken understanding neither could explain.

After the body was bagged and tagged, Hannibal turned to Will.

“Dinner?” he asked casually, as if they hadn’t just dissected a ritual murder.

Will blinked. “You’re inviting me to dinner?”

“You must eat, Will,” Hannibal said smoothly. “And I believe you’re living on coffee, ramen, and self-loathing.”

Will smirked. “Fine. But only if I don’t have to eat anything with eyes still attached.”

Hannibal smiled. “You have my word.”

They rode in silence in Hannibal’s Bentley, the interior plush and silent as a cathedral.

Will stared out the window. “This car feels like something out of a Bond movie.”

Hannibal shot him a glance. “And are you Bond in this scenario?”

“God no,” Will muttered. “I’m more like a very tired Q.”

Hannibal actually chuckled. “You said something similar the first time you rode in it.”

Will blinked. “Did I?”

“Mm,” Hannibal said noncommittally.

The response nagged at Will, but he let it go.

When they arrived, Will stepped out and looked up at the mansion grand, classical, framed by bare trees and warm amber light from the tall windows.

“This is your house?”

Hannibal unlocked the door with a smooth twist of the wrist. “You said the same thing the first time you saw it, too.”

Will gave him a sharp look. “You like being cryptic, don’t you?”

“Immensely.”

Will stepped inside—and froze.

The air smelled like spice and fresh bread. The floors were polished, the art refined. Bookshelves stretched up to crown moldings. Every inch of it whispered of care.

But it wasn’t the décor that made him pause. It was the feeling.

This felt like home.

Familiar.

Safe.

“Will?”

He looked up. Hannibal was waiting for him, a small smile on his lips.

“Kitchen’s this way.”

Will followed. The kitchen was warm, cast in golden light. Hannibal shed his jacket and began to prepare dinner without ceremony—knife against cutting board, herbs chopped with mechanical precision.

Will leaned against the doorframe, transfixed.

“You really cook like this every day?”

“Yes.”

“Your alpha must be the luckiest person on Earth.”

Hannibal paused.

Just for a moment.

Then resumed slicing. “Perhaps.”

Will frowned at his own words. He hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

Dinner was served with a smooth efficiency, and suddenly there were children.

Mischa, fourteen, full of energy and sarcasm. Abigail, smaller, giggling, swinging her legs under the table. They chatted about school, a field trip, a pet bird named Marius.

Will mostly listened, smiling without realizing it. The girls made fun of each other like siblings do. Hannibal corrected their Latin with theatrical sighs. It was… peaceful. Whole.

Something deep in Will’s chest relaxed.

This feels right.

After dinner, Will offered to help clean up. He washed; Hannibal dried.

Will rolled his sleeves and looked over his shoulder. “You do this every night?”

“Yes,” Hannibal said. “Dinner. Homework. Dishes. The rhythm keeps them grounded.”

Will smiled faintly. “That’s… nice.”

“You used to think so, too,” Hannibal said softly, before catching himself. “That is—many people find routine comforting.”

Will didn't comment. But the weight of Hannibal’s slip stayed with him.

The drive back was quiet.

At his doorstep, Will hesitated.

“Thanks,” he said awkwardly. “Dinner was…”

“Yes?”

“Peaceful.”

Hannibal inclined his head. “I’m glad.”

Will watched the car drive away, taillights vanishing into the trees. Then he stepped inside, where Winston greeted him with a yawn and a stretch.

Will collapsed on the couch—and dreamed.

Of laughter. Of tiny arms around his neck. Of a girl drawing on the kitchen floor while Hannibal stirred soup. Of warm hands on his face. A voice saying: Come to bed, love.

He woke with a start, tears drying on his cheeks.

---

The next day, in the middle of filing reports, Will saw a coffee mug on someone’s desk. A cheap one, chipped at the handle.

Suddenly he remembered Abigail at age four, trying to pour him coffee. She’d spilled it everywhere.

He blinked, and the vision vanished.

Later that evening, Mischa’s name on a report made his hands tremble.

Little things. Glimpses. Flashbacks.

All week, they came.

His past was returning.

And Hannibal’s face was always there in the center of it.

---

It started with an invitation. Then another.

By the third week, Will no longer waited to be asked.

Tuesdays and Fridays became sacred. On those evenings, he drove to Hannibal’s house just before sunset. The kitchen would already be warm, the scent of herbs in the air. Mischa would greet him with dramatic teenage indifference, which usually cracked into teasing smiles after five minutes. Abigail, ever enthusiastic, would run to the door with her latest drawing or joke.

Hannibal would be at the stove, turning lamb shanks or brushing a glaze over roast vegetables, never surprised to see Will walk through the door.

It felt… natural.

Too natural.

Will didn’t fully understand why he kept coming. He told himself it was the food. Or the calm. Or the way Abigail leaned her head on his shoulder while struggling through multiplication, or how Mischa challenged him to debates about art and mythology as if it were their daily routine.

But it wasn’t just them.

It was him. Hannibal.

The quiet pull toward him. The way Hannibal spoke to the girls, the way he moved in the kitchen, the way his fingers brushed against Will’s when passing a glass. Unintentional, maybe. But charged.

And yet… Hannibal never stepped past the boundary of friendship. Never hinted at something deeper.

Will sometimes wondered if he wanted to.

On Friday night, the girls asked Will to stay after dinner.

He helped Abigail with a school project—cutting and gluing bits of paper for a solar system diorama—and let Mischa rope him into checking her French translation homework. They were sprawled on the floor, surrounded by open books, glitter, and glue sticks.

Hannibal stood in the doorway watching them. Leaning quietly against the wall, tea cup in hand.

Will caught the look.

And for a moment—just a moment—he saw something raw in Hannibal’s face.

Longing. Pain.

But then it vanished, replaced with his usual calm.

Later, when the girls had gone upstairs and Will was helping dry the last of the dishes, he glanced sideways.

“They love you,” he said simply.

Hannibal gave a faint smile. “They’re good girls.”

“You’re good with them. Better than I’d expect from a guy who alphabetizes his pantry.”

That earned a breath of a laugh.

Will leaned on the counter. “You always wanted to be a father?”

Hannibal set the last plate on the rack and paused.

“Yes,” he said finally. “More than I ever let myself admit until they were already in my arms.”

Will studied him. “Do you ever… miss the alpha? The other parent?”

Something flickered across Hannibal’s face.

“Every day,” he said, voice a little too quiet.

Will looked down. “Sorry. That was—too personal.”

“It’s all right.” Hannibal gave a gentle nod, but the silence after held a thousand unspoken words.

That night, when Will left, the house felt colder in his absence.

Hannibal stood in the kitchen long after the dishes were done. The girls had gone to bed hours ago.

He stared at the place Will had been sitting.

He always dries with the same towel, Hannibal thought, absurdly. Always forgets to roll up his sleeves.

He remembered years ago—Will, standing barefoot in this kitchen, shirt untucked, holding a giggling Abigail in one arm while Mischa pelted them both with flour.

That Will was still there. Somewhere beneath the confusion, the hesitation, the cautious distance.

But he didn’t know.

Not yet.

And Hannibal couldn’t remind him.

Because this wasn’t something to be told. This had to be remembered.

If Hannibal forced it, Will would reject it. Maybe reject him.

So he waited. Smiled. Cooked. Endured.

And inside, the ache carved deeper.

Upstairs, Mischa stood just beyond the stairwell, listening quietly.

She padded back to Abigail’s room, where her sister was half-asleep under a pile of stuffed animals.

“He still doesn’t remember,” Mischa whispered.

Abigail stirred. “But he came again, right?”

“Yeah.”

Abigail smiled faintly. “Then he will.”

Chapter 4: The Ripper

The conference room was quiet save for the rhythmic scratch of marker against the whiteboard. Will’s scrawl—loops and arrows, connections and cause—had taken over nearly the entire space. Jack hovered near the doorway, arms folded, a rare smile tugging at his lips.

“I’ve never seen you this clear on the Ripper case,” Jack said, voice low with something bordering on reverence. “You're finally seeing him.”

Will nodded distantly, eyes fixed on the pattern unfolding before him. “There’s a precision to him. He’s not just killing. He’s creating something. There’s symmetry, beauty, restraint. He doesn’t waste anything. The bodies are messages.”

Jack clapped him on the shoulder. “Whatever’s going on in that head of yours post-accident—hell, maybe it knocked something loose. Keep going.”

Will didn’t respond. His mind was already spiraling back into the details—the elegance of the cuts, the way organs were removed like brush strokes. The Chesapeake Ripper wasn’t sloppy. He was… deliberate. Graceful.

That evening, Will sat across from Hannibal in his office, hands restless in his lap. The fire was low, casting gold light across Hannibal’s cheekbones. He looked less like a psychiatrist and more like something carved from old marble.

“I’ve been working on the Ripper case,” Will said abruptly.

Hannibal arched a brow. “Yes, Jack mentioned he was assigning you to it again.”

Will leaned forward. “I don’t know what it is, but… it’s like I’m seeing the work for the first time. I’ve always said the Ripper was different. But now I understand. He’s not just trying to send a message. He’s… composing.”

Hannibal was quiet. Then: “And how does that make you feel, Will? To find beauty in a killer’s work?”

Will didn’t flinch. “It should disturb me more. But instead… I feel like I’m close to him. Like I understand the way he thinks.”

“Is that comforting?” Hannibal asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Will whispered. “But it feels familiar. I can’t stop thinking about him. I see his work and I—” he paused, eyes narrowing—“it’s like I remember it.”

A long silence. Then Hannibal smiled. Warm. Gentle. Contained.

“Perhaps your subconscious is closer to the truth than you think.”

Will tilted his head, studying Hannibal. Something fluttered beneath his ribs. Confusion? Recognition?

He didn’t know.

But he couldn’t look away.

The office was quiet again.

Will had left only moments ago, the faint echo of his footsteps still lingering in Hannibal's ears like the final note of a symphony not yet finished. The air held the warmth of his presence—his scent, his voice, his restless mind.

Hannibal stood by the fireplace, fingers loosely curled around a glass of tea that had gone cold. He hadn’t drunk it. He rarely did when Will was in his office—too absorbed, too focused on every flicker of expression, every unconscious twitch in Will’s brow. The way he fidgeted with his sleeves when he was uncertain. The way he stared, too long and too deeply, when he was nearing the truth.

Tonight had been different.

Will had spoken of the Ripper not with fear, but with admiration. He saw the elegance in the killings now. He saw the design.

Hannibal’s lips twitched into something like a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

It was working.

The threads were beginning to pull taut. Whatever barriers Will’s amnesia had constructed were unraveling, moment by moment. The mind, when left to its own devices, found its way home. Will’s instincts—so finely tuned, so inherently drawn to darkness—were aligning again.

But what disturbed Hannibal, if he were to admit it, was how distant Will had been. Focused, yes. Brilliant, absolutely. But colder. Like an observer admiring a painting in a museum—aloof, untouched, separate.

That wasn’t Will.

The Will he remembered had always responded emotionally, viscerally. The bond between them had never been just mental—it had been primal, sacred. Mate to mate. Alpha to omega.

Now?

Now Will stared at the Ripper’s handiwork like he was falling in love with it. Not knowing, not remembering, that it had been carved for him.

Hannibal let out a quiet breath and set the untouched tea aside.

“He sees me,” he murmured aloud to the empty room, “but does not know me.”

Soon, Hannibal promised both himself Will would remember. The fog would lift. The recognition would come—not as a flicker, but a firestorm.

And when it did, their world would realign.

But for now, he would wait. And he would protect. As he always had.

No matter the cost.

---

The office was dimly lit, late afternoon sun filtered through heavy curtains, casting long golden shadows over the Persian rug and mahogany furniture. The fire burned low, the scent of woodsmoke mingling with the sharper tang of disinfectant and fresh linen.

Will sat slouched on the couch, fingers laced, a notebook half-filled with scribbles resting on his knee. Across from him, Hannibal leaned back in his chair, hands steepled, the quiet hum of classical music threading through the silence between their words.

“You’re thinking again,” Hannibal said mildly.

Will’s lips twitched. “Always.”

He tapped the pen against his knee once, twice, then said, “I’ve been going through the old files. The original Chesapeake Ripper victims. I used to think the motives were…random. Purely theatrical.”

“And now?”

Will looked up, eyes sharp but unfocused, like he was seeing something far beyond the walls of Hannibal’s office.

“There’s a pattern. It's not about organs, not really. That was the distraction. The Ripper kills… rude people.”

Hannibal tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “Rude?”

“People who offend some delicate internal code. Doctors who insult their patients. Bureaucrats who condescend. Artists who plagiarize. It's like… a moral arbiter. A judge.” Will leaned forward, voice lower. “It's haunting. And beautiful. Not in the violence, but in the intent. Like every kill is a message, a performance.”

Hannibal’s gaze was steady. “You speak of the Ripper as though he were an artist.”

Will met his eyes without flinching. “Aren’t most serial killers trying to express something? Rage, pain, need. But the Ripper… he’s not sloppy. There’s no desperation. He’s saying something.”

“And what do you think he’s trying to say?” Hannibal’s voice was soft, probing, but there was a tension in his shoulders, almost imperceptible.

Will didn’t answer right away. His eyes flickered toward the fire, watching the flames curl. “That the world has rules. And those who break them—those who forget decency—will be corrected.”

Hannibal allowed himself a small smile. “A rather poetic interpretation.”

Will shrugged. “It’s the only one that makes sense. The Ripper isn’t impulsive. He selects. Curates. And the way the bodies are treated—there’s a kind of reverence, almost tenderness. Like… a butcher who only slaughters the unworthy.”

Hannibal inclined his head. “That is an unusual way to describe a murderer.”

Will looked at him, searching. “I don’t think he considers himself one.”

“Then what is he?”

Will’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. “A force.”

The room was silent for a beat too long. Hannibal watched his mate with a quiet, calculated affection, hiding the warmth that bloomed in his chest at Will’s words. He saw admiration, awe, and that flickering thread of recognition that hadn’t quite reached its conclusion yet.

He crossed one leg over the other and cleared his throat. “And how does it make you feel, imagining the Ripper in such a way?”

Will gave a soft, almost bitter laugh. “Like I’m falling in love with a ghost.”

Hannibal’s smile was faint. “Ghosts can be quite loyal. And often closer than they appear.”

Will looked at him, frowning slightly. “What does that mean?”

But Hannibal only offered him a glass of water. “Drink, Will. You’ve been working too hard.”

---

The cold air of the crime scene stung Will’s cheeks as he stepped closer to the victim—laid out like some grotesque tribute beneath the sycamores. The frost hadn’t yet claimed the blood, and it steamed faintly against the leaves. Chest cavity opened with precision. Organs removed, arranged, not scattered. Hands folded across the ribs in a final, eerie mimicry of peace.

Will crouched, ignoring Jack’s low mutter to a nearby tech. His eyes drifted over the body, absorbing everything.

The placement was deliberate.

The incision lines—clean.

The heart, missing.

He exhaled slowly, and it hit him.

He’d seen this before.

But not here.

Not now.

His vision swam—the forest faded into marble floors and golden light. A richly appointed kitchen. Laughter. A hum of some aria from the record player. Blood in the sink—bright against white porcelain. Not panic. Not horror. Just stillness. Purpose. Hands moving. Carving. Cleaning.

He gasped.

The scene snapped back into focus.

He staggered slightly and Jack’s hand came down on his shoulder.

“You okay, Will?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Will swallowed, heart racing. “Just… something familiar about this.”

Jack gave him a strange look. “You said that last time too. That’s why I pulled you in again. I don’t know what changed after your accident, but you’re seeing clearer now.”

Will didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t sure what had changed.

Except… he was beginning to suspect the answer.

He barely slept that night.

He stared at crime scene photos until his eyes ached, pacing his living room floor. He scrawled phrases across a notebook:

• “Precision”

• “Elegance”

• “Punishment”

• “Offerings?”

He found himself sketching the symbol from one of the scenes—a curious geometric flourish burned into the skin near the clavicle. It wasn’t in any of the official reports. But he remembered it.

Or thought he did.

The next morning, Will showed up early to his meeting with Hannibal, clutching a folder under one arm and looking like he hadn’t slept in days.

“You’re early,” Hannibal said, setting aside a book as Will dropped into the chair across from him.

“I’ve been thinking,” Will muttered, opening the folder. “These aren’t just murders. They’re… messages. Ritual. I think the Ripper’s choosing his victims based on social deviance—rudeness, cruelty, arrogance.”

“Interesting hypothesis,” Hannibal said, folding his hands. “And what does that say about the Ripper himself?”

Will hesitated. “That he thinks of himself as a… correction. Like a scalpel to excise rot. I know that’s not sane, but—”

“It is logical, if you accept the premise,” Hannibal said gently.

Will rubbed his forehead. “It’s not just logic. It’s instinct. I feel like I’m chasing a ghost that knows me. Anticipates me. And when I see these scenes, it’s like I’m… remembering them, not discovering them.”

He looked up, eyes haunted.

“Do you think I’m losing my mind?”

Hannibal’s gaze softened. “No, Will. I think you’re finding it.”

Will stared at him, heartbeat thundering.

There was something behind Hannibal’s words. Something deliberate. Measured.

Almost like an invitation.

---

The house was quiet again. Too quiet.

The girls were upstairs, tucked into their beds, their soft breathing like distant lullabies. Hannibal stood in the study, a medical journal open in front of him but unread, the fire in the hearth crackling low behind him.

Will was close.

Too close.

Not to him—never that, not since the accident had taken his memories—but to the truth.

Each session, each conversation, each forensic breakthrough brought Will closer to uncovering the Ripper.

To uncovering him.

It was a knife’s edge, this game he played. One side held the man he loved, the mate he had mourned in silence every night for months. The other held the collapse of everything he had rebuilt with trembling hands and patient silence.

Will’s insight had returned, but without memory, it moved like a storm with no anchor. His fascination with the Ripper had grown. Hannibal had watched as his mate spoke of the murders with awe in his voice, not realizing why they stirred something deep inside him. Not realizing that the blood on those bodies was the same blood that once bound them together.

And Hannibal—what had he done?

He had helped.

He had nudged. Shaped. Committed acts not for art, not this time, but for Will.

A copycat murder here, a detail slipped into the conversation there—enough to push Will forward. To awaken that part of his mind that remembered patterns, even if it did not remember him.

It was working.

Will was coming back.

But so was Jack.

Jack, who watched them both with narrowed eyes and a hunter’s stillness. Jack, who had once trusted Hannibal completely, and now paced like a man who had stepped into a room that smelled too much like smoke.

And what if Will remembered too late?

What if he put the pieces together and ran, not home, but to Jack’s office with an FBI badge in his pocket and a look of betrayal on his face?

Could Hannibal risk that?

Could he risk losing his children, his mate—all in one stroke?

A deep pain tugged in his chest, sharp and suffocating.

He had helped Jack once. Many times. Built profiles. Advised on motives. Manipulated evidence to point away from him. And still, somehow, his hands had guided Will’s recovery better than any treatment or scan ever could.

Because what Hannibal wanted—what he needed—was not just for Will to remember the man he was.

But to remember who they were together.

He pressed a hand over his eyes, breathing slowly.

Just a little longer.

He would not lose Will again. He would risk everything. Commit every necessary act.

Because in the end, all that mattered was his mate and the family they had built.

And if the Ripper had to vanish for good this time… so be it.

Chapter 5: Two Daughters, One Hannibal, and Absolutely No Peace

The room was quieter than usual.

Outside, rain tapped softly against Hannibal’s tall windows. The fire in the hearth had been left unlit, and the air in the study held the earthy chill of late winter.

Will sat hunched in his chair, fingertips pressed together, staring at the floor as if it might hold the answers he was too afraid to speak aloud.

Hannibal watched him from across the room, legs crossed, his fingers gently curved around a cup of chamomile tea.

He no longer wore suits.

Tonight, he wore a deep burgundy sweater and tailored slacks—still refined, but softer. Less composed. As if he, too, had quietly stepped down from a version of himself.

Will had noticed the shift in the past few weeks. The changes were small, almost imperceptible. The muted color palettes. The way Hannibal lingered in conversation now. The way he no longer corrected Mischa’s posture at dinner.

But tonight wasn’t about Hannibal. Not directly.

Tonight was about Hobbs.

And about the echo left behind.

“We caught him,” Will said at last, voice thin.

Hannibal didn’t speak, letting the silence draw the thought out fully.

Will rubbed his hands together. “Garret Jacob Hobbs. Slit his wife’s throat. Tried to gut his daughter in front of us. Jack shot him before he could finish.”

A pause.

“I was too slow.”

Hannibal’s voice was gentle. “You saved the girl.”

“Barely.”

Another silence stretched between them.

“She was maybe fifteen,” Will said. “Mischa’s age.”

Hannibal’s eyes flickered.

Will looked up. “It could have been her.”

The room held its breath.

“I keep thinking about that,” Will went on. “About how she and Abigail… they aren’t mine, and yet—”

He stopped himself, jaw tight.

Hannibal set his cup down. “And yet?”

“I feel like they are,” Will said, ashamed. “I know they’re not. I know you’re just being kind letting me near them. But the feeling’s there. I want to protect them. I need to. Like I’ve done it before.”

Hannibal’s expression didn’t waver. But inside, his heart ached.

“You’ve been through a trauma,” he said carefully. “Not only the accident, but the cases you’ve taken on since. The subconscious often latches onto the nearest safe place. You associate the girls with comfort, familiarity. Perhaps they remind you of something—or someone—you’ve forgotten.”

“They do,” Will said, sharper now. “That’s the worst part. It’s not just a projection. I feel it in my bones. Like I’ve sat at that table a hundred times. Like I’ve heard Abigail read out spelling words in my living room. I feel it in my dreams. I wake up with their names on my lips.”

Hannibal’s breath caught softly in his throat.

Will shook his head. “But they’re not mine.”

“You don’t need to punish yourself for loving them,” Hannibal said. “Love isn’t always rational. And if it eases the ache, then perhaps it’s serving you in ways your mind hasn’t caught up with.”

Will slumped. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“That’s all right,” Hannibal said. “You’re not meant to yet.”

Will glanced at him. “You sound like you do understand.”

Hannibal didn’t answer.

The session was nearly over. The clock ticked gently in the quiet.

Hannibal reached for his notepad, then paused.

“How have you been sleeping?”

Will gave a short laugh. “Terribly.”

“Nightmares?”

“Constant. Faces I don’t know. Places I do know but can’t name.”

Hannibal’s brow furrowed. “Are you sleepwalking?”

Will looked away. “Yes.”

“How often?”

“Most nights,” Will admitted. “I wake up in the woods. In the hallway. Sometimes in my car.”

“You didn’t mention this before.”

Will shrugged helplessly. “Didn’t think it mattered.”

Hannibal’s voice dropped. “It matters, Will.”

He leaned forward to rise, to offer Will a referral—something clinical to ground the growing storm in his mind—but the motion caught Will’s attention.

Just a flicker.

Hannibal’s sweater shifted against his torso, and Will’s eyes, drawn unintentionally, noted the softness that hadn’t been there before. Slight, but clear. A subtle thickening in Hannibal’s frame—around his abdomen. He moved more slowly than he had months ago.

Will blinked, startled by his own observation.

He didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

Whatever it meant, he wasn’t ready to name it.

Hannibal straightened, tone calm but firmer now. “I want you to schedule a scan. An updated one. The sleepwalking could indicate unresolved neurological trauma.”

Will nodded, still distracted. “Yeah. Okay.”

He hesitated at the door.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

“For what?”

Will looked back. “For not treating me like I’m losing it.”

Hannibal’s expression, for a heartbeat, turned openly sad. “You’re not. You’re finding your way back.”

Will didn’t know what to do with that, so he nodded again and left.

That night, he dreamt in fragments again.

Laughter in the hallway. A child’s arms around his waist. Hannibal asleep on the couch with Abigail curled against him.

The warmth of a hand on his chest in bed. A voice whispering, You’re safe now, my alpha.

Will woke in tears.

And a single word echoed through his mind.

Mine.

---

It started with the small things.

The half-finished tea left cold on the counter.

The way Hannibal would stop in the middle of a room and press a hand to his abdomen, as if to steady something unseen.

He was pale—not his usual alabaster stillness, but sallow beneath the eyes. He smiled, but not all the way. His back was straighter than usual, shoulders set like stone. And when he sat, it was always slowly, carefully, like every movement needed to be measured.

Mischa noticed.

Of course she did.

Her Motina was the strongest person she knew. Unshakable. Brilliant. But now?

He was tired.

And no one else was saying anything.

It all came to a head on a Saturday afternoon, in the kitchen. Hannibal had been bent over the sink longer than usual, one hand gripping the edge while the other clutched at his side.

Mischa crossed her arms.

“You’re not fine,” she said, tone sharp.

“I never said I was,” Hannibal replied without looking at her.

“You didn’t have to,” she shot back. “You’re sleeping all the time. You haven’t gone into your office in days. And don’t lie—I hear you get sick in the mornings.”

Hannibal stiffened.

Mischa stepped forward, voice rising. “You promised us you’d be okay. That we’d get through this while Dad was figuring things out. But you’re falling apart and pretending you’re not!”

“That’s enough,” Hannibal said quietly, straightening up.

But Mischa wasn’t done.

“It’s not fair!” she snapped. “You carried this whole family on your own. You raised us. You held Dad’s hand every time he spiraled—and now, when you need him, he doesn’t even remember you!”

Hannibal turned toward her, face drawn.

“I know,” he said, softly this time. “Believe me, Mischa. I know.”

Mischa’s anger cracked. Her voice trembled.

“It’s like watching someone die slowly. You look like a ghost, Motina. I just—I don’t want to lose both of you.”

Later that evening, Hannibal gathered both girls in the living room. The fire was lit. He sat in the armchair across from them, hands folded, spine straight, face unreadable.

“Mischa already knows something is wrong,” Hannibal began.

Abigail’s brow furrowed.

“Are you sick?” she asked, her voice small.

“No, not exactly.” Hannibal exhaled. “I’m pregnant.”

Abigail’s eyes exploded.

“WHAT?”

“Please don’t yell,” Hannibal winced.

“Motina!! A baby?! We’re getting a baby?!”

Mischa sat still, arms folded tightly, watching her Motina closely.

Abigail launched herself across the couch, hugging Hannibal’s arm. “Is it a boy? A girl? When are they coming? Can I name them?!”

“Absolutely not,” Hannibal muttered. “You wanted to name the dog ‘Banana Sandwich.’”

“I was five!”

“No excuses.”

Abigail beamed anyway, already bouncing in place.

Mischa, meanwhile, was quiet.

Then, after a long moment:

“What happens if Dad never remembers?” she asked. “What if he can’t come back?”

Hannibal met her eyes. “He will.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” Hannibal’s voice didn’t waver. “Your father is many things. Difficult. Brilliant. Stubborn. But above all—he is mine. And I am his. It may take time, but the bond we share does not vanish.”

Mischa let out a slow breath. “He better come back.”

“He will.”

“Because I swear, if I have to help raise this kid with just you and your opera playlists and your hand-churned butter, I’m gonna lose it.”

Hannibal raised a brow. “You wound me.”

Mischa smirked. “And he’s going to freak out when he comes back to find a whole new mess he made.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Chaos Alpha,” she muttered.

Hannibal allowed himself a small, fond smile. “Yes. But mine.”

The girls asked questions for an hour. Names, due dates, baby clothes, food cravings.

Mischa tried not to look too excited, but Abigail was all sunshine and squeals and already planning a baby blanket.

And when Hannibal tucked them in that night, he lingered just a little longer.

He whispered, “Your father will come back. He always finds his way to us.”

He rested a hand on his belly.

And Mischa, still awake in the dark, whispered:

“You better be right, Motina.”

---

The thunder rolled low in the distance.

Rain splashed gently against the windows of the house. The fire in the sitting room had died to embers, leaving the home swaddled in shadows and quiet.

Hannibal sat in the armchair near the window, one hand resting over his belly, rubbing small circles over the firm swell. 

He didn’t turn when he heard the creak of the hallway floorboards.

He knew her footsteps.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked softly.

Mischa hesitated in the doorway. She was in one of Will’s old shirts, the sleeves too long, her expression unreadable.

“No,” she said finally, stepping in.

Hannibal gestured to the sofa with a tilt of his head. “Sit with me.”

She didn’t sit on the sofa.

She knelt beside him, like she used to as a child, when she’d curl at his feet with her books and questions. But this time, she leaned into his leg, resting her cheek there gently.

Hannibal’s fingers moved to her hair without thought.

For a long time, neither spoke.

Then, Mischa whispered, “Are you going to die?”

Hannibal stilled.

“Mischa…”

“You’re tired all the time. You get dizzy. You don’t eat. You look like you’re made of paper some days.” She clutched at the edge of his robe. “And—and the baby. What if something happens?”

He kept rubbing her hair, slow and calm.

“I’ve carried two children before,” he said.

“But not like this.” Her voice cracked. “Not without Dad.”

She finally looked up at him, her fierce eyes full of that same aching fear she’d had as a toddler the first time he’d left for a medical conference.

“Everything’s different,” she whispered. “And it’s not fair. It’s not fair that you have to keep it together. You shouldn’t have to raise us and carry a baby and pretend like you’re fine just so no one worries. And Dad’s just… walking around out there. With no idea.”

Her breath hitched.

“It’s not his fault,” she added, “I know that. But I’m still mad. I’m mad he forgot us. I’m mad he hurt you. And I’m scared because I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

The silence after her words settled over them like snow.

Hannibal pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“I know,” he said. “I’m scared, too.”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide.

“You… are?”

“Of course. But fear is not weakness, Mischa. It’s simply love wearing its sharpest armor.”

She stared at him, jaw tight, cheeks pink. “That’s dumb.”

Hannibal smiled gently. “Is it?”

She looked away.

“I just… I’ll protect you. I’ll protect Abigail. I’ll protect the baby. I don’t care what I have to do. If Dad doesn’t come back—then I’ll do his job. You don’t have to be alone.”

Hannibal watched her.

And something ached inside him.

Not with pain—but with pride.

“You are becoming a formidable Alpha,” he said, quietly.

Mischa blinked.

“You know that?”

“Of course. It’s always been in you.” His thumb brushed her temple. “You have your father’s spine. His stubbornness. And his need to fix what he loves. Sometimes clumsily, but always with conviction.”

She snorted. “So I’m a mess.”

“You’re his daughter,” Hannibal said warmly. “And mine.”

Mischa laid her head on his leg again. “Promise me you’ll tell me if something’s wrong.”

“I will.”

“And that you’ll let me help.”

“I will.”

They sat there together, as the storm continued outside, and Hannibal realized something:

Whether or not Will remembered them, their family was still strong.

Because even in Will’s absence, Mischa was already stepping into his place—not as a replacement, but as the next Alpha in line. Fierce. Loyal. Protective.

And she would tear the world apart for them if she had to.

---

Hannibal hadn’t meant to sit down for long.

Just a moment. That was all. A moment off his feet. He’d been organizing the spice cabinet. Again. Because apparently Will before the accident had decided that star anise belonged in the savory column, and that was an offense Hannibal simply couldn’t abide.

But then the sofa was warm, and so comfortable, and—

“Motina.”

The voice was sharp. Disapproving.

Hannibal looked up to find Mischa standing in the archway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

“You’re organizing again, aren’t you?”

“I merely—”

“Nope,” she said, marching across the room. “You are not re-alphabetizing saffron.”

“It’s under ‘S’—where else would it go?”

Mischa threw a soft throw blanket over him with unnecessary flair. “You’re banned from all vertical activities for the next hour. Doctor’s orders.”

“You are not a doctor.”

“I might be someday.”

Before Hannibal could argue further, a second whirlwind entered the scene.

Abigail.

Armed with a tray of tea, sliced apples, and prenatal vitamins arranged like a charcuterie board.

“I brought your snack,” she announced, beaming. “Mischa said you haven’t had protein since breakfast and your iron levels are probably too low.”

Hannibal blinked. “My iron levels are—”

“Drink the tea,” Mischa interrupted, setting a pillow behind him with aggressive tenderness.

Abigail perched beside him, handing over the tray like a sacred offering. “I peeled the apples so you don’t have to chew too hard. And I Googled safe cheeses.”

“Oh, God,” Hannibal murmured. “You Googled cheese for me.”

“Of course I did!” Abigail said proudly. “You’re growing our baby sibling. You need calcium!”

“You two are monsters,” Hannibal muttered.

“You love it,” Mischa smirked, fluffing the blanket.

“I do not.”

“Motina,” Abigail said, poking his arm, “you literally lectured Dad for twenty minutes because he bought cheap olive oil.”

“That was a crime,” Hannibal said flatly.

“And now we’re protecting you.” Mischa reached out, gently brushing hair off his forehead. “Because you won’t rest unless we make you.”

Hannibal felt the ache in his chest that had nothing to do with ligaments or lungs. His daughters—his impossible, fierce, wonderful daughters—were fussing over him like wolf cubs guarding a wounded packmate.

And for once…he let them.

He sipped the tea.

He took the vitamins.

He let them argue over baby names across his lap like he wasn’t even there, except for when Abigail stuffed another apple slice into his mouth mid-debate.

Eventually, he dozed off, surrounded by pillows, two chatty girls, and the rhythmic comfort of belonging.

---

The moonlight painted soft patterns across the nursery walls.

It had been Mischa’s and then Abigail's room once, years ago. Now the pale blue wallpaper was half-covered in pinned fabric swatches, paint samples, and Hannibal’s meticulously hand-drawn sketches of possible layouts for cribs, bookshelves, and mobile placement.

The room was quiet.

Until the door creaked open.

Abigail poked her head in.

“Motina?”

Hannibal looked up from the chair in the corner, a book resting unopened in his lap. He smiled softly. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Abigail stepped in, barefoot in her fuzzy socks, hugging a pillow.

“I thought you might be in here.”

“I was thinking,” Hannibal said.

She padded across the room and sat beside his chair on the floor, leaning into his knee.

They sat in silence a while, the way they always had—comfort in closeness, even without words.

Then, after a long pause, Abigail murmured, “It’s weird.”

“What is?”

“This room being occupied again.” She looked up at him. “But not in a bad way. Just… weird.”

Hannibal reached down and smoothed a hand over her hair.

“Are you happy?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

Hannibal looked down at her.

“I am… a mix of things,” he admitted. “But yes. When I look at you and your sister, when I feel this child move inside me—I am deeply, profoundly happy.”

Abigail wrapped her arms around his leg. “I like that there’s going to be a baby. I’m excited.”

“I’m glad.”

“But I’m also scared.”

Hannibal’s hand stilled in her hair. “Of what, darling?”

“That it won’t be like before.” She blinked at the floor. “Back then, everything made sense. You and Dad were solid. We were all… safe. Even when things were hard. Now it’s like we’re pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. Dad doesn’t remember. Mischa’s mad all the time. You’re tired. And I don’t want the baby to be born into a house full of sad.”

Hannibal’s heart ached.

He leaned forward and drew her into his arms, guiding her gently up into his lap like he used to when she was small. Abigail curled into him easily, burying her face into his chest, her pillow forgotten on the floor.

“The baby will be born into a house full of love,” he said softly.

She sniffed. “But what if Dad—?”

“Will is coming back to us. Slowly, but he is. And if he forgets again someday, then we will remind him. Again and again, if we must.”

He felt her sigh.

“I want to help,” she said. “Like Mischa.”

“You already are.”

“I don’t want you to do this alone.”

“You and your sister are the reason I’m not alone.”

Abigail nuzzled into his shoulder.

“I’m gonna teach the baby everything,” she whispered sleepily. “Even the weird family secrets. Like how Dad talks to dogs and how Motina can’t dance.”

Hannibal let out a quiet laugh, resting his chin on her head.

“I can absolutely dance.”

Abigail murmured, already drifting off, “That’s… debatable.”

Hannibal rocked gently, the chair creaking beneath them.

The moonlight continued to spill into the room as his two hearts—one already born, one still forming—rested against him.

And in that moment, he knew: no matter how fragile the peace was, this was his family.

And they were worth everything.

Chapter 6: Fractures and Echoes

The memories had sharpened.

Will wasn’t just dreaming anymore—he was remembering. In slivers. Sounds. Colors. Feelings.

The way Abigail’s small hand fit into his. The timbre of Mischa’s laughter echoing off stone kitchen walls. The smell of crushed rosemary on Hannibal’s skin. The press of lips against his temple.

They came like flashes behind his eyes. Sudden. Unprompted. And they hurt.

Will arrived at Hannibal’s house just after sunset. He didn’t call ahead. He rarely did anymore.

He stepped through the open front door into the warmth of familiar voices.

“Motina!” Abigail called from the upstairs landing, “Mischa’s being bossy again!”

“I’m being right, again!” Mischa shouted back.

Will froze mid-step.

Motina.

The word echoed through his mind like a stone dropped in still water.

He looked up. Abigail stood halfway down the staircase, clutching a picture book to her chest. Mischa was a few steps behind, wide-eyed.

Abigail’s face lit up. “Dad, you’re early!”

The hallway went still.

Will’s breath caught in his throat.

Mischa stiffened.

Hannibal appeared in the archway, wearing a dark sweater, sleeves pushed past his forearms. His eyes found Mischa immediately—sharp, warning, aching.

“I told you this would happen,” Mischa said, facing Hannibal, her tone cracking with emotion.

“Mischa,” Hannibal said, gently.

“No.” She stepped forward, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “You’re not eating right. You’re losing sleep. You’re in pain all the time. You keep brushing us off, pretending everything’s okay—but it’s not.”

Will turned sharply. “You’re sick?”

Hannibal remained still. “It’s nothing to concern yourself with.”

“It is,” Mischa snapped. “It’s my job to worry about you, Motina. You’ve taken care of us alone for months while he’s been here and not here—and we’re tired.”

Abigail grabbed her sister’s hand, small fingers gripping tight. “We miss Dad.”

The words pierced the air.

“Girls,” he said softly, “upstairs. We’ll talk later.”

“But—” Mischa started.

“Later,” Hannibal repeated, firmer.

Abigail glanced between them, confused, but Mischa grabbed her sister’s hand and tugged her up the stairs. She didn’t look back.

Will slowly turned to Hannibal. “She just called me ‘Dad.’”

“She’s eight,” Hannibal said evenly. “She’s imaginative.”

“I didn’t imagine the tone in your voice when you said we’ll talk later.”

Silence.

Will's hands curled into fists at his sides. “You’ve been patient. Kind. But every week I feel like I’m getting closer to something and you’re just... always one step ahead of me. Like you’re waiting.”

“I’m waiting,” Hannibal said gently, “because I believe you deserve to remember your life on your own terms.”

Will’s jaw clenched, his eyes bright. “Do they call me that often? Dad?”

“They miss you,” Hannibal said. “That’s not a crime.”

“No. But hiding from me what I am to them might be.”

Hannibal didn’t reply.

Will swallowed hard and turned away, stepping back into the cool night air.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Hannibal stood frozen for a long moment before he turned away from the foyer and ascended the stairs.

He found Mischa pacing in her room, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“You told us not to lie,” she said the second he entered.

“I told you not to tell him yet,” Hannibal said softly.

“You said he needed to remember for himself. But what if he can’t? What if he walks away one day and never looks back?”

Hannibal stepped into the room, exhausted. “He’s so close, Mischa.”

“You’re pushing him too far,” Mischa snapped. “And you’re not well.”

“I’m quite capable of managing both myself and Will,” Hannibal said smoothly, though the circles beneath his eyes told another story.

Mischa took a step forward, voice rising. “You say that, but you look like hell, Motina. And he—he doesn’t even remember us. He doesn’t remember you. Why are you still helping him?”

Hannibal’s gaze didn’t waver. “Because this is how I reach him. Through the work. Through the mirror of the mind we used to share. If he can trace the pattern, he will see me. Truly. Entirely.”

Mischa’s expression twisted—equal parts grief and frustration. “So you’re feeding his obsession? Letting him chase down your old kills and call them beautiful while you sit there like some puzzle box he has to solve? He gets angry just thinking about you with another alpha and you just… take it.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Hannibal’s face. “It would seem your father’s jealousy persists, even without memory. That is… telling.”

“I don’t care if it’s telling,” Mischa snapped. “I care that he’s hurting you. That you’re letting him. You’re exhausted, your blood pressure’s high, and Abigail and I are worried sick. I’m sick of pretending everything’s fine when you’re carrying this baby and managing a ticking time bomb in a cardigan.”

“You are far too dramatic.”

“I’m serious!” Mischa’s voice cracked, and she looked away. “You’re supposed to be the scary one. The untouchable one. But every time I see you looking at him like you’re waiting for a ghost to recognize you, I just want to… I don’t know—hunt down whatever poor fool you’re letting him imagine you were with and serve him for dinner.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Hannibal smirked.

“You’re far too much like me.”

Mischa rolled her eyes, but a small, bitter smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Unfortunately.”

Hannibal’s expression softened. “Mischa, I know it’s difficult. But your father will return to us. The path is painful, yes. But it must be walked. And in the end, we will be whole again.”

“You better be right,” Mischa muttered, brushing at her cheek. “Because if he breaks your heart again, I will make a stew out of him.”

Hannibal gave a soft laugh. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Mischa moved to him, suddenly small again. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her forehead to his chest.

“I worry every day,” she whispered. “I can’t keep doing this.”

Hannibal held her tightly. His voice was strained. “I’m sorry. I never wanted you to carry this.”

“I want him back too,” she said. “But not at the cost of you.”

Abigail peeked into the room, silent as a shadow. Hannibal reached out and drew her in with one arm, holding them both.

“Just a little longer,” he murmured. “We’re almost there.”

That night, Hannibal stood alone at the kitchen counter long after the house had gone quiet.

A photograph lay facedown on the table. A candid one—Will asleep on the couch, arms draped around both girls. Hannibal’s hand rested lightly on Will’s chest, his eyes closed.

Hannibal turned it over.

And for a long time, he simply stared.

---

The rain had been falling all morning.

It drummed softly against the tall windows of Hannibal’s office, casting silver streaks across the dark wood floors. The fire was out. The air hung heavy.

Will sat on the couch, shoulders tense, gaze drifting.

Hannibal entered the room slowly, one hand resting lightly on the small of his back. He moved with a care that did not escape Will’s notice. His sweater was looser than usual, his hair slightly unkempt. His skin, while pale, looked warm—flush creeping high along his cheekbones.

“You don’t look great,” Will said bluntly.

Hannibal offered a soft smile. “No one can be their best every day.”

“You sick?”

“Only tired.”

Will frowned. “You're not sleeping either?”

Hannibal shook his head. “Fatigue is to be expected. I’m managing.”

Will didn’t believe him. But he let it go.

They spoke for nearly an hour.

Will did most of the talking—about the “Mushroom Man,” about decay as metaphor, about the unsettling way the killer used bodies to cultivate life. But his thoughts tripped constantly, distracted by Hannibal's eyes, his posture, the way he kept pressing a hand against his lower abdomen like it ached.

Will’s words slowed.

Stopped.

He stared.

The soft curve beneath Hannibal’s sweater—gentle, but unmistakable.

The fatigue.

The subtle change in scent, even muted under herbs and soap.

And the girls had been quieter lately. Protective. Attentive.

His mind locked into place.

Will blinked. Once.

Twice.

Then: “You’re pregnant.”

Hannibal’s eyes flickered—only just—and then, as always, calm. “Yes.”

Will stared. “How far along?”

“Sixteen weeks.”

Will’s heart dropped into his stomach.

He couldn’t speak.

He could only feel—a roaring in his chest like a forest fire. Heat, anger, loss. A sudden irrational fury at the thought of Hannibal with someone else—of another alpha touching him, bonding with him, leaving him here to manage everything alone.

“How nice,” Will said, venom in his voice. “Who’s the lucky alpha? The father, I mean. Or did you forget to get a name?”

Hannibal’s breath caught. He blinked once. “That’s not necessary.”

“You’re probably what—forty-eight? Too old to be pregnant. It’s irresponsible.” Will’s voice was low, biting. His eyes burned with something Hannibal hadn’t seen in a long time. Jealousy. Longing. Pain.

Hannibal looked down.

“Excuse me,” Will muttered, rising too fast. “Clearly I’ve overstayed.”

Hannibal stood slowly, one hand supporting his back.

“Will.”

“No. Forget it. I don’t even know why I care. It’s your life. You don’t owe me anything.”

Hannibal didn’t move. Didn’t stop him.

Will left without looking back, the door clicking shut behind him like the end of a song.

The silence that followed wasn’t peace—it was judgmental. Mocking. Every tick of the grandfather clock in the corner felt like an indictment.

Hannibal stood frozen in his office, the echo of Will’s cruel words still vibrating in the air.

Too old. Irresponsible. Forty-eight.

Forty-eight. He was forty-three. The number shouldn’t matter, but coming from Will—the one person who had once worshipped every inch of him, who had once murmured his name with reverence—it felt like rot in his chest.

He turned slowly, every movement painfully deliberate. His hand came to rest atop the swell of his belly, where their unborn child stirred quietly, unaware of the fracture blooming between its parents.

He should have known this would happen. Will’s jealousy had been palpable from the beginning, even in amnesia. The longing in his eyes every time he looked at Hannibal. The tension that hummed through his frame when Hannibal mentioned his unborn child.

As if there had been anyone else.

And yet, Hannibal understood the twisted logic. In Will’s mind, someone else had claimed what was his—what had always been his.

He sat down carefully, one hand pressed to the small of his back, the other clenching the armrest. He could still feel the phantom sting of Will’s words. The disrespect. The abandonment.

The insult.

He felt it like heat behind his eyes. A burning ache in his jaw.

How dare he.

How dare Will, of all people, speak to him that way—treat him like something expendable, like some stranger who had to prove his worth.

Hannibal’s thoughts turned dark. Feral. Instinctual.

I should kill him. I should break him open and taste every inch of the arrogance he has wrapped around his bones. I should strip the alpha from him, devour the cruelty, the ignorance. Let him bleed in my mouth for forgetting me. Forgetting us.

But the thought curled in on itself—ugly, bitter, and ultimately… impotent.

He couldn’t hurt Will. Not really. Not in any way that mattered.

Will’s absence was punishment enough.

And still—still, his treacherous heart ached for him. Still, he wanted Will beside him. Still, he yearned for the press of his calloused hands on his skin, the way his voice softened when he whispered Hannibal’s name in the dark.

He reached up and wiped his face with the back of his hand, only then realizing he’d begun to cry.

Years. Years since he had allowed himself this kind of vulnerability. Not since Will had nearly died the first time. Not since Mischa had been born.

The baby kicked again, as if in quiet reminder that not all was lost.

“I know,” Hannibal whispered to the child. “Your father is… complicated.”

He let out a shuddering breath.

“But he’s ours.”

And Hannibal Lecter would wait. He would endure the pain, the jealousy, the sharp sting of forgotten love.

Because Will would come back.

And when he did, he would remember everything. The girls. The bond. The scent of Hannibal’s skin beneath his hands.

And he would remember that Hannibal was not some foolish old man—

—but his mate. His other half.

His everything.

Chapter 7: Absence Like a Blade

Will tried to forget.

He threw himself into work—reviewing old cases, assisting field teams, anything to stay out of the house and away from Hannibal’s gaze. The Mushroom Man had been caught. Another killer stepped into his place. The violence blurred. The hours passed in smudged files, sleepless nights, and bad coffee.

But Hannibal haunted him.

He hadn't gone to the Lecters' in weeks. Couldn’t. Not when every time he looked at Hannibal he saw a life that should have been his—and wasn't.

Hannibal had changed lately. Softer. Warmer, somehow. Dressed in sweaters instead of suits. There was something radiant about him. Something that pulled Will in like a tide and then spit him out, choking.

It wasn’t just Hannibal.

It was the house. The way it glowed like a home. The way Mischa laughed like she’d never been hurt, like she trusted the world to be safe because she knew she was loved. The way Abigail smiled at Hannibal with effortless adoration. The way Hannibal looked at them. And then… him.

Pregnant.

Will's throat tightened.

It was irrational. It was insane. But he was furious. Furious that some other alpha had touched Hannibal. That he had abandoned him. Left them. That Hannibal, this impossible, perfect omega—regal and ruthless, refined and feral—was carrying someone else's child.

What kind of man walked away from that?

What kind of man left Mischa and Abigail?

And what kind of fool was he—Will—sitting here, knowing it wasn’t his place, wasn’t his right to be angry, and wanting it anyway? Wanting them. Wanting Hannibal. All of it.

He couldn’t go to dinner. Not when Mischa looked at him with subtle, sharp glances that said she knew something was wrong. Not when Abigail lit up at his arrival like he belonged there.

Not when Hannibal opened the door and smiled at him—like he was something precious that had just come home.

His sessions with Hannibal were unbearable. Every word, every shared look across the office a torment. Hannibal’s voice was low and soothing, his concern genuine. His hand sometimes drifted toward the swell of his stomach when they spoke, unconsciously protective, and Will would feel heat crawl up his spine like fury, like grief.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to demand answers to questions he wasn’t even supposed to be asking.

He wanted Hannibal to be his.

He wanted this whole life to be his.

And somewhere, under all that jealousy, something deeper stirred.

Why did it already feel like it was?

The Tuesday dinner came and went.

Then the Friday.

No word.

The table was set.

The girls waited.

Hannibal dished up a plate of lemon-glazed chicken, roasted carrots, and polenta—but left Will’s plate untouched. He boxed it quietly and wrapped it in foil.

After dinner, he placed it on Will’s porch and left without knocking.

This became a ritual.

Roast duck. Spinach risotto. Apple tart.

Delivered in silence. Always uneaten.

Mischa noticed first.

“He’s avoiding us,” she said, arms crossed, glaring down at the untouched dinner box in the kitchen sink.

Abigail said nothing, just sat with her chin tucked into her knees, thumb worrying the hem of her shirt.

Mischa turned to Hannibal. “You said he was remembering. You said he was close.”

“He is,” Hannibal said softly.

“Then why did he leave again?” Her voice cracked.

Hannibal moved to her. “Because he’s afraid. And confused.”

“I don’t care,” she snapped. “He doesn’t get to keep abandoning us.”

Hannibal’s heart twisted.

“He’s grieving,” he said gently. “Not just for the life he doesn’t remember—but for the part of himself that feels lost without it.”

Mischa’s fists clenched. “He’s grieving? You’re pregnant and exhausted and cooking for a man who won’t even look at you! And Abby cries every night! What about us?”

Hannibal sat slowly, body heavier than usual.

“You think I don’t ache for him too?” he asked, voice raw. “You think it doesn’t kill me to see the man I love stare through me like a stranger?”

Mischa’s anger faltered at that. She looked at her father—really looked at him.

The hollowness in his cheeks. The deepened shadows under his eyes. The way his hand never left the curve of his stomach, protective even now.

She sat beside him.

“I just want him back,” she whispered. “I want our family back.”

Hannibal pulled her into an embrace.

“I do too, my heart.”

That night, Hannibal wrote Will a note. 

He set it gently atop a box of bread pudding and placed it on the porch like the others. However before he left he changed his mind and returned the note to his coat pocket.

Instead, he whispered to the darkness, to the man just beyond its reach:

“You are still mine. Even if you don’t remember it.”

---

The late morning sun was bright over Baltimore, the city buzzing with energy as the local farmer’s market bloomed to life with colors, smells, and sounds. Stalls brimmed with freshly harvested produce, locally baked bread, and glistening jars of preserves. The usual clamor of children, vendors, and brunch-seeking couples filled the air.

Will trudged behind Hannibal, arms loaded with overflowing canvas bags—he looked slightly frazzled, hair curling more wildly with the humidity, and trying not to drop a basket of eggs balanced on top of a bag of oranges. Hannibal, meanwhile, glided from stall to stall with practiced ease, examining produce with discerning fingers, exchanging words in French with a cheese vendor, and nodding appreciatively at the quality of figs.

Will loved going to the market with Hannibal, even if he was inevitably turned into the pack mule. His mate had an eye for perfection, and Will… well, Will liked watching him. Hannibal moved like he owned the place, elegant and assured, his body language coolly dominant in a way that often caused others to misread them. Hannibal's hand on Will’s lower back as he guided him through crowds, the way he always walked a half step ahead—it all made sense if you didn’t know them. Hannibal was slightly taller, leaner, dressed impeccably. And Will… was Will.

As he stood waiting while Hannibal negotiated with a butcher over lamb shanks, Will shifted awkwardly near a display of apples. That was when the older alpha appeared.

“Well now,” the man said, voice low and lazy, “that’s a lot of bags for one omega.”

Will blinked. “I’m not—”

“You’re with that other one, yeah? The tall, refined fella? Saw him guiding you earlier. You two...together?”

Will tensed. “Yes.”

The man chuckled, stepping a bit too close. “Well, if you ever get bored of being someone’s pretty little accessory, I could show you what a real alpha feels like.”

Will’s mouth opened, and then closed again. His brain skittered into familiar panic—he hated confrontation. He hated awkward interactions. His arms ached from the bags and he didn’t know if he should punch the guy or disappear into the ground.

Before he could decide, Hannibal returned.

He saw the scene in an instant: the too-close stance, Will’s tense posture, and the other alpha’s smug expression.

Hannibal placed a calm hand at the small of Will’s back, slipping slightly in front of him with effortless grace.

“Hello,” Hannibal said smoothly, tone pleasant and dangerous all at once. “I see you’ve met my alpha.”

The man blinked. “Your… wait, he’s—?”

“Yes,” Hannibal said, voice like silk over steel. “He’s my alpha. My husband. My mate.”

The other alpha’s eyes widened, then narrowed in confusion. “But—he doesn’t look like—”

“No?” Hannibal asked mildly, though his eyes were dark with a glint Will recognized too well. “And what exactly should an alpha look like?”

The man muttered something low and crude—Hannibal caught it—and turned on his heel, stalking away, his pride wounded.

Will watched him go, then leaned toward Hannibal. “So, I assume I just saw your next victim?”

Hannibal smiled, not bothering to deny it. “Tempting.”

Later at home, the kitchen was warm with the scent of rosemary and seared lamb, classical music playing softly in the background. Will stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up as he chopped vegetables—mostly correctly, though his technique would no doubt earn him a sigh from Hannibal.

Behind him, Hannibal moved with practiced grace, barefoot and soft in his presence, but no less dangerous. He was wearing one of Will's old sweaters again, claiming it as his own. There was something disarming about how domestic he looked. But then he came close, and the change in the air was immediate.

Hannibal didn’t announce himself. He never had to.

One hand slipped around Will’s waist, the other pressed flat against his chest, palm possessive, fingers splayed over his heart. Will huffed a little laugh, still slicing.

“Planning to distract me while I’m holding a knife?”

“I trust you,” Hannibal murmured, lips brushing just beneath Will’s ear. “Though your chopping form leaves much to be desired.”

Will snorted. “Should’ve known that was coming.”

“You’re beautiful when you cook, even if you insist on butchering vegetables in such a… passionate way.”

Will turned slightly, grinning, and caught the glint in Hannibal’s eyes—something hungry and territorial. “You’re hovering.”

“I’m reclaiming,” Hannibal said smoothly. “After all, it’s been far too long since I’ve had you properly to myself.” His hands tightened subtly at Will’s waist, possessive and sure. “My alpha,” he purred.

Will raised a brow. “Someone feeling a little territorial?”

Hannibal pressed closer, lips ghosting over Will’s jaw. “Shouldn’t I be? You’re too handsome to let wander. Some brutish alpha might mistake your charm for availability.”

Will chuckled. “Didn’t realize I was in danger of being stolen.”

“You’re always in danger of being admired,” Hannibal said, voice low and silken, “but never of being taken. Because you are mine, Will. Mine,” Hannibal whispered against his throat, voice edged with something wild. “I will not be challenged. I will not share. Not your heart, not your scent, not the curve of your smile. I chose you. You chose me.”

Will’s breath caught. “I thought omegas were supposed to be claimed, not the other way around.”

Hannibal’s teeth grazed his skin, and Will shivered.

“I am no ordinary omega. And you are no ordinary alpha.” His voice dipped low, dangerous and wanting. “You are mine, Will Graham. Body and soul. And anyone who questions that… will not live to do so again.”

Will laughed, low and rough. “You gonna carve it into a corpse somewhere? A little 'H + W' in a heart?”

“If necessary,” Hannibal said, deadly serious. Then his expression softened as he looked into Will’s eyes. “But only because I love you.”

Before Will could reply, Hannibal kissed him—slow, deliberate, and possessive. It wasn’t a soft kiss, but one with teeth behind it, full of claim. Will’s breath caught, hands dropping the knife as he turned to kiss him back, grinning into it.

“You’re ridiculous,” Will whispered, when they finally parted.

“I’m right,” Hannibal replied smugly, brushing a hand through Will’s curls. “And I intend to continue reminding you of that until you are appropriately flustered.”

Will rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were pink. “Mission accomplished.”

“Good,” Hannibal said, and kissed him again, “because you’re not allowed to leave this kitchen until I’ve had my fill.”

Will grinned. “We’re never going to finish dinner, are we?”

“Not before dessert,” Hannibal murmured with a wicked smile as his teeth scraped gently against the nape of Will's neck. Hannibal's hands moved, flattening against Will's stomach before his long fingers slipped under the hem of his old button down. Will sighed as Hannibal's palms slid along his skin, up over his ribs and back down along his sides. Hannibal's fingertips dipped just under the waistband of Will's jeans, briefly teasing the skin there before darting away again. The fleeting touch was still enough to get Will's heart beating faster.

Will let out a quiet moan as he felt the unmistakable half-hardness of Hannibal's cock pressing against him. “Are you trying to get me worked up?” he asked in a slightly strained voice as he shifted his hips. 

Hannibal chuckled. “What if I was?” He leaned forward and gently nipped at the back of Will's neck. 

Will gasped. “I'd say it’s working.”

Hannibal's responded by dipping his head further and latching his mouth onto the smooth skin of Will's neck. Will shivered as soft lips worked their way along his neck, followed by teeth nipping gently in their wake. 

“And you said I'm the tease,” Will growled accusingly as Hannibal's fingers brushed against the front of his jeans. 

Before Hannibal could fully comprehend what was happening, Will moved forward, crowding Hannibal backward until his lower back hit the edge of the counter. Hannibal's long fingers came up instinctively to curl into Will's shirt as his mate leaned in and captured his mouth in a searing kiss.

Will dominated the kiss, pushing his tongue past Hannibal's lips as his hands came up to cup Hannibal's jaw tenderly. Will kissed his omega thoroughly, leaving him breathless when their mouths finally parted.

Will didn't give Hannibal time to catch his breath before reaching down to firmly palm Hannibal's arousal through his jeans, savoring the way Hannibal held back a tiny cry by biting his lip even as his hips bucked forward into the touch. “Will...”

Will grinned at the pleading tone in Hannibal's voice. “Needy already? We're just getting started, omega,” he teased, rubbing Hannibal a few more times, just enough to create a delightful friction that got Hannibal's hips moving in a steady rhythm before pulling his hand away and going to work on the buttons of Hannibal's shirt. Hannibal whined and then huffed in annoyance, shooting Will an icy glare. Will just offered him a smirk in return as he unfastened the last button and pushed Hannibal's shirt open.

Hannibal's bare torso was a glorious sight, all sleek toned muscles. Will drug his fingertips lightly across Hannibal's abdomen and watched the muscles ripple and quiver under his touch. “So beautiful,” he murmured and leaned in to wrap his lips around a pink nipple.

Hannibal gasped and arched against the kitchen counter as a wave of pleasure instantly swamped him. Hannibal's fingers tightened in Will's shirt until his knuckles turned white.

Will's hands found their way to the waistband of Hannibal's pants where fingers swiftly unfastened them and pushed them down Hannibal's slim hips until his erection sprang free. Will's fingers wrapped around Hannibal's arousal and stroked. 

Will captured his lips in a heated kiss full of tongue and teeth. Hannibal made a sound of disappointment when Will's hand left his cock, followed seconds later by a noise of surprise as Will suddenly hoisted Hannibal up and onto the countertop, showing off a bit of the alpha strength Hannibal so adored. Will stripped his jeans away completely, letting them fall to the floor. Hannibal's legs automatically parted to accommodate Will as Will grabbed him by the hips and scooted him closer until Hannibal's cock was pressed against Will's abdomen. Hannibal's cheeks flushed at this sudden turn of events; he wasn't quite sure how he'd ended up on the kitchen counter, naked and at his alpha's mercy when he had planned to be the dominate one. 

“This isn't fair,” Hannibal groused, trying to look affronted despite the situation. “You were suppose to be the prey.”

Will laughed and reached up with one hand to caress Hannibal's warm cheek. “You're so cute when you try to act all tough.”

Hannibal huffed in annoyance, his lips pulling into a pout. “Asshole,” he muttered, though the insult lacked any real venom.

“You love me,” Will teased, pulling back just enough to strip his t-shirt off. It joined Hannibal's pants on the floor and Hannibal groaned appreciatively at the sight of his alpha's beautiful chest.

Hannibal's thighs tightened around Will's hips and pulled him in closer so he could plant kisses along Will's collarbone. Will let his eyes slide shut and lost himself in the sensation until he felt Hannibal's hips shift forward and his leaking cock pressed into Will. 

Will reached up and gently pried Hannibal's mouth away from his neck with a hand on either side of his handsome face and proceeded to silence Hannibal's protests with a swift but thorough kiss. Will abruptly pulled away and crouched between Hannibal's thighs and let his tongue dart out to swipe at the base of Hannibal's cock.

Hannibal's whole body jerked and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh god, Will...”

Will began by licking a long stripe up his husband's length before closing his lips around the tender swollen head. Hannibal gave a tiny cry at the feeling of being engulfed in wet heat, one hand flying backward to brace himself on the countertop, the other reaching down to lace through Will's dark locks.

Will's tongue swirled around the tip of Hannibal's cock, dipping into the leaking slit with each pass to taste Hannibal's arousal, the tangy, salty flavor only stoking Will's desire to continue pleasuring his omega. Hannibal moaned loudly and wantonly in that way that Will loved and shifted his hips further forward, drawing his knees up so he could brace his heels on the edge of the counter, allowing him to push upward into Will's mouth. Will lowered his head at the same time, taking Hannibal's throbbing shaft in deeper. 

It took only a few minutes before Will could feel Hannibal's thighs trembling and he knew the other man was getting close.

“I-I'm going to cum if you don't stop,” Hannibal gasped and Will managed a one shouldered shrug as he took Hannibal's cock a bit deeper and swallowed around it. 

Hannibal cried out as he came, both of his hands fisting in Will's hair as his back arched and his toes curled against the counter's edge. Hannibal moaned quietly as Will's tongue swirled gently, cleaning every last bit of fluid from Hannibal's cock before he pulled back with one final swallow, straightening up with a satisfied look on his face.

Hannibal let his body relax as his fingers slid from Will's hair. “Why didn't you stop?” he demanded weakly.

Will grinned. “Why would I? You enjoyed yourself.” He licked his lips lewdly, prompting a deep blush from Hannibal. He stepped closer and murmured, “And it'll be no problem getting you ready for round two.” He leaned in and caught Hannibal's lips in a firm kiss, the kind that always made Hannibal melt.

Will smirked against Hannibal's mouth, he knew from experience that it wouldn't take long to have his mate hard and needy again. Will pulled back from the kiss to nibble along his mate's neck and suck a purple mark into the pale skin where Hannibal's neck met his shoulder. Hannibal gasped as Will leaned back to admire his handiwork. “William! That better be low enough to be covered by my collar!” he scolded. 

Will snorted. “Oh hush. Now lean back on your hands and keep your legs open.”

Hannibal did as he was told, biting back a retort which would only have come out half-heartedly anyway. He shivered as Will dropped light kisses across his chest and belly, licking at his nipples briefly before moving lower to nip at the tender insides of his thighs. Hannibal bit his lip as Will's head disappeared between his legs. He had an idea of what was coming but it was still surprising when he felt Will's tongue breach his most secrete places. 

The omega’s slick tasted sweet to Will and he lapped it up eagerly, circling Hannibal’s rim. Hannibal's moans took on a breathy quality as Will worked him open. He instinctively spread his legs wider. 

Hannibal mewled softly as Will's tongue slipped deeper, stretching his walls in the most wonderful way. The slide of Will's tongue in and out of him was enjoyable but it was more teasing than anything else and after several minutes Hannibal found himself wanting more. He wanted to be touched in that one special place and Will couldn't quite get with his tongue. As if Will could read his mind suddenly there was a long and slick finger being pushed inside him.

Hannibal cried out as Will's finger stroked across his prostate, prompting a renewed wave of slick to ooze out over Will’s fingers and his body jerking at the intense pleasure. Will slid his finger in and out of Hannibal's body until it was moving easily and then he slipped in the second one alongside it, thrusting and scissoring them at the same time as he worked at stretching him. Hannibal's breath hitched a bit at the intrusion but the stroking of Will's digits across his prostate had him forgetting about any discomfort. Hannibal's voice rose in louder and louder moans with every thrust. 

“Will, please,” Hannibal gasped out, reaching to steady himself on Will's shoulder.

“What do you need, love?” Will prompted, crooking his finger again and wringing a broken yelp from his mate. 

Hannibal was too far gone to even attempt a glare at Will. “I need your cock. I want you to fuck me. Now.”

Will grinned and captured Hannibal's mouth in a kiss before stepping away to shed his jeans, removing his fingers from Hannibal's stretched and slick entrance as he did so. Hannibal whined and rolled his hips impatiently. Will took a moment to admire his omega perched on the countertop, eyes dark with desire, thighs parted wide and his cock once more fully hard, flushed and leaving a wet trail against his stomach. Further down, his tender hole leaked a steady stream of glistening slick as it clenched around nothing in anticipation of being filled.

Will stepped up and grasped Hannibal's hips, pulling him right off the edge of the counter until only his lower back remained in contact. Hannibal squeaked in surprise at the new position but quickly adjusted for it, his fingers curled around the counter's lip as his legs wrapped around Will's waist, his ankles crossing at the small of Will's back. Will's hands slid down to grip the backs of Hannibal's thighs as he pushed forward, his slick cock sliding into the cleft of Hannibal's ass, parting the firm globes until the leaking tip nudged against Hannibal's entrance.

Hannibal's breath hitched expectantly and then he gasped sharply as Will pushed forward, the swollen head of his cock breaching the omega’s body. Hannibal bit his lip as Will's erection stretched him far more than fingers ever could and he made an effort to breathe through the burn. Will paused, allowing Hannibal to shift his hips as he needed to and adjust until Hannibal's heels dug into his lower back insistently.

“Move,” Hannibal gasped, his brows furrowed.

“Are you sure?” Will asked. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Hannibal.

Hannibal nodded. “Yes, I'm fine. Right now I just want you all the way inside me.”

Will grunted consent and continued until he was buried inside Hannibal's body, so deep that his hips seemed molded against Hannibal’s ass. Will groaned in satisfaction, loving the feeling of being so full and stretched around Will's thick shaft. 

After giving Hannibal time to adjust Will slowly began pulling out until only the tip of his cock remained inside and then thrusting back in all the way. Hannibal moaned loudly, prompting Will to continue, picking up the pace after a minute as he aimed for Hannibal's prostate again. Hannibal shifted his hips a bit, the new angle allowed the tip of Will's cock to rub across his prostate with every thrust. Within moments, Hannibal's moans had morphed into breathy cries, growing more and more high-pitched with his mounting pleasure until he was practically screaming.

“Faster!” Hannibal panted and Will happily sped up his movements even more until his hips were snapping forward harshly and the slap of skin on skin filled the air, punctuated with Will's groans and Hannibal's cries.

“Oh, fuck...” Hannibal's voice broke and Will glanced up to see that his omega's entire body was writhing in that telltale way that meant he was getting close. Hannibal's thighs were shaking on either side of Will's waist and his cock was leaking profusely against his abdomen. 

Will bucked harder into Hannibal's body, intent on getting him to that climax that seemed to be hovering just out of reach. “You feel good, love. Like you always do, so hot and tight around me.” 

Hannibal moaned and rolled his hips to meet Will's thrusts. “You feel good too,” he gasped between pants. “You're so hard...” Hannibal's voice trailed off into a long moan as Will thrust deeper than befor. 

Will gripped Hannibal's thighs tighter and thrust over and over in that same way, relishing the way Hannibal's moans grew louder and louder once more.

“Will, I'm...I'm almost there. So close...”

“You gonna come, baby?”

“Y-yes! Will!”

“Cum for me, Hannibal.”

It was the use of his name in that commanding tone that did it for Hannibal. He cried out loudly as he found his second orgasm of the evening, his spine arching up off the counter and fingers and toes both curling with the waves of ecstasy that crashed over him. His cock twitched and spilled pearly white fluid all over his stomach.

It was a combination of the sight of Hannibal coming and Hannibal's inner walls clamping down around Will as he came that pushed Will over the edge. He stilled and let his eyes drift shut as he emptied himself deep inside Hannibal. Hannibal whimpered at the sensation of Will's cock pulsing inside him and filling him with liquid heat.

The two of them didn't move for a bit, panting softly. Their chests heaved and skin glistened with sweat. Hannibal's lower back and legs were sore but he would be the first to admit it had been worth it. Finally Will moved, pulling out of Hannibal's loose entrance with a hiss as he let Hannibal's legs go. Hannibal slid down from the counter, landing on rubbery legs that buckled underneath him. Will's strong arms shot out to catch him and drew him close to his chest. Hannibal let his own arms slide around Will and rested his head against Will's damp skin, listening to his husband's heart pound next to his ear.

Neither said a word for another minute until finally Will murmured, “You are mine”

---

The hunt was quiet, elegant.

Hannibal did not need to do much—just observe. The rude alpha from the market had a routine, as all prey did. He went to the gym in the early mornings, drank overpriced espresso afterward, worked in a flashy office downtown. He thought himself powerful, arrogant in his scent, his stride, the way he looked at others like they were lesser creatures. He thought Will was weak. He had dared speak down to Hannibal’s mate.

Hannibal didn’t kill out of anger. No, anger was far too simple. He killed out of principle. This man had made a mistake. A fatal one.

Now, the alpha was bound to the custom-forged frame in Hannibal’s pristine basement, chest rising rapidly with confusion turning to fear. Hannibal’s tools were meticulously laid out on the tray beside him, glinting like jewelry in the dim light. The scent of antiseptic and metal hung heavy in the air.

Will stood nearby, one shoulder leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed. There was a glimmer in his eyes—a fever-bright mixture of awe and desire.

"You’re insane," the alpha spat, voice quivering as Hannibal calmly pulled on a leather apron.

"No," Hannibal corrected smoothly, voice laced with refinement. "I'm disciplined. There is a difference. You were discourteous. Not just to me—but worse—to my alpha.”

Will smirked slightly at that.

The man thrashed in the restraints. “This is insane! You—he’s not even—he’s just—”

“An alpha?” Hannibal interrupted, tilting his head, scalpel in hand. “Yes. A better one than you. He carries power without bluster. He protects without posturing. He earns loyalty without demanding it. That, I assure you, is far more potent than anything you parade as dominance.”

He turned his gaze to Will. “Would you like to leave?”

Will’s eyes darkened, voice low. “No. I want to watch.”

Hannibal smiled faintly—fond, affectionate, possessive.

“As you wish, mon cœur.”

The first cut was clean, deliberate. Not rushed. The alpha’s scream echoed, but Hannibal didn’t flinch. He moved like an artist—methodical, precise, his hands sure and practiced. Will watched, silent, eyes tracking every motion with hunger and reverence.

Hannibal taunted the alpha in elegant phrases, alternating between English, French, and Lithuanian, whispering about manners, about knowing one’s place, about respecting what belongs to someone else. The man sobbed, begged, cursed—but Hannibal was unmoved. This was sacred work.

Eventually, the silence returned. The room still smelled of blood and steel, but it was quiet, peaceful. Hannibal peeled off his gloves with a snap and turned to Will, eyes calm.

Will walked forward, sliding his arms around Hannibal’s waist, careful of the blood.

“You’re terrifying,” he murmured, voice full of admiration.

“And you love it.”

“I really do,” Will whispered against his ear, pressing a kiss to the curve of Hannibal’s jaw. “You’re beautiful.”

They stood together, framed by the glow of the low lights—two monsters wrapped around each other, basking in the intimacy of shared darkness.

No one threatened their bond. Not ever.

Chapter 8: A New Admirer

Mischa felt it first—a subtle wrongness in the air. She stopped walking mid-sentence, hand tightening on Abigail’s arm. They were only a few blocks from home, but the street felt too quiet. Too watched.

Abigail blinked at her. “What?”

“Don’t look,” Mischa muttered, eyes scanning the windows, the alleys, the subtle movement of a car a block behind them that hadn’t passed for three turns. “But we’re being followed.”

Abigail stiffened. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

They picked up the pace. Mischa stayed between her sister and the street, jaw set. She kept her hand near the folding blade clipped to her waistband—an old gift from Hannibal, ceremonial and elegant, but deadly. He’d taught them both early: how to disarm, how to disappear, how to strike.

When they reached the house, Mischa locked the door behind them and peeked through the curtain. The car was gone.

But the feeling stayed.

When Hannibal returned from the clinic that evening, Abigail ran to him with her usual quiet joy. Mischa, however, didn’t smile. She stood straight, arms crossed, watching him hang his coat.

“I need to talk to you,” she said, voice tight.

Hannibal’s gaze snapped to her. “What happened?”

Mischa told him everything. Hannibal listened with growing tension, one hand drifting protectively to his belly—habitual now. His eyes went cold.

“You’re sure it wasn’t coincidence?” he asked.

“I know what I saw.”

Hannibal nodded once, decisive. “You did well. Both of you.”

He paced. The girls had been trained. He had made sure of that. Still, knowing they might have been targeted—it churned something primal in him.

“I’ll increase security. And I’ll walk you to school myself tomorrow.”

Abigail’s eyes widened. “Is it that serious?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said quietly. “But I won’t take chances.”

---

The next day, Will sat in Hannibal’s office, agitated and distracted. His hands were restless. Hannibal noticed immediately.

“A difficult week?” he prompted.

Will exhaled. “There’s a new case. One of the worst I’ve seen in a while.”

“Tell me.”

Will leaned forward, eyes distant, voice low. “The victim was strung up like an art installation. Their entrails had been… processed. Stretched. Dried. Used to string a cello.”

Hannibal stilled, fingers steepled. “Gruesome. But also… deliberate.”

“That’s what makes it worse,” Will muttered. “There was care in it. Intention. It wasn’t rage. It was obsession.”

Hannibal tilted his head. “Do you feel drawn to this killer, Will?”

Will gave a dry, tired laugh. “I don’t know. I’m more disturbed than intrigued. But there’s… something about the composition of it. It’s like they wanted someone to see it.”

“Or someone specific.”

Will didn’t respond.

Back at home, Hannibal stared out the window long after the house had gone quiet. He was thinking of the car Mischa had seen. The case Will had described. The way the world always seemed to start hunting them just as things settled.

Someone was circling.

And Hannibal Lecter was not inclined to be merciful to those who threatened his children.

---

Franklyn was chattering again.

Something about interpersonal synergy and the trauma of being misunderstood by everyone except, supposedly, Hannibal. He sat on the edge of the couch, visibly agitated, legs bouncing, his words a stream of stammering flattery and need.

Hannibal sat perfectly composed in his chair, his fingers gently laced over the swell of his belly. He was in his sixth month, and each session left him more drained than the last—not physically, but emotionally. Especially with Franklyn.

He waited for a pause. Then, delicately, “Franklyn.”

The man stopped, blinking rapidly.

“Yes?”

“After the baby arrives, I’ll be reducing my caseload. I’m afraid I’ll need to refer you to another clinician.”

Franklyn’s face twisted. “What? Why? No. No, Dr. Lecter—you can’t. You can’t do that.”

“I’m afraid I can.”

Franklyn stood abruptly. “I’ve told you things no one else knows! You—you understand me! You’re the only one who understands me!”

Hannibal remained seated, unfazed.

Franklyn’s breathing hitched, then calmed as if he were reciting something. “Tobias… my friend Tobias… he told me something yesterday. Something bad.”

Hannibal’s eyes sharpened. “Go on.”

“He said… he said he killed that music store guy. The one on the news.” Franklyn licked his lips. “He said he made strings from his guts. That he’s done it before. A lot.”

Hannibal studied Franklyn carefully. “And you believed him?”

“He was… serious. And calm. Too calm.” Franklyn’s voice trembled. “But he also said something else. He said you’d understand. That you were… like him.”

That made Hannibal’s eyes go cold.

“Thank you, Franklyn,” he said, standing slowly. “I believe that’s enough for today.”

“I don’t want to stop seeing you,” Franklyn whispered, looking stricken.

But Hannibal had already opened the door.

---

Later that evening, Hannibal entered the dim-lit music shop on Eutaw Street. The sharp scent of resin and wood oil filled the air, mingled with something metallic that no shop rag could fully erase.

Tobias Budge was waiting—tall, lean, with hands too steady for a man who only played cello. He smiled, predator to predator. “I was hoping you’d come.”

Hannibal stepped inside, gaze drifting across the string instruments. “You’ve been watching me.”

“Not just you,” Tobias said. “Your children. Beautiful daughters. It’s remarkable, the life you've curated.”

Hannibal’s expression didn’t change, but the air chilled. “You’ve made a grave mistake, Mr. Budge.”

“I wanted to know if you were what I thought you were.” Tobias turned to him, smiling. “You are.”

---

Mischa locked the front door with an audible click, glancing once more out the window. Abigail was on the couch, headphones on, knees tucked beneath her. She looked small like that. Too small.

“You double-checked the back, right?” Mischa called over her shoulder.

“Yes, Motina,” Abigail replied with a sigh. “Like three times.”

“I’m not kidding, Abs.” Mischa moved into the living room and turned down the music in Abigail’s ears. “Someone is watching us. I saw him again near the school.”

Abigail sat up straighter now, worry in her eyes.

“Come Abs, lets practice.”

The late afternoon sun filtered in through the tall windows, turning the wooden floors of the den into a canvas of warm gold and shadow. The air was thick with motion and sweat and the rhythmic sounds of breath, bare feet pivoting, and the occasional soft grunt of effort.

Abigail’s hair clung to her temples, cheeks flushed with frustration as she tried—again—to land a clean hit on her older sister.

Mischa was quicker. Always quicker. Her moves were fluid, efficient, sharp in the way Hannibal’s had always been. She sidestepped Abigail’s jab with ease and used the momentum to tap her shoulder, again, a little harder than necessary.

“That’s the third time,” Mischa said, stepping back. “You have to protect your side. If I’d had a knife—”

“I know,” Abigail snapped, blowing hair from her face and straightening. “I’m trying!”

“Try harder.” Mischa wasn’t cruel, but she was relentless—especially now. The moment she’d noticed the shadow following them after school last week, something inside her had clicked into a higher gear. She’d already been protective, but now she was something fiercer. And Abigail, in her eyes, needed to be stronger.

“You always do that thing with your foot,” Mischa added, pacing around her like a little general. “The right one, you pivot too early and your weight shifts. I can see your move before you throw it.”

Abigail rolled her eyes but adjusted. “Okay. Fine. Again.”

They went at it, palms open, feet moving in a tight circle. Hannibal had taught them this method since they were small—body awareness, balance, control. Mischa had taken to it with an almost obsessive hunger. Abigail, younger and softer, had followed along because she liked being close to her sister and her Motina. She didn’t have Mischa’s fire, but she had determination.

Mischa lunged. Abigail blocked—barely—and spun to the side. Mischa grinned.

“Better!”

From the doorway, Hannibal still in his work clothes watched silently, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.

Mischa saw him first, and her smile turned sheepish. “Motina. You’re home early. We didn’t realize.”

“I noticed,” he said lightly, stepping into the room. “But I was enjoying the show.”

Abigail dropped her stance and turned with a grin. “She’s trying to kill me.”

“Good,” Hannibal said without missing a beat. “That means you’re learning.”

Abigail grinned and flopped dramatically onto the rug. “Mischa’s a tyrant.”

“She’s a worried tyrant,” Mischa muttered, folding her arms. “You know someone’s been watching us. I’m not letting her go around unprepared.”

Hannibal’s smile faded slightly, pride and concern mingling in his gaze. “That’s very wise of you, darling. And very brave.”

Mischa grabbed a towel from the arm of the sofa, tossing one to Abigail as well. “She’s improving. I just… I want her to be ready.”

Hannibal’s expression softened. He stepped forward, placing a hand on Mischa’s shoulder.

“I know,” he murmured. “You’ve taken on so much, my fierce girl.”

Mischa looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. “I don’t want anything to happen to her. Not while I’m around.”

“I taught you both to defend yourselves because I knew there would come a time when I might not be nearby,” he said, voice low and serious. “But that time hasn’t come yet. Not completely. You’re not alone in this.”

Mischa flushed, straightening.

"But," he added, eyes gleaming, "you need to work on your stance. You're leaning too heavily into your dominant side, which leaves you open to sweeps."

Mischa narrowed her eyes. “Says the heavily pregnant person who center of balance has been off for months.”

Hannibal's brow rose elegantly. “Looks can be deceiving. You of all people should know that. Just because someone looks vulnerable—”

“—doesn’t mean they are,” Mischa finished, sighing. “I know.”

“Then prove it,” he said, already stepping onto the rug and pulling off his coat. “Spar with me.”

Mischa hesitated, glancing at the obvious curve of his belly. “Are you serious?”

“I won’t break,” he said calmly. “And neither will you. Come.”

She exhaled, then nodded, stepping back into stance.

Abigail scrambled to the edge of the rug, wide-eyed and excited. “This is gonna be good.”

They circled each other. Hannibal moved with a grace that belied his condition—measured, deliberate, but fluid and powerful. Mischa feinted left and tried a sweep, but he caught her wrist and twisted her momentum against her, gently guiding her into a roll.

“You overcommitted again,” he said, smiling down at her. “That’s a pattern.”

Mischa groaned, flat on her back. “I hate that you can still do this.”

“I’m very motivated not to lose,” he said, offering her a hand. “Especially to my own daughter.”

She took it, and he pulled her to her feet.

They went again. Mischa struck, blocked, twisted—only to find herself pinned in a controlled lock that Hannibal released just as quickly.

She pulled back, panting. “Okay. Okay. You win. Again.”

“I’m not trying to win,” Hannibal said, smoothing his shirt back into place. “I’m teaching. You’ve inherited my temper, not my patience.”

Mischa grinned, flushed and winded. “You’re impossible.”

Abigail clapped. “That was so cool.”

Hannibal turned to her with a small smile. “And you, my little wolf, are improving. Your stance is still too narrow, but your instincts are sharp.”

Abigail beamed.

As Hannibal reached for his coat again, Mischa quietly stepped closer and murmured, “You sure you’re okay? You didn’t pull anything?”

He touched her cheek briefly, affectionately. “I’m fine. And I’d rather you be prepared than coddle me.”

Mischa nodded, fiercely loyal eyes scanning him. “If that Tobias creep comes anywhere near you or Abigail again…”

Hannibal’s smile was a quiet, chilling thing. “Then he will learn—regretfully—that none of us are defenseless.”

---

The dining room was candlelit, the table arranged with meticulous care. Every utensil gleamed, every napkin perfectly folded. Hannibal poured a dark wine—non-alcoholic for himself, given his condition—and offered Tobias a glass.

“I took the liberty of selecting something... full-bodied,” Hannibal said, tone smooth, gaze sharp.

Tobias grinned. “You do everything full-bodied, Dr. Lecter. I must admit, this is a bit surreal.”

Hannibal inclined his head slightly. “Because I invited you?”

“Because you’re the Chesapeake Ripper. And yet—” Tobias gestured subtly toward Hannibal’s belly. “—you’re also... this. Domestic. Family man. Dinner parties. Children.”

Hannibal’s smile was tight, polite. “You seem surprised that refinement and... indulgence... are not mutually exclusive.”

Tobias chuckled. “No, no. I admire it. You've built a life. An empire, even. An alpha mate, two daughters, and now another child on the way. I wonder—do they know?”

Hannibal didn’t answer immediately. He sliced his lamb with elegance, arranging it artfully on his plate. “What one reveals to family is a matter of necessity... and timing.”

Tobias leaned forward. “Do they know what you are? What you’ve done?”

“They know me.” Hannibal met his eyes, voice soft but resolute. “That is sufficient.”

Tobias gave a delighted, conspiratorial laugh. “It’s perfect. You understand the world like I do—there are people who deserve it, and you give it to them. But you’ve done what I haven’t—made it beautiful. I admire that.”

Hannibal’s fork paused slightly. “Flattery is often a prelude to presumption.”

“I want to be friends, Hannibal.” Tobias's tone dropped, suddenly earnest. “Partners. I thought about killing you at first—before I knew. But then I saw it. One of your... installations. And I knew. You saw the world like I do.”

“I see the world very clearly,” Hannibal said, dabbing at his lips. “Clear enough to know that your surveillance of my daughters was not admiration. It was threat.”

Tobias flinched slightly but recovered. “I was curious. I would never hurt children.”

“No,” Hannibal said, tone cool now. “You would hurt what you think belongs to someone you admire, to test if they deserve it. And you believe admiration entitles you to access. It does not.”

Tobias set his fork down. “I’m not trying to provoke you.”

“Of course you are,” Hannibal said pleasantly. “You want to see what I’ll do. You want to matter to me.”

He leaned back, gaze level.

“And you do. You’re a problem. One I’m capable of solving.”

There was a long pause. Tobias broke the tension with a nervous chuckle. “So this dinner was... a threat?”

“No,” Hannibal said, rising gracefully from his chair. “It was a courtesy.”

Tobias’s expression darkened. “You’re serious.”

“I always am.” Hannibal stepped toward him, voice low and silken. “You watched my daughters. You endangered my family. I invited you to my table as a last kindness. But do not mistake kindness for tolerance.”

Tobias stood as well, jaw clenched. “You think you can scare me?”

“I hope so,” Hannibal said softly. “Fear might keep you alive long enough to regret.”

Tobias left shortly after, eyes wary, posture tense.

Hannibal cleared the plates with his usual care, each movement methodical. He took a moment before locking the front door, hand resting protectively over his abdomen.

The next move would not be dinner.

It would be the finale.

Chapter 9: Ravenous Cravings

The grocery cart already looked like it had been packed by a chaotic gourmet gremlin with a fixation on opposites. Dried anchovies. Lavender honey. Three different kinds of olives. Frozen durian. An entire case of elderflower tonic. A full wheel of cave-aged Gruyère. Spicy kimchi. A cantaloupe. A second cantaloupe—because the first one “didn’t look emotionally balanced.”

Mischa stared down into the cart, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “Motina. No one eats cheese with pickled mango. That’s a cry for help.”

Hannibal, looking positively delighted and newly invigorated after weeks of nauseated misery, simply placed a jar of truffle mustard delicately beside a tub of garlic ice cream. “I do, in fact. And it’s rather transcendent.”

Abigail, pushing the cart, tried not to groan aloud as another precarious item rolled to the edge. “Motina, you’ve spent forty minutes in this one aisle. We’ve done circles around the jam section. Twice.”

“I couldn’t decide between fig or plum,” Hannibal said simply, eyes gleaming. “It is a moral dilemma.”

“Moral?” Mischa scoffed. “It’s jam. You’re acting like you’re choosing which of us to keep and which to throw in a pie.”

Hannibal patted her arm indulgently. “Darling, don’t be dramatic. You would both be excellent in a pie.”

Abigail snorted. Mischa scowled.

The small family ensemble moved forward again, slowly, like a glacier of judgment. 

“I still don’t understand what you’re even making,” Mischa said, staring dubiously as Hannibal reached for a suspiciously green banana and immediately set it down again. “None of this goes together. It’s like Iron Chef, but cursed.”

“I’m pregnant, Mischa,” Hannibal said, as if that explained the philosophical chaos of the cart. “My body knows what it needs.”

Mischa rolled her eyes. “Your body needs smoked oysters and licorice-covered pecans?”

“I never said it made sense to the unenlightened.”

“I’m begging you, just pick one dessert and let us move on.”

“I did. The black sesame mochi and the matcha tiramisu. I’m just being thorough.”

Abigail turned the cart sharply and muttered, “You mean terrifying.”

They reached the refrigerated section, and Hannibal’s eyes lit up as he reached for goat milk yogurt. “You know,” he said conversationally, “when I was pregnant with you, Mischa, I once made Will drive to three separate markets at 2 a.m. in search of blueberry-cranberry goat cheese and black truffle oil.”

Mischa blinked. “That can’t even be a real thing.”

“It was. He found it. He was quite determined.”

Abigail looked curious. “What about when you were pregnant with me?”

Hannibal smiled wistfully. “I ate an entire jar of pickled herring in the bath. And then cried because I dropped the last one.”

Both girls stared at him in horror.

Hannibal, unbothered, reached for seaweed crisps and a jar of pickled cherries.

“Shouldn’t you be eating healthy?” Mischa asked, grabbing a rogue bottle of rosewater syrup and putting it back on the shelf.

“I am a doctor,” Hannibal said, sniffing, “and the only one in this family with an advanced degree in medicine, might I remind you. I have balanced cravings with proper nutrient absorption.”

“You also tried to buy twelve types of cheese,” Abigail muttered.

“And three kinds of vinegar,” Mischa added.

“And lime-flavored pickles,” they said together.

Hannibal straightened with theatrical poise. “You are both so judgmental.”

“You’re feral, Motina.”

“I’m pregnant,” Hannibal corrected. “There is a difference.”

Mischa stared at the cart like it personally offended her. “He’s supposed to be the sophisticated one,” she hissed to Abigail as Hannibal wandered off toward the specialty oils. “Usually it’s all, ‘This pairs exquisitely with a 2010 Bordeaux and shaved white truffle,’ and now it’s, ‘Let me just toss in this bag of candied anchovies and ghost pepper jelly, no care about whether or not it goes together.’”

Abigail, arms crossed and expression grim, nodded. “He just put seaweed chips and lemon curd in the cart. At the same time. I don’t even want to know what that combination is meant to do.”

Mischa peeked at the growing pile in the cart with a groan. “I don’t even want to see the bill. You know he’s only buying the imported versions of everything. That honey’s from a single beehive in the Alps. The Alps, Abigail.”

Abigail snorted. “Pretty sure that cheese was aged in a cave blessed by monks.”

“Why are monk caves always involved when it comes to our groceries?” Mischa muttered.

They both glanced down the aisle where their Motina was examining pomegranate molasses like it was a sacred text. Hannibal was humming quietly to himself and looked... dare they say it? Happy. His bump was obvious now, his coat unbuttoned and scarf artfully tossed to the side, and his hands moved with the sort of calm he rarely managed lately. If not for the fact that half the items in their cart looked like ingredients in a very bougie potion, they might have relaxed too.

Abigail elbowed her sister, voice low and amused. “If Dad were here, he’d be dying.”

Mischa grinned. “Literally on the floor. He’d be flailing and muttering about how we don’t need twelve different types of vinegar.”

“Or that $60 bottle of infused sesame oil that Motina swears is essential.”

They both laughed quietly.

“But,” Abigail added with a sigh, “he’d still be pushing the cart. Or carrying it. Or offering to run to another store just because Hannibal looked at something longingly.”

“Ugh. He’s so whipped.”

“So whipped.”

“Like, peak whipped.”

“Willing-to-be-murdered-for-Motina whipped.”

They giggled again before slowly trailing after Hannibal, who was now comparing mineral salt flakes under the brightest grocery lights in existence.

Mischa sobered slightly as they approached. She watched the way Hannibal stood—proud, poised, and just a little bit tired. There were faint shadows under his eyes despite the glow of pregnancy, and his hands lingered a moment too long on the handle of the cart before he resumed his slow progress forward.

Abigail noticed too. “He looks better than he has,” she said quietly.

Mischa nodded. “Yeah. But still... it’s a lot.”

They didn’t talk about how the stress of Will’s memory loss, the danger from Tobias, and the daily pretending had worn on Hannibal like fine erosion. But they both saw it. Even when he smiled.

They spent two more aisles in the same bizarre rhythm—Hannibal finding something outlandish and the girls trailing behind him, trying to put some order to the madness. Mischa eventually gave up and grabbed her own cart to try and “make a reasonable dinner out of this chaos.” Abigail surrendered entirely and simply added her favorite snacks when Hannibal wasn’t looking.

By the time they reached the checkout, they had been there nearly two hours. The cart was full. The girls were drained. Hannibal was glowing.

“This was very productive,” he said, placing a single dragonfruit atop a pile of unidentifiable fermented things.

Mischa sighed, resting her forehead on the handle of the cart. “You say that like we didn’t just spend half the afternoon trying to restrain your inner culinary cryptid.”

Hannibal smirked, utterly unapologetic. “I love you, too.”

Abigail added a bag of gummy worms to the belt and whispered, “We earned this.”

Mischa nodded solemnly. “We really did.”

And as they pushed their overflowing carts toward the car, Hannibal declared, “Next week, we try the new specialty spice shop. They have saffron-infused vinegar aged in batwood barrels.”

The girls groaned in unison.

He smiled.

Victory.

---

The kitchen was filled with the sharp sizzle of oil and the unsettling aroma of… was that sardines and cinnamon?

Mischa gagged. “Motina, what is that?”

Hannibal, serene and focused, stood at the stove with a gleam in his eye and a spoon in one hand, proudly stirring a bubbling pot. “Duck fat, preserved lemon, blue cheese, and a whisper of durian.”

Abigail slowly backed away. “That’s not a whisper. That’s a shout.”

Mischa slapped her hand over her mouth. “Okay. Nope. Nope nope nope. This is how we die. This is how you poison us.”

Hannibal looked mildly offended as he transferred his bubbling concoction into a serving dish that looked far too elegant for what it contained. “My cravings are perfectly valid.”

“They’re criminal,” Mischa muttered, yanking open the freezer. “Abigail! You want the rude cashier or the rude salesman?”

“The cashier! The one who rolled his eyes at you!”

“Good choice.”

Abigail slid onto a stool and watched as Mischa dumped a perfectly portioned vacuum-sealed package into the wok and began tossing in vegetables with ruthless efficiency. Hannibal raised a delicately arched brow.

“You’re cooking humans now?” he asked, lips twitching with amusement.

“Better than whatever that is,” Mischa shot back, jabbing a spoon in his direction. “You’ve clearly lost all sense of flavor balance. This is a cry for help.”

“I’m expressing myself,” Hannibal said loftily, adding a splash of some exotic sauce that made the air shimmer with danger.

“You’re derailing,” Mischa corrected.

“I am an artist.”

“An artist with no self-control.”

Abigail snorted. “Remember when he said he was going to make something ‘simple and comforting’?”

“Yes,” Mischa said. “And then proceeded to pull out squid ink, honeycomb, five kinds of mushrooms, and edible flowers. For oatmeal.”

They both glanced over at their Motina, who was now plating his meal like he was about to photograph it for a deranged Michelin guide.

“Honestly, I can’t wait to tell Dad,” Abigail said, taking a bite of her stir-fry. “He’s gonna lose it.”

“He’s going to revoke your plating privileges,” Mischa added, shaking her head as she sat beside her sister, watching in morbid fascination as Hannibal dug into his chaos dinner with delight.

Hannibal, utterly unfazed, looked up with a smile. “Your father loves me too much to deny me this simple joy.”

“Debatable,” Abigail said.

“And until your palate returns to civilized society,” Mischa added loudly, “you are banned from hosting any social gatherings.”

Hannibal paused, lifting his fork slowly. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll lose followers,” she said gravely. “The Montclair Gallery director will never come back after whatever the hell that smell is.”

Abigail giggled. “It’s true. And if you serve that durian fish mess to the opera patrons, they’ll revoke your standing invitation.”

Hannibal sighed deeply, hand over his heart. “How cruel, to be censored in my own home.”

“You did this to yourself.”

“I have cravings,” he said, with regal dignity.

“You were committing a culinary war crime.”

They all fell into laughter, the absurdity of it all wrapping around them like a familiar blanket. Hannibal smiled, fond and just a bit smug, as his daughters whispered plans to tattle to Will in vivid detail.

He didn’t mind. He looked down at his bizarre plate, then at his bickering girls.

Everything was exactly as it should be.

---

It had been a spontaneous decision—a moment of rebellion, really.

Will stood in the kitchen, hands on his hips, watching his daughters devour their forbidden treasure like little gremlins. Mischa, ten and devious, munched on a fry and handed a nugget to four-year-old Abigail, who clutched her Happy Meal like it was sacred. The telltale red and yellow boxes littered the table like evidence at a crime scene.

“This is so good,” Abigail moaned happily, ketchup smeared across her cheek.

“It’s a cultural experience,” Mischa said seriously. “Motina can’t keep us locked in foie gras land forever.”

Will laughed, biting into his own burger. “If he finds out, I’m dead. You two better have airtight alibis.”

“Easy,” Mischa said. “We’ll blame you.”

Will blinked. “You would sell me out that fast?”

“I mean… yeah. You’re the adult.”

Then the front door creaked.

Will froze.

Mischa’s eyes went wide. “Wait… wasn’t Motina supposed to be in D.C. until tomorrow?”

Abigail gasped and hurriedly shoved fries into her mouth.

Footsteps. The click of expensive shoes on hardwood.

Will whispered, “Maybe he forgot something.”

Hannibal never forget anything.

Hannibal strolled into the kitchen with perfect calm and utter silence. He paused, tilting his head like a predator studying its prey. “Well,” he said smoothly, “what do we have here?”

Will jumped, nearly choking on his burger.

Abigail squeaked and tried to hide her Happy Meal box under the table. Mischa slid a napkin over the fries like that would somehow erase their existence.

Will cleared his throat and wiped his hands like he hadn’t just been caught in the act. “H-Hey! You’re back early.”

“Yes.” Hannibal looked over the table slowly. “And clearly just in time.”

He walked over and lifted the napkin. Stared down at the sad little box of fries with something like pity. Abigail fidgeted, clearly torn between hiding and finishing her food.

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. “Is that… McDonald’s?”

Mischa cringed. “It’s not that bad.”

“I see.”

There was a long, awkward pause before Abigail blurted out, “It came with a toy!”

Will sighed. “I know, I know. No saturated fats, no preservatives, no powdered cheese—”

“—no ‘chicken’ with questionable lineage,” Hannibal added mildly.

“You weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow!”

“I moved up my return. Clearly fate guided me.”

Mischa muttered, “Fate’s a snitch.”

But to everyone’s surprise, Hannibal didn’t explode. He smiled.

“Well,” he said, crouching beside Abigail, “I suppose it’s only fair to sample the enemy.”

He picked up one of her nuggets delicately, examined it, and then took a bite.

Everyone watched in horrified fascination.

He chewed slowly. Swallowed. Tilted his head.

“It tastes,” he said dryly, “like breaded despair.”

Will snorted. Mischa looked smug. Abigail looked devastated.

“But,” Hannibal added, “I’ll make you my chicken nuggets tomorrow, and you can decide which are better.”

Abigail frowned, unconvinced. “Do yours come with toys?”

Hannibal laughed—actually laughed. “We shall see.”

Later that night, with the girls asleep and peace restored, Hannibal lounged in their bed, brushing through Will’s hair as Will stretched beside him, still vaguely guilty.

“You’re powerless against them,” Hannibal teased, voice low and smooth. “Puppy dog eyes and you’re outnumbered. Pathetic.”

Will groaned. “I can resist.”

“Oh? Shall we list the evidence?”

Will opened his mouth, then closed it.

“Would you like me to remind you of the Great Popsicle Incident? Or when Mischa cried over that goat at the petting zoo and you offered to buy it?”

“I was trying to help—”

“Or when Abigail asked you if she could get a chainsaw for her birthday and you actually considered it for five minutes?”

Will huffed. “Okay, okay. I get it. I have no spine.”

Hannibal smiled. “Oh no, you have a spine. You just don’t use it with us.”

“And you’re any better?”

“I am a refined European omega. I run this household.”

Will grinned. “You’re the queen of this castle.”

“Thank you. And you are my loyal knight. Who eats McDonald’s in my absence.”

Will chuckled, pulling Hannibal close. “I’d do it again.”

Hannibal raised a brow. “Blasphemy.”

Will leaned in to kiss him. “You’ll just have to punish me later.”

Hannibal smiled slowly. “Gladly.”

---

Mischa dropped her schoolbag by the door with a soft thump, kicked off her boots, and padded into the living room. It was quiet—too quiet. No classical music, no clinking of glass or sizzling from the kitchen. Her Motina was seated in one of the armchairs, eyes distant, fingers idly tracing the rim of a teacup that had long gone cold.

She tilted her head. “Thinking about your next victim or just trying to plan dinner?”

Hannibal blinked, then looked up and smiled faintly. “A rare moment of quiet. I was savoring it.”

Mischa dropped onto the couch beside him and tucked her legs underneath her. “Motina. Spill.”

“Spill?”

“You’re clearly brooding. Which means you’re either planning something violent or worried about Dad. Or both.”

Hannibal raised a brow. “And what qualifies you to diagnose me, hmm?”

“I’m doing a session. Like you do with your patients.”

“Ah. I see. A family therapy session.”

“Yes. Except I’m the psychiatrist now,” she said.

Hannibal smirked, eyes twinkling. “How bold. You do know I have a real one. A very expensive, credentialed one.”

Mischa waved a hand. “Please. Bedelia’s alright, but I bet you don't talk about the real stuff.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Like how you picked that awful senator to serve at the last dinner party. Or how you nearly lost it at that rude man at the gala last month. Or how you’ve been leaving clues for Dad to see if he’s finally back.”

Hannibal tilted his head. “And you believe I would confide such things to you?”

“I’m excellent at secrets. I’ve had to hide things from Dad before—like the time you let me practice suturing on that deer carcass in the basement. Or when we put mushrooms in his lunch and didn’t tell him.”

He chuckled softly. “Yes. I recall that experiment. He was quite betrayed.”

Mischa leaned her head against the arm of the couch. “I’m not saying I’m Dad. I know you tell him everything. You trust him with the real you. But I’m here too. I want to know how you’re really doing. If you’re tired. If you’re worried. If… if it hurts to wait.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Hannibal set down the cold tea and reached out, drawing her into a warm embrace. She nestled against him easily, her head under his chin, arms wrapping around him like it was the most natural place to be.

“You are far too wise for your age,” he murmured.

“I got it from you,” she said into his shirt.

“And arrogant.”

“Also from you.”

He kissed her hair, holding her close. “If you must know, yes, I worry. I miss the ease of being truly seen. And I miss your father. But he is coming back to us. I see it, day by day.”

Mischa pulled back slightly and gave him a mischievous smile. “And when he does, we’ll have a lot to tease him about.”

Hannibal returned the smile. “Undoubtedly. But for now, thank you… Dr. Mischa.”

She beamed. “Anytime. But I am going to start charging by the hour.”

“I’ll have Bedelia write the check.”

They both laughed, wrapped in warmth, predator and daughter. 

Hannibal gently pulled back from the embrace, hands resting on Mischa’s arms as he studied her with those sharp, perceptive eyes that always seemed to see too much. “And now, doctor, I believe it is my turn.”

Mischa groaned and flopped sideways against the couch. “You shrink types always do that. Turn the question around.”

“Deflection is a classic defense,” Hannibal replied smoothly. “So—how are you doing?”

“I said I’m fine,” she muttered, avoiding his gaze.

Hannibal waited.

Mischa sighed. “Okay. Things aren’t great. I mean... I miss Dad. A lot. And I’m mad at him too, which I know isn’t fair, but I am.”

“That is fair,” Hannibal said softly. “Feelings aren’t always rational, nor must they be.”

She nodded, picking at the stitching of a cushion. “It’s just weird, you know? Having him here but not really here. And watching you hurt but pretending you’re not. And Abigail’s trying to act normal and cheerful and it’s just... exhausting sometimes.”

Hannibal gently reached for her hand. “You don’t have to carry it all, Mischa.”

“Yeah, well, it kind of feels like I do.”

A pause stretched, quiet but heavy.

“Tell me about school,” Hannibal prompted. “How is your mind being fed?”

“Boring,” she said immediately. “All of it’s easy. I finish things before everyone else. Half the kids don’t even try. And they’re so immature.”

“Anyone worth your time?”

“Lena, a little. She’s funny and not stupid. There’s a few others.”

“And what’s this I hear about a school dance?”

Mischa gave him a look.

“I am a parent. I am required to ask.”

“It’s mostly gonna be awkward kids pretending not to care while absolutely caring. No one cool is going.”

“And are you attending?”

She hesitated. “Maybe. If Lena makes me.”

“Do you have something to wear?”

“I’ll find something. Maybe I’ll just wear black and look mysterious.”

“I can’t imagine where you inherited that instinct,” Hannibal said dryly.

Mischa smirked. “Well, if you dressed like a normal parent, I wouldn’t have to be dramatic to balance it out.”

At that moment, Abigail wandered into the room. 

“Something smells like sarcasm,” she announced. “Are we having one of those bonding talks again?”

“Indeed,” Hannibal said. “We were discussing the emotional complexities of adolescence and dances.”

Abigail made a face. “Ugh, social obligations. I colored a goat purple today in art class. It was abstract.”

Mischa snorted. “That’s the energy we need.”

Abigail flopped onto the arm of the couch and stretched like a cat. “The purple goat was a metaphor, by the way,” she said seriously.

Mischa raised a brow. “A metaphor for what? Artistic rebellion? Boredom? Your ongoing war with the color wheel?”

“A metaphor,” Abigail replied, smug, “for how not everything needs to make sense to be beautiful.”

“That’s what people say when they don’t have a plan.”

“Tell that to your sad black turtleneck collection.”

“It’s called aesthetic,” Mischa said primly.

“It’s called you’re fourteen and think you’re already in grad school.”

“I can’t help it if I’m intellectually advanced,” Mischa huffed.

“You cried over a croissant last week because it was ‘wasn't laminated,’” Abigail shot back.

“It was a crime against pastry.”

Hannibal, who had been listening with growing amusement from his armchair, finally stood, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeves. “I suppose,” he said smoothly, “it’s time we redirect this very… sophisticated debate to the kitchen.”

The girls froze. Their eyes locked.

“What’s for dinner, Motina?” Mischa asked warily.

Hannibal’s mouth curved into a sharp smirk. “Inspiration shall strike as we begin. I’m feeling… experimental.”

“No!” Abigail leapt off the arm of the couch.

Mischa groaned, “God, he’s lost it again.”

“Come along,” Hannibal called serenely, already gliding toward the kitchen. “I need many hands.”

The girls scrambled after him in matching horror. “We’re coming!” Mischa shouted. “You are not putting pickled herring in a tart again!”

“It was texturally interesting,” Hannibal called over his shoulder.

“No, it was traumatic,” Abigail muttered.

By the time they reached the kitchen, Hannibal had already pulled out ingredients—an alarming number of them, some of which were labeled in languages neither girl could identify.

“You,” he said, pointing to Mischa, “chiffonade the basil and thyme. Abigail, wash and slice the carrots thinly, we are not animals. I’ll handle the reduction.”

Mischa took a deep breath and exchanged a look with her sister. “It’s not terrible yet,” she whispered.

“There’s still time,” Abigail replied grimly.

But as the evening unfolded, the chaos turned into rhythm. Hannibal hummed softly as he worked, gesturing for flavor adjustments, correcting knife angles with a gentle nudge, and instructing with calm authority. The kitchen was filled with warm light, the clatter of utensils, and the occasional sibling squabble over seasoning preferences.

By the end, the dish was actually… good.

Not terrifying. Not pickled. And not garnished with anything that had once blinked.

The girls exchanged relieved glances as Hannibal plated everything with his usual precision, then gestured toward the table.

“Voilà,” he said, proud.

Mischa and Abigail sat, still mildly suspicious, but when the first bites landed, they both gave exaggerated sighs of relief.

“Thank God,” Mischa whispered.

“Don’t thank Him,” Abigail muttered. “Thank our intervention.”

Hannibal just smirked behind his glass. “Teamwork makes the dream work.”

“And keeps the liver out of the quiche,” Mischa added.

“Barely,” Abigail said. “Barely.”

---

The moon was high and sharp when Hannibal pulled on his gloves, the dark leather fitting snugly against his skin. He adjusted the cuffs of his coat with practiced ease, the scent of starched linen and cologne faint but reassuring. The craving had become too loud to ignore—liver, rich and warm, was all he could think about.

He was halfway to the door when a quiet voice stopped him.

“Going somewhere?”

He turned, unsurprised to find Mischa leaning against the wall, arms crossed, already in black.

“You should be in bed.”

“You’re going out to kill someone for their liver. I think bedtime rules are off the table.”

“Mischa—”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I am the parent.”

“Who is currently pregnant and still recovering from a mild bout of heartburn, nearly fainted two nights ago while slicing onions, and has been off-balance all week.”

Hannibal narrowed his eyes. “That’s irrelevant.”

“It’s completely relevant,” Mischa countered. “You’ve said yourself your equilibrium is off. What if something goes wrong? I’m not going to help unless you ask, but I’ll be there. You need backup.”

"I am capable of assessing risk."

"You think just because you’re you, because you’ve been doing this for decades, it means nothing can go wrong". Mischa snapped. "Not when you’re pregnant and pissed off and pretending you're still invincible. You're not."

Hannibal turned then, eyes sharp.

"I do not pretend."

"You do," she said, softer now, but no less firm. "You pretend everything is fine when it’s not. You act like you don’t miss dad. Like you’re not falling apart a little bit every day he’s gone. Like you didn’t nearly collapse after your last hunt and just waved it off."

"I am holding this family together," Hannibal said, voice rising just a notch. "That is my job. I do not have the luxury of falling apart."

"You don’t have to do it alone!" Mischa’s voice cracked, and suddenly she was blinking fast, fighting the sting behind her eyes. "You have us. You have me. Why won’t you let anyone help you?"

A long silence.

Hannibal stared at her, lips pressed into a tight line. 

"I raised you to be strong," he said finally, his voice low. "Not to worry about me."

"Too bad," Mischa shot back. "I do worry. I’m not just your daughter—I’m your family. We’re supposed to take care of each other. Even you."

Hannibal looked at her, and for a long moment the mask cracked—just a flicker, just enough. Mischa saw it. The exhaustion. The fear. The loneliness.

Before Hannibal could respond, soft footsteps sounded behind them.

Abigail.

“She’s right,” she said simply, eyes clear. “You’re… not at your best.”

“I am perfectly capable of handling one obnoxious hedge fund manager,” Hannibal insisted.

“That’s what you said before nearly slicing off your own finger peeling a mango last week,” Mischa deadpanned.

“Let it go, that mango was unreasonably slippery,” Hannibal muttered.

The girls stood firm, twin expressions of concern masking the simmer of defiance beneath. Hannibal sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Fine. But Mischa, you observe, nothing more. And Abigail stays home.”

Mischa gave a short, satisfied nod. “Deal.”

The night air was crisp. The streets, quiet.

They drove in silence, Hannibal calm and precise, Mischa alert beside him. At the chosen location—a sleek, sterile apartment on the edge of town—they slipped on their plastic suits in the car.

Inside, the kill was smooth.

Elegant.

The man was arrogant to the end, Hannibal’s blade silencing his smugness with surgical grace. Mischa remained at a distance, silent, until it was done.

She stepped in only to help with cleanup.

“You’re not supposed to lift anything heavy,” she muttered, hoisting a trash bag over one shoulder as they packed the pieces of the unfortunate man's life into oblivion.

“I am perfectly capable,” Hannibal sniffed, tying off the second bag.

Mischa arched a brow. “You say that every time you get out of a chair and groan.”

Hannibal glanced over at her, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. “You are insufferable.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

They drove back in the early morning hush, the streets still empty, the world unaware.

When they walked through the door, Abigail was curled on the couch with a book. She looked up and immediately relaxed when she saw them safe and whole.

“I kept the tea warm,” she said.

“Thank you, darling,” Hannibal said softly, brushing a hand through her hair in passing.

He turned to Mischa as she shrugged off her coat.

“Thank you, too. For the help.”

Mischa shrugged. “Someone’s gotta keep you in line.”

“To bed, both of you.” Hannibal rolled his eyes but his tone was warm. 

Mischa grinned. “Only because I’m exhausted.”

As the girls disappeared upstairs, Hannibal stood alone in the kitchen for a long moment. He rested a hand lightly on the swell of his stomach.

He missed Will most on nights like this.

Missed the awe in his mate’s eyes as he worked. The reverence. The laughter afterwards as they cooked together, elbow-deep in blood and affection.

But for now… he wasn’t alone.

And that, at least, would do.

Chapter 10: Children

The woman lay sprawled across the stainless steel table, blood pooled neatly around her head like the petals of a rose. Her expression was twisted mid-sneer—frozen in the last moment of her unpleasant life. Hannibal, sleeves rolled back and gloved hands glistening, examined the exposed organs with the focused eye of a master at his craft. Will stood nearby, arms crossed, watching him with a casual, intimate detachment, the kind only a long-time partner in murder could possess.

The silence between them was heavy but familiar, the sound of Hannibal’s precise movements and the metallic clink of his tools echoing through the tiled room.

It was Will who broke the silence first. “You’ve been going after a lot of people who hurt kids lately.”

Hannibal didn’t look up. “Have I?”

Will tilted his head, smiling faintly. “Don’t play coy with me. You know you have. That preschool director who withheld food. The man who ran that foster care scam. And now…” He gestured to the woman’s body. “This delightful specimen. You said she hit a child in a grocery store.”

Hannibal paused, a scalpel still in hand.

Will took a step closer. “Is there something you want to talk about?”

For once, Hannibal didn’t have an immediate answer. He stood still, hands hovering over the body, expression unreadable. It was a rare sight, seeing him at a loss. But then again, Will Graham had always had the uncanny ability to disarm him—not with force, but with understanding. With patience.

Will didn’t push. He just waited, watching his husband quietly.

Hannibal's mind wandered to thoughts of his sister. Mischa. Her name still carried the soft ache of love and loss. She had been the first person he'd ever loved without condition, the first soul he'd ever wanted to protect more than his own. Her absence had carved something permanent into him. After she was gone, he'd closed off that part of himself—the part that dared to care, to hope, to imagine a future with anyone else.

He never believed children would be part of his life. Not truly. The idea had lingered like a ghost, a fantasy indulged in quiet, impossible moments. But he was a predator, a man of appetite and precision, not softness. And how could a man like him have a child? More importantly, how could he share that child with someone who understood the blood that ran beneath his skin?

For so long, Hannibal had resigned himself to a life of exquisite solitude. The suits, the art, the wine, the opera—all carefully curated distractions to make that loneliness beautiful. He had never expected to be understood. He certainly never expected to be seen—not the persona he wore for the world, but the twisted brilliance that pulsed beneath. The hunger. The darkness. The truth of who he was.

And then came Will.

Brilliant, maddening Will.

He hadn’t just seen Hannibal. He had studied him, unraveled him like a piece of music, chord by chord. He had walked into Hannibal’s darkness and, rather than recoil, had built a home inside it. Will had never demanded that Hannibal be anyone else. In fact, he encouraged him to be more—to indulge, to create, to become. Will didn’t fear Hannibal’s mind; he admired it. Helped him with his… hobbies. Became his accomplice, his counterpart, his mate.

And now, the idea of children no longer felt like fantasy.

He had the house. The legacy. The carefully built reputation among society. The wealth. The life he once pretended to be satisfied with.

But now he had Will.

And with Will, he could have everything. A family. A legacy born not from tragedy but from choice.

He never imagined he'd find someone who would look at his monstrous nature and love him for it. Someone who would kiss him after a kill, who would bring him coffee while he stitched flesh. Someone who would whisper their dreams between bloodied gloves and silk sheets. Will would give him anything—everything. Because Will knew him. And Will chose him.

For once in his life, Hannibal felt something close to peace.

He wasn’t just ready for children. He wanted them—with a yearning so deep it surprised even him. He wanted to raise them with Will, to create something that was entirely theirs, borne of darkness and devotion. He wanted a family built not on convention, but on understanding, love, and unshakeable loyalty.

Finally, Hannibal spoke, voice low. “What do you think of children, Will?”

That wasn’t the answer Will expected, but it wasn’t far off. He glanced down, scuffing the toe of his boot slightly across the pristine floor. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I didn’t grow up in a great home. My alpha was gone before I was born. My mom—my omega—he did his best. Worked the boatyards. We moved a lot. He loved me, I think. But it wasn’t stable. I didn’t get the kind of love that lasts.”

Hannibal turned to look at him, expression soft. “You love me.”

Will snorted. “And look at what we’re doing while we talk about love.”

Hannibal stepped toward him, brushing gloved fingers across Will’s cheek. “Precisely. And yet, you stay. You see me clearly and remain. That tells me everything I need to know about the depth of your love, Will.”

Will closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into the touch. “That’s… dangerous logic, Lecter.”

“Isn’t that what love always is?”

Will opened his eyes, watching him. “What about you? What do you think of children?”

Hannibal’s face changed—just slightly. Something tender, nostalgic. “I had a sister. Mischa. She was my heart.” His voice was like fine porcelain, elegant and breakable. “I lost her. But I never stopped remembering the love. The protectiveness. I’ve always wanted children, Will. Not just for the sake of having them. But because creation—true creation—is the highest form of art. A child… would be the ultimate collaboration.”

Will’s brow quirked, his tone gentler now. “And you want that? With me?”

Hannibal nodded slowly. “Yes. I believe our lives—this twisted, beautiful existence—deserve to go on. We are stable. Wealthy. Capable. And madly in love. What else remains but to create something of ourselves?”

Will’s smile grew. “You know… you love creation. And I love you. So I suppose this is just the next logical step.”

“I thought you might say that,” Hannibal murmured, stepping closer.

Will leaned in. “Just think of the murderers we’ll raise. So refined. So proper.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Hannibal purred.

They kissed—deep and hungry—above the body of a woman who, in her final act of cruelty, had sealed her fate. When they finally pulled apart, Will sighed.

“We should clean this up.”

“So we can get started on the procreation part?” Hannibal’s eyes gleamed.

Will smirked. “Exactly.”

And Hannibal—ever the artist, ever the romantic—happily agreed.

---

The kitchen was awash in golden candlelight, flames flickering along the edges of crystal glasses and polished silver. The scent of truffle oil and roasted game hung in the air, subtle and rich, warming the space like a promise. Hannibal had outdone himself—though that in itself wasn’t unusual. But tonight, every detail was laced with anticipation. The napkins folded just so. The wine decanted perfectly. The fire crackling in the hearth. The softest music playing beneath it all.

He had waited all day with practiced patience, though his heart had been anything but still. From the moment the second line appeared on the test, a rare and profound joy had overtaken him. He was pregnant. Life—their life—was growing inside of him. It felt as though his body had been lit from within. The knowledge had not frightened him, not even for a moment. It had only thrilled him, filled him with wonder.

And he had kept it secret, if only for a day, just to orchestrate the perfect moment to tell Will.

The key turned in the door. Footsteps. The weight of his mate’s presence entering the house. Hannibal smoothed the cuffs of his shirt and stepped into the glow of the dining room.

Will froze in the doorway, eyes immediately taking in the table, the candles, the scent of Hannibal’s cooking.

“I didn’t forget an anniversary, did I?” he asked, already smiling, loosening his scarf.

Hannibal’s smile was calm, but his eyes shimmered with unspoken excitement. “No anniversary,” he said softly. “Only a celebration.”

Will’s brow furrowed, curious, but he approached, pulling Hannibal into his arms and brushing a kiss to his cheek. “You’ve been up to something,” he said, amused.

“I’ve received some news today,” Hannibal murmured, fingers sliding over Will’s chest. “Something wonderful.”

Will leaned back slightly to look into his eyes. “What kind of news?”

Hannibal reached for his hand and gently placed it on his stomach. “We’re having a baby.”

For a moment, Will simply stared. Then his breath caught. “You—” His voice cracked, eyes wide and shimmering. “You’re—? Hannibal—!”

Before Hannibal could respond, Will kissed him hard, all heat and emotion and stunned joy. When they parted, Will was laughing softly, his hands cupping Hannibal’s face. “You’re brilliant. You’re stunning. I—God, I can’t believe it.”

“You’d best start believing it,” Hannibal said with a soft chuckle, heart swelling. “We’ll need to make adjustments. A nursery. Perhaps a more suitable wing of the house for the baby. I’ve already begun listing names—”

Will blinked at him, bemused. “You’ve already made a list?”

Hannibal lifted an elegant brow. “Of course. I’ve also begun designing their first wardrobe.”

Will laughed and hugged him again, holding him so tightly Hannibal felt it all the way to his bones. “You’re amazing,” Will whispered. “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

Hannibal only held him closer, feeling the warmth of his husband’s body and the new life blooming quietly within his own. For the first time, he allowed himself to imagine it all: Will with a baby in his arms, laughter echoing through the halls of their home, tiny footsteps on the polished floors of their beautiful Baltimore home.

It would be a new chapter. And Hannibal had never been more ready.

---

Tobias was livid.

He stalked through the narrow alley behind his music shop, boots echoing against the damp bricks, fury simmering just beneath his skin. His hands—so skilled, so careful when crafting gut strings or adjusting a cello’s bridge—twitched with restrained rage.

Hannibal Lecter.
He had truly thought he’d found an equal.

A man with refined tastes, brutal artistry, and a mind sharp enough to slice through the pleasantries of society with elegance. Tobias had watched him for months. The meticulous nature. The cadence of his voice. The subtle smugness behind his curated charm.

Yes, Tobias had admired him. Envied him. Wanted him—not carnally, no, but as one wants a matching blade to complete a pair.

But Hannibal didn’t want that. He didn’t want Tobias as a peer. As a friend.

No, Hannibal had invited him to dinner only to announce—with a fucking soufflé on the table—that he was going to kill him.

Tobias had smiled through it, kept his composure, but his thoughts had turned black.

Hannibal Lecter believed he was the apex. Untouchable. That just because he could kill with a flourish and a linen napkin folded just so, that made him superior.

Tobias laughed bitterly, stopping to lean against the bricks, heart still pounding.

Well… Hannibal Lecter had weaknesses.

The daughters.

He’d seen them walking home from school. Smiling. Confident. One was sharper—Mischa, probably. The name floated in the gossip circles of Baltimore’s elite. The other, younger—Abigail.

He hadn’t followed too closely. Just enough to send a message. A taste. A whisper.

And Hannibal had taken the bait.

Good.

He didn’t want to hurt them, necessarily. Tobias wasn’t a monster. But this wasn’t about morality. This was about proving a point:
If you reject an equal, you declare war. And war exposes every crack in the armor.

He found it fascinating—how Lecter maintained this perfect duality. The surgeon, the therapist, the man who hosted dinner parties for senators and string quartets… and the killer. He lived two lives flawlessly stitched together.

And what really intrigued Tobias now was the question: Who was Lecter’s alpha?

Baltimore society gossiped. They always did. But no one had ever seen him—only whispers, traces. A name: Will Graham.

That couldn’t be right. That FBI profiler? That wild-eyed, twitchy creature with bad posture and bloodhound instincts?

No.

That man belonged in mud and wire cages, not silk sheets and chandeliers. Hannibal Lecter deserved a prince. Someone worthy.

But the more he thought about it, the more curious he became. Maybe this Will Graham wasn’t what he seemed.

Maybe Tobias had underestimated him. Maybe… he was part of the art.

One way or another, Tobias was going to find out.

---

The late afternoon sun had already dipped low, casting long shadows across the quiet, upscale Baltimore street as Mischa and Abigail walked home from school. The neighborhood was peaceful—quiet in that deceivingly perfect way that made you forget monsters ever existed.

Mischa didn’t forget.

She had been glancing over her shoulder for the last two blocks, tension humming in her shoulders. Abigail noticed it too, falling silent, eyes flicking in the same direction.

That’s when they heard it—just the faintest scuff of footsteps too deliberate to be accidental.

“Mischa?” Abigail whispered, edging closer to her older sister.

“I know,” Mischa muttered, grabbing Abigail’s arm and quickening her pace.

They rounded the next block and came face to face with him.

Tobias Budge.

He stood relaxed in the middle of the sidewalk, arms behind his back, expression mild—like he’d merely bumped into them by chance. But the gleam in his eyes gave it away. He wasn’t here by accident. He had chosen this moment, this street, this quiet stretch of time.

“Well, hello there,” he said with a smirk, gaze flicking between the girls like they were specimens on a workbench. “You must be Hannibal’s daughters. I’ve heard so much.”

Abigail stiffened. Mischa stepped in front of her, instinctual and furious.

“You should leave,” she said coldly, voice steady despite the pounding in her chest.

Tobias chuckled. “Your father has excellent taste. Beautiful girls. So full of potential.”

His words were casual, but the weight behind them sent ice down Abigail’s spine. Mischa squared her shoulders.

“I said leave.”

But he didn’t. He moved—quick and deliberate.

Mischa shoved Abigail backward, just as Tobias lunged. She met him head-on, all muscle and instinct, thanks to years of their Motina’s training. She ducked, slammed her knee into his thigh, twisted to avoid the grip that reached for her throat. Abigail screamed her name.

Tobias was fast. Not just a predator—he was a practiced one. But Mischa was Hannibal Lecter’s daughter. She knew how to fight dirty. She bit, kicked, twisted, raked her nails across his face. Blood bloomed along his jaw, and he laughed—actually laughed—like he was enjoying it.

It wasn’t a real fight. Mischa realized it then.

He wasn’t trying to kill them.

He was toying with them.

A warning.

A message.

Just as he got a grip on Mischa’s shoulder, she drove her elbow into his ribs and screamed, “Run!”

Abigail didn’t hesitate. She bolted. Mischa twisted out of Tobias’s grip and followed, ignoring the searing pain in her side and the blood dripping from her nose.

They didn’t stop running until the front door slammed behind them.

Their safe, beautiful home.

Mischa locked the door, double-checked it, and leaned against it, panting. Abigail stood in the foyer, shaking, her schoolbag half-fallen from her shoulder.

“You okay?” Mischa asked.

Abigail nodded too quickly.

Mischa pulled her into a hug anyway.

After a beat, they stumbled to the downstairs bathroom. Mischa cleaned Abigail’s scratch first—gently, like Hannibal would. Then she sat on the counter and winced as she tilted her head to pinch the bridge of her nose. Her shirt was torn at the shoulder. Blood spattered her sweater.

“He was playing with us,” she said flatly.

Abigail met her gaze. “What?”

“He could’ve done worse. But he didn’t. That wasn’t the point. He wanted us to know he could.” Her fists clenched. “He wanted to scare us. Scare Motina.”

They fell silent as Mischa dabbed at her own blood, eyes distant.

“He’s starting a game,” she muttered. “He’s provoking Motina. Testing the limits.”

Abigail looked terrified. “What’s he going to do next?”

Mischa didn’t answer immediately. She stared at her reflection—bloodied, bruised, but burning with fury. She touched her cheek where his hand had grazed it.

“He’ll wish he never started this.”

She looked at Abigail in the mirror, jaw tight.

“Motina’s going to be furious.”

The sharp tang of blood met Hannibal the moment he stepped through the front door.

It was faint—barely there—but to someone like him, it was a beacon. His entire body went rigid, the predator in him sharpening like a blade. He dropped his coat and swept through the house, heading straight for the source, a coiled storm behind his eyes.

He found them in the bathroom.

Mischa was seated on the edge of the counter, pressing a damp towel to her bloodied nose. Abigail stood beside her, holding antiseptic and wearing a shallow scratch along her cheek. They both froze when they saw him.

For one heartbeat, everything inside Hannibal went still. Then came the fire.

He was beside them in an instant, voice deceptively calm, movements precise as he took over the care. “What happened?” 

Neither answered immediately.

He stepped forward, eyes scanning, hands already lifting Mischa’s chin gently to inspect the damage. Mischa resisted for a second—ever stubborn—but relented. Hannibal gently tilted her chin, inspecting the bruising around her nose. “Not broken,” he murmured, “but painful.”

“Did you fall? Was it a fight?” His gaze flicked to Abigail. “Tell me.”

Mischa flinched a little—less from the touch than from his tone. “We’re okay. It’s nothing—”

“It’s not nothing.” He looked between them, narrowing in on the subtle stiffness in Mischa’s posture, the way Abigail’s hands trembled despite her attempt at calm. “Who?”

Abigail finally spoke. “Tobias.”

Hannibal’s hands paused. His gaze flicked from one daughter to the other, a slow, seething fury beginning to bloom in his chest. Tobias. That arrogant, self-important man-child had dared touch what was his.

“He didn’t go all in,” Mischa muttered. “It was like… he was testing us. Or sending a message.”

“He wanted to be seen,” Abigail added quietly. “Let us know he could’ve done more.”

Hannibal closed his eyes briefly, pressing down on the white-hot rage rising in his chest.

He wanted me to know. He wanted me to see how easily he could have taken them from me. How close he got. How clever he thinks he is.

He took a breath. Inhaled the scent of blood and lavender soap and the scent of his daughters, alive and whole. Then exhaled, slow and deliberate.

He cleaned Mischa’s nose, dabbed the scratch on Abigail’s face, silent but efficient. Gentle, even. His hands never shook. But behind his composure, the Ripper was boiling.

This was a statement. Tobias had touched what was his, and he wanted Hannibal to feel it. It was provocation. An invitation to a game.

“You both were brave,” he said, folding Mischa into a careful embrace despite her protests. “And very foolish.”

“We didn’t exactly invite him,” Mischa muttered into his shoulder.

“No,” Hannibal agreed. “But next time, run faster.”

Later, when the girls were resting, tucked into their rooms with subtle reassurances and comfort, Hannibal sat in his study. Alone in the dark, the fire low. One hand rested on the curve of his stomach, protectively. The other tapped slowly on the arm of his chair.

Tobias Budge.

The man wanted attention. A performance. He didn’t crave intimacy or connection—he craved recognition. He was trying to elevate himself to Hannibal’s level. Touching his daughters was an attempt at stagecraft, a sick overture in this warped duet he hoped to play.

He wanted Hannibal enraged, unbalanced. But Hannibal wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.  Hannibal didn’t dance on command.

Still… there were more elegant options than retaliation. More interesting ones.

Will.

He would send his alpha after Tobias. Not because he was incapable of handling the man himself—but because it would insult Tobias more than anything else. To be hunted not by the man he sought as an equal, but by Hannibal’s husband. A statement: you are not worth my time.

Will was already on edge—simmering with jealousy over a child that he thought wasn’t his, confused by his own instincts, desperate to understand what he couldn’t remember.

Will wouldn’t understand the full game, not yet. But he would feel the pull, the instincts. Hannibal looked forward to seeing the jealousy simmering in his eyes when Tobias was mentioned. The longing when the girls were brought up. Will didn’t remember—but he felt it. The bond tugged at him, louder each day.

Let Tobias rage. Let him burn.

And now, Hannibal had a chance to test something else: if Will, even in his amnesiac haze, would rise like a true alpha to protect what was his. What he still felt was his, even without memory.

Hannibal would reclaim his family, and Tobias would learn what happened to those foolish enough to play games with Hannibal Lecter’s blood.

---

The clock ticked past midnight, its soft metronome lost beneath the rustling of paper and the quiet hum of Will’s laptop. His desk was a chaotic spread of case files, photographs, behavioral notes, and gruesome crime scene reports—all painted with the Ripper’s touch. Blood like brush strokes. Precision like art.

Will Graham was obsessed.

He didn’t even try to deny it anymore. There was something beautiful about the Ripper’s work—something horrifying and elegant. He knew he should be disturbed, and part of him was. But a deeper, darker part of him understood it. Revered it. Wanted to crawl inside the mind that could create such a legacy.

Jack was thrilled. Will had never made this kind of progress before. His reports were detailed. His profile was tightening like a noose. Motive: refinement. Victims: rude, cruel, corrupt. Signature: surgical precision, artistic staging. It wasn’t rage—it was curation. A moral code, twisted and terrifying.

Will leaned back, rubbed his eyes, and stared at the ceiling.

The Ripper had to be someone brilliant. Educated. Controlled. Charismatic. Someone people wouldn’t suspect—respected in society. A doctor, maybe. Or someone adjacent to medicine. Articulate. Deeply private. Hidden in plain sight.

Hannibal…

The name slipped through his mind like smoke, as it had before. He shook it off. Hannibal Lecter was a psychiatrist—sure, but not just any. He was refined. Cultured. Elegant. A good man. A good doctor. He’d helped Will through his copycat breakdowns. Sat through every painful session. So why did the profile feel like it fit him too well?

Will growled low in his throat and slammed the file shut.

He had a meeting with Hannibal in a few hours anyway. He’d push it from his mind.

But it didn’t leave.

Hannibal’s office was silent, as always. The light filtered in golden through the tall windows, brushing across the antique furnishings and bookshelves like reverent fingers. The fire crackled softly, and the clock ticked in measured patience.

Will sat in the familiar chair across from him, legs stretched slightly, fingers tapping against his thigh. He looked tired. Wired. The way he always did when a case had its claws in him.

Hannibal could see it: the way Will’s shoulders were tighter than usual, the flicker in his eyes—restlessness, frustration, and beneath it… a heat. Obsession.

Will spoke first. “There was another murder. Same as before—gut strings. Jack’s calling him the String Killer now. Says he might be escalating.”

Hannibal nodded slowly, his voice low and precise. “Yes. I’ve heard.”

Will narrowed his eyes slightly. “I’m starting to build a profile. The killer is meticulous. Ritualistic. But angry. This isn’t the Ripper—it lacks the elegance, the control.”

“No,” Hannibal agreed. “This one is messier. Cruder in his execution, though he strives for sophistication.”

There was a pause. Hannibal considered his next words carefully, like moving a pawn into place, “Have you looked into Tobias Budge?”

Will blinked. “Why?”

“I had a patient,” Hannibal said casually, leaning back, one hand resting over his belly. “He speaks of a friend often. Obsessively. He owns a music shop. Repairs classical instruments. An artisan of sorts.”

Will tilted his head. “That would explain the strings. Animal gut. Traditional. Not synthetic.”

“I found his fixation… peculiar,” Hannibal went on. “And recently… troubling. He spoke of Budge possibly committing a violent act. Something to do with a music store owner. It may be worth investigating.”

Will frowned. “Why didn’t you mention this sooner?”

“I wanted to be certain,” Hannibal said smoothly. “You know I’m hesitant to condemn a man without evidence and of course patient client privacy which, I am breaking by telling you this.”

Will looked down at his notebook, scribbled something. His brow furrowed. “Do you think Budge is watching people?”

“Yes.” Hannibal’s voice went colder, softer. “It’s crossed my mind that his interest may not be limited to victims. That he might be… testing boundaries.”

Will looked up. “Boundaries?”

Hannibal met his gaze evenly. “I believe he’s watching my daughters.”

The words landed like a gunshot.

Will didn't even try to hide his reaction. The thought of anyone following Hannibal’s daughters made his stomach twist. Mischa and Abigail. They were part of that perfect world Hannibal had built. Untouchable.

No, Will thought bitterly. They’re not untouchable anymore. Because Tobias is circling. Because someone dares to come close. Because someone dares to threaten them.

Will didn’t understand the fury that flared in him. The jealousy. The protectiveness. He was no one to Hannibal. Just a patient. Just a profiler. Just a man obsessing over murders.

But the idea of Tobias watching Hannibal’s family—of threatening the calm, beautiful domesticity that Hannibal rarely spoke of but clearly adored—it made something snap in him. He clenched his fist.

Will stood up sharply, pacing. “Why the hell didn’t you start with that?”

“I wanted to see how you would react.”

Will turned to him, breath shallow, heart pounding. “You think he’s dangerous, you think he’s following your family, and you just—waited?”

Hannibal didn’t flinch. “You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m angry!” Will snapped. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

There was a long pause. Hannibal stood, moving closer. “Your instincts remain intact. Even now, you want to protect them.”

Will opened his mouth, then closed it.

Hannibal stepped closer. “He’s a threat. And I wanted to see… if you still knew that. Deep down. That you’d fight for them.”

Will was breathing harder now, pulse in his throat. Hannibal watched it hit: the instinct, the protectiveness, the territorial fury.

“I see now,” Hannibal murmured, eyes dark and full of something ancient and proud, “that you would.”

“I’ll find him,” Will said. His voice was low, edged with something primal.

Hannibal smiled softly to himself, folding his hands over his belly.

Good.

Let the game begin.

Tobias Budge had made a mistake. He had touched something sacred.

Will Graham would come for him.

Chapter 11: Remembering Everything

Will stood in the crisp morning air, boots crunching over frost-laced grass, but his thoughts were tangled far from the crime scene. The scent of old blood should have anchored him, should have commanded his attention. But his mind kept circling back to the conversation from earlier that day, Hannibal’s voice smooth and rich in his memory.

Tobias Budge. A musician, perhaps a craftsman. Someone who appreciates technique. Someone who watches.

Watches them.

Will clenched his jaw, hands flexing at his sides. Mischa and Abigail—he hadn’t realized how much he’d come to care. Or maybe he had. Maybe that was the problem. He shouldn’t care, shouldn’t feel so possessive, so furious at the thought of Tobias stalking them like prey. But he did. Every image of Tobias watching them sent hot anger flaring through his chest.

They weren’t his, not really. And yet… they felt like they were. Like Hannibal was. Or should be.

He didn’t understand it.

He wanted them. All of them. The girls, the baby. Hannibal.

And the worst part? The part that twisted deep in his chest like a knife—he didn’t even know why. He didn’t remember. But the connection, the bond, was undeniable. That house, that family—it felt like home in a way nothing else did.

His gaze drifted across the field, to the crime scene ahead. Another grotesque masterpiece left by the musical killer. Intestines turned to string. The body arranged like a grotesque sonata.

Will’s stomach churned—not with revulsion, but with the recognition of something intimate. A methodical, ritualistic artistry. And Tobias… it had to be him. It was personal now.

He would find him. And if Tobias was the killer—if he had truly laid a hand on Mischa or Abigail, even just as a warning—Will would make sure he never touched anyone again.

And Hannibal… if his suspicions were right… if Hannibal was the Ripper—

God help him, Will wasn’t afraid. He was enchanted.

An omega who could destroy and cradle in equal measure. Who raised children with gentleness and carved bodies with surgical grace. A creature of elegance, intellect, violence, and love.

Will exhaled sharply, dragging himself back to the present as Alana stepped up beside him.

“Another one,” she murmured, gesturing to the body with a clipboard in her hand. “Same as before. This guy’s getting bolder.”

Will nodded slowly, still watching the lifeless body. But in his mind’s eye, he saw Tobias’ face—and Hannibal’s. Heard Hannibal’s voice. Saw the glitter of calculation behind those warm amber eyes.

He would solve this case. He would find Tobias. He would protect Hannibals family. 

And if Hannibal was the Ripper?

Then Will wasn’t sure if he’d stop him… or help him.

“Will?” Alana asked, her voice sharpening, bringing Will back to the present. 

“Will, are you okay? You look pale.”

Will nodded slowly, distracted. The air shimmered in his peripheral vision. His heart thudded strangely—too loud in his ears.

Will blinked. “Yeah, I’m—”

The sound of the ringing in his ears. The lights—harsh, blinding. His knees buckled, and he hit the ground hard, the world spinning away from him in pulses of white heat and fire.

Someone was shouting.

Then silence.

He woke to white light and sterile air.

A hospital.

His skin was too hot. His limbs trembled. He was tethered to machines. The sound of a heart monitor ticked softly beside him.

Jack was there, looking more worried than Will had ever seen him.

“You scared the hell out of us,” Jack said. “They say it’s encephalitis. Autoimmune. It affects the brain—explains the seizures, the memory loss, everything. They think it started months ago.”

“It’s treatable,” he said gently. “They’ve started the medication. The swelling will recede with time. You’ll begin to feel clearer.”

---

The call came just after dusk, as Hannibal stood at the kitchen counter slicing peaches for dessert. The girls were in the living room, arguing softly over which movie to watch, their voices a comforting murmur behind him.

He answered the phone without checking the caller ID. “Dr. Lecter.”

Alana’s voice was clipped, tight. “Hannibal. It’s Will.”

Time stalled. The knife in his hand paused mid-slice.

“He had a seizure at a crime scene. He’s in the ICU now at Johns Hopkins.” A beat. “They ran tests. He has encephalitis. And... they think it’s been progressing for a while.”

The peach fell from his hand.

“How long?” Hannibal asked, voice calm but leaden.

“They think months. Possibly even before the accident. It’s... it’s likely what caused it in the first place.”

She said other things—doctor names, floor numbers—but Hannibal wasn’t listening.

By the time he hung up, his fingers were trembling. Mischa looked up from the couch. “Motina?”

“Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

“Motina—what’s wrong?”

He couldn’t lie. Not to her. “Your father is in the hospital.”

Abigail stood too, alarmed. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He left without finishing dessert, without a coat, the ache in his chest growing heavier with every step.

The drive to the hospital was a blur. Hannibal didn’t remember the roads, only the way the lights streaked past like tears down a windowpane.

He was a surgeon. A brilliant one. A man who could detect the smallest physiological tremor in a patient. How had he missed this? How had he failed to see that the man he loved—his mate—was dying by degrees in front of him?

Was it the distraction of pretending to be strangers? Of suppressing everything they were to protect their family? 

I should have seen it. I should have smelled it. The changes in Will’s scent had been subtle, masked by stress and adrenaline, but they were there.

And I ignored them.

Because I wanted to believe he was still strong. Still healing.

Because I wanted him to remember on his own.

At the hospital, Hannibal made it to the ICU in minutes. The nurse tried to stop him at the door, but a glance at his eyes made her falter. She stepped aside.

Will lay in the bed, pale and still, hooked to machines that beeped steadily into the sterile air.

Hannibal’s breath caught.

He approached slowly, kneeling at Will’s side. His hand found Will’s, rough and warm and still so familiar.

“I should have known,” he whispered. “I failed you.”

The monitor’s rhythm continued its calm, metronomic song. But Hannibal’s mind was chaos.

He could have died. And Hannibal—so capable of killing—was helpless to stop it.

He bowed his head over their joined hands.

“I won’t fail again.”

---

The kitchen was warm, filled with the steady, rhythmic sounds of chopping and simmering—yet it felt hollow, like the air itself was holding its breath. Hannibal moved with precision, hands working mechanically, the blade of his knife slicing through vegetables with silent efficiency. The kitchen was his sanctuary, his place of order and control. But tonight, everything felt out of place.

The news of Will’s seizure, of the encephalitis diagnosis, had left Hannibal reeling. He’d known something was wrong—of course he had—but to know and to see it manifest so violently, so chaotically, was another thing entirely. Will, his brilliant and maddeningly stubborn mate, was lost inside his own mind. And after everything—after months of carefully orchestrated sessions, cryptic clues, and deliberate nudges to bring Will back—Hannibal found himself terrified that it had all been for nothing.

The girls were quiet, subdued in a way that made Hannibal ache. He hadn't spoken much to them since the hospital call. Not about Will. Not about Tobias. Everything else had fallen away in the wake of that sterile hospital room, those flickering monitors, and the uncertainty that wrapped around Hannibal like cold iron bands.

A soft sound broke through the silence: bare feet padding across the tile. Abigail slid into the kitchen, small and quiet as a shadow, and climbed onto one of the counter stools.

She didn’t speak at first—just watched him. Hannibal didn’t look up, but he felt her gaze, steady and too old for her years.

“You’re chopping carrots like they insulted you,” she said finally, trying for humor.

It fell flat.

Hannibal set the knife down gently and exhaled. “That would imply they’re capable of offense. Unlike some people.”

Abigail hopped off the stool and crossed the distance between them. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around him, as best she could around his swollen middle. The bump of his pregnancy pressed gently into her chest, and Hannibal stood frozen for a breath, before folding his arms around her.

“Thank you, Abigail,” he murmured, voice low and full of emotion he didn’t have the words to shape.

The kitchen door creaked again. Mischa walked in, cheeks pink from the cold, Winston’s leash still looped around her wrist. She blinked at the sight of them and immediately smirked.

“Oh no. Not a feelings pile,” she deadpanned, tossing the leash onto a hook.

“Come join,” Abigail said, tightening her grip on Hannibal.

Mischa rolled her eyes. “Ugh, you’re both so sappy. I swear, I’m running away to live in the woods.”

But she stepped forward anyway and threw her arms around them both, her long limbs looping awkwardly around her Motina and sister.

They stood there for a moment—pressed together, breathing in the warmth of family, of safety, even amid the uncertainty.

Finally, Mischa pulled back, brushing hair from her face. “So… who’s for dinner tonight? I need to mentally prepare.”

That pulled a small laugh from Hannibal, who finally released a slow breath and reached for the knife again.

“Well,” he said, as he turned back to the cutting board, “she was rude, arrogant, and made the mistake of criticizing my soufflé technique. A fate worse than death, really.”

Mischa made a face. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Abigail grinned. “You know he’s not.”

The tension in the room lightened just a bit, the weight of the day easing as laughter and familiarity crept back in. The world was still uncertain. Will was still in that hospital bed. But for now, they had each other—and dinner to make.

---

Over the next few days, Will floated.

He drifted between sleep and sharp bursts of clarity. Hannibal and the girls visited, but he refused to see them. He couldn’t. Not yet.

He couldn’t bear to face the people who had once felt like home… not while still lost inside himself.

But the medicine worked.

Bit by bit, the fog began to lift.

On the sixth night, Will woke in the dark.

And everything fell into place.

He gasped.

His hands clutched the sheets.

Images poured into him, not like dreams—but like truth.

New Orleans.

The crime scene.

The elegant Omega who knelt beside a body with clinical precision, his amber eyes bright and full of secrets.

The moment their minds touched.

Will remembered.

He remembered knowing Hannibal was a killer—and falling for him anyway. Seeing his mind not as monstrous, but beautiful. Knowing Hannibal’s hunger, and choosing to love him in it.

He remembered the hotel. The first kiss. The claiming.

The Bond.

He remembered long nights in a dimly lit apartment, pressed close, scent marking their bond with desperate tenderness. The first time Hannibal went into heat and the slow, reverent way they mated. 

He remembered Baltimore. Hannibal had insisted on the grand mansion with the ridiculous crown molding and the 18th-century dining room. Will had mocked it—called it a museum with a mortgage—but he had carried Hannibal over the threshold, laughing.

“You’re insufferable,” Will had laughed, “but I’ll never win, so fine.”

“You say that now,” Hannibal had replied, smiling with wine-stained lips, “but wait until you see the library.”

He remembered Mischa’s birth. His hand on Hannibal’s back, his voice whispering you’re doing so well, my love, as Hannibal bore down and cried out and brought their first child into the world.

He remembered holding their daughter for the first time, overwhelmed by a love so fierce it made him ache.

He remembered midnight feedings. Laughter. The chaos of babyhood. Their shared exhaustion and joy.

He remembered Abigail’s quiet arrival years later, her tiny fingers gripping his, her laughter turning the house into a home.

He remembered the dinners.

The naps on the couch.

The way Hannibal looked at him—like he was everything.

And he remembered the bond.

Strong. Eternal. Burned into the soul of him.

Tears rolled down his cheeks as he pressed a hand to his chest.

“Oh God… I left them.”

Not by choice. But still.

He’d made Hannibal suffer in silence.

He’d broken his daughters’ hearts.

He had forgotten his own soul.

And they had waited. Patiently. Lovingly. Silently.

He looked at his hands, his arms, the IV in his skin. He didn’t belong here. Not in this sterile, quiet box of a hospital room.

He belonged home.

With them.

His body moved before his mind caught up. He yanked the IV from his arm, wincing as the sting of it bloomed red across his skin. The heart monitor screamed. A nurse appeared in the doorway just as he was shoving his legs into his pants.

“Mr. Graham—! You can’t just—!”

“I’m fine,” Will snapped, tugging on his shirt with trembling fingers. “I have to go. I’m checking out.”

“It’s the middle of the night!”

“I don’t care.”

He scribbled his signature across a clipboard, bleeding through the paper.

The Uber driver said nothing. Will appreciated that. He sat in the back, his knee bouncing as Baltimore passed outside the window in blur and shadow. His breath fogged the glass. He didn’t realize he was crying until a drop slid off his chin and hit his shirt.

The closer they got, the harder his chest ached.

He could see it now—Hannibal’s front porch, the curved lamps casting soft light on the drive. His home. The house he had once mocked and filled with laughter.

The driver pulled up to the curb. Will tipped too much and stumbled out onto the sidewalk.

There was a light on in the front room.

They know, he thought. They know I’m coming.

Of course they did. The hospital had probably called Hannibal the second he checked himself out. He imagined Hannibal answering the phone in the middle of the night, heart stopping. Waiting.

Will bolted up the drive, hospital wristband still flapping against his coat. But when he reached the door, his feet slowed.

He stood on the familiar stone step, staring at the mahogany door like it was the gate to heaven and hell all at once.

What if he doesn’t want me anymore? What if I’ve ruined it all?

What if—

The door opened.

Will’s heart seized.

Hannibal stood there in his robe, barefoot, his hair tousled from sleep. He blinked slowly, stunned, eyes locked on Will.

Will's breath hitched.

He drank him in like water in a desert. The curve of his cheek. The soft swell beneath his robe. The way his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. Still so beautiful. So his.

“You pulled your IV,” Hannibal said calmly, but his voice was hoarse.

Will opened his mouth, then fumbled for words. “I didn’t mean it—what I said. About your age. That wasn’t fair—I was angry and confused and scared and I was so jealous, and I thought some other alpha had touched you and it made me sick, and I didn’t even realize why—”

Hannibal cocked his head, confused, trying to follow the cascade of emotion.

“Will—”

“I remember.”

Silence.

“I remember everything,” Will choked out. “New Orleans. The case. You. Us. The girls. The house. Your hand in mine. The way you looked at me after Mischa was born. The way you sang to Abigail. All of it. I remember it all.”

Hannibal made a sound—something like a breath, or a broken sob—and Will couldn’t wait anymore.

He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Hannibal, burying his face in his neck.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I left you, I forgot you—” Will whispered, over and over. “You were everything, and I left, and I hurt you, and I didn’t know—but I do now, I remember, I swear I remember—”

Hannibal didn’t speak.

He just clutched Will tighter, burying his fingers in the back of Will’s shirt, holding him like something precious finally returned.

“Will,” he whispered. Just that. His name. The way he used to say it.

Their scents mingled in the space between them—cedar and clove, rain and sage, bond and belonging.

Will pressed his face against Hannibal’s skin, breathing him in. “You’re warm,” he whispered. “You always smell like home.”

“You always come back to me,” Hannibal murmured.

Will nodded against him. “Always.”

They stood there for a long time, wrapped in each other, the rest of the world falling away.

Hannibal pressed his forehead to Will’s shoulder. “You came back.”

“I’ll never leave again,” Will said, voice fierce and raw. “I swear it. I swear it.”

The house was dark and still.

Will and Hannibal stood at the foot of the stairs, neither speaking. The silence between them was no longer filled with tension, but with gravity. Everything that had once fractured was slowly knitting itself back together, heartbeat by heartbeat.

Hannibal turned his face slightly toward Will. “Come upstairs.”

Will nodded. Followed.

He hadn’t set foot in their bedroom since before the accident.

The moment he stepped inside, he felt it—his scent and Hannibal’s still clung faintly to the space. This was not just a room. It was theirs. The bed still had the same gray-blue linen sheets Hannibal favored. The books on the nightstand—Will’s glasses, tucked beside an old edition of The Iliad—still rested exactly where he'd left them.

He swallowed hard.

Hannibal moved to the wardrobe and pulled out a towel and one of Will’s older shirts. “Shower first,” he said gently. “You smell like hospital disinfectant and remorse.”

Will huffed a laugh through his nose, too full of feeling to argue. “Yes, Motina.”

He didn’t miss the slight blush that touched Hannibal’s cheeks at the old nickname.

He showered quickly, letting the water wash away hospital residue, sweat, and pain. When he stepped out, a soft towel and one of Hannibal’s robes were waiting on the counter.

When he emerged, Hannibal was seated on the edge of the bed with a small first aid kit in his lap.

“Sit,” he said.

Will did.

“You tore the IV out like a feral creature,” Hannibal murmured, undoing a roll of gauze. “Let me see.”

Silence wrapped around them as Hannibal carefully took Will’s wrist and began cleaning the raw spot from the IV rip. His touch was steady, clinical, but his fingers trembled just slightly.

“You don’t have to do this,” Will murmured.

“I do,” Hannibal replied, taping a clean bandage down. “It’s mine to fix.”

When he finished, Will looked at him.

Hannibal looked exhausted. His robe was loose, his hair damp around the edges, his belly prominent as he settled back against the pillows.

Will swallowed hard and crawled in beside him.

Without hesitation, he wrapped himself around Hannibal—one arm draped over his waist, one leg tangled between Hannibal’s. His hand slid instinctively to the gentle swell of Hannibal’s stomach, resting there like it had never left.

Hannibal let out a slow breath and buried his face into Will’s chest, curling close.

Will pressed his forehead to Hannibal’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“You’ve already said it, love.”

“I’ll keep saying it. I’m so sorry,” Will whispered again. “For everything. For being rude. For leaving. For not seeing it.”

“It’s fine,” Hannibal murmured, voice muffled by Will’s skin.

“It’s not fine. I was rude and paranoid and jealous and mean, and you should’ve just killed and eaten me.”

Hannibal snorted, trying to hold in a laugh—but it escaped anyway, soft and genuine.

Will smiled into his shoulder. “I mean it. I deserved to be slow-cooked and served with quince reduction.”

“You always preferred wine-braised,” Hannibal replied, dry as ever.

Will huffed a laugh and kissed the nape of Hannibal’s neck.

“The baby doesn’t like rude men anyway,” Hannibal added, pouting faintly. “You would have offended their delicate prenatal sensibilities.”

Will’s smile faded a little, and his hand slipped over Hannibal’s belly, resting carefully over the soft swell of new life.

“My baby,” he whispered.

"Ours."

He could feel the faint tension in Hannibal’s body—the subconscious protection, the instinct to shield.

Will’s fingers spread. “I should have been here.”

“You are here,” Hannibal said, his voice tight with emotion.

Will nodded, pressing a kiss to the back of his mate’s head. “I can’t believe I’m the one who gets this. Who got you. Who gave you children. I keep thinking I’ll wake up and—”

“No.” Hannibal’s voice turned firm, gentle and final. “You came home. That is real.”

Will buried his face into the curve of Hannibal’s shoulder, breathing him in. “I love you.”

“I never stopped.”

They fell asleep like that, tangled together in the center of their shared world.

The weight of the past had not vanished.

But in the stillness of that night, with Will’s hand over Hannibal’s belly and Hannibal’s body curled against his alpha, it no longer mattered.

They were whole.

---

Morning light filtered gently through the curtains, casting golden rays across the bedspread.

Will stirred first.

For a moment, he didn’t move. He simply lay there, warm beneath the covers, Hannibal’s body pressed against his chest, a steady heartbeat beneath Will’s hand where it rested over the curve of his belly. The air smelled like home—linen, lavender, and Hannibal’s skin.

He smiled.

It was real.

He was home.

A soft creak came from the hallway.

Will turned his head, blinking through the light—and there she was.

Abigail stood in the doorway, wearing one of Will’s old T-shirts as a nightgown, her hair tangled from sleep.

She froze when she saw them, her eyes going wide, a bright smile blooming across her face like sunrise.

“Dad!”

She shrieked and launched forward with all the energy an eight-year-old could muster at dawn.

Will barely had time to brace himself before she scrambled onto the bed, arms flinging around his neck. She clung to him like a koala, laughing, pressing her face into his shoulder.

Will choked on a laugh, squeezing her back. “Hey, little fox.”

Her joy echoed off the walls. “You’re home! You’re really home!”

The commotion was enough to summon Mischa—who appeared moments later, bleary-eyed and grumbling.

“What is even—” she began, rubbing her eyes as she shuffled into the room. Then she saw him.

Will. Lying in bed, with Abigail wrapped around him, Hannibal still nestled against his side.

Mischa blinked once.

Then twice.

Then—like the child she rarely let herself be anymore—she rushed forward and threw herself across the bed.

She hit Will like a second wave, her arms winding tightly around him, face pressed into his shoulder.

“Dad,” she whispered, trying and failing to hide the waver in her voice. “You jerk. You absolute jerk.”

Will laughed, kissing the top of her head. “You’re not wrong.”

Abigail giggled. “You’re crushing him.”

“Good,” Mischa muttered. “He deserves it.”

Will chuckled and pulled both girls closer. “What, no forgiveness? Not even for the newly resurrected?”

Mischa huffed. “I’m still mad at you.”

Will kissed her hair. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Hannibal stirred with a quiet sigh, blinking open his eyes to find himself wrapped in Graham arms, the girls pressed around them like puppies.

A slow, sleepy smile crossed his face.

“Looks like I missed something.”

“You missed your husband being ambushed,” Will murmured. “And now crushed under the weight of all your dramatic offspring.”

“Mischa started it,” Abigail said sweetly.

Mischa elbowed her.

And Hannibal—still sleepy let his head fall back onto Will’s shoulder with a contented sigh.

Eventually, the hunger won out.

The kitchen was alive with the hum of morning: pans clinking, knives tapping against cutting boards, the scent of coffee and warm butter wafting through the air. Hannibal moved through the space like a conductor, orchestrating the chaos with quiet efficiency, while Will stood at the stove—awkwardly flipping pancakes under the strict supervision of their eldest daughter.

“You’re burning the edges,” Mischa announced flatly, arms crossed, brow raised in theatrical disapproval.

Will glanced over his shoulder at her, smirking. “It’s called a crisp edge. Texture.”

“It’s called distracted flipping,” she replied, nudging him aside. “Here, I’ll show you.”

He laughed, letting her take the spatula. “You’ve always been bossy, you know that?”

“Only because I learned from the best,” she said, not unkindly, casting a glance toward Hannibal, who was elegantly slicing fruit nearby, pretending not to hear.

Abigail was seated at the counter, swinging her legs and watching the interaction like it was prime entertainment.

Mischa pointed the spatula at Will. “You’re not off the hook just because you remembered how to make mediocre pancakes. I have questions.”

Will raised an eyebrow, playfully bracing himself. “Interrogation time already?”

“Absolutely. If you’re really back, you’ll remember everything.”

“Everything, huh?” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. “Alright, bring it on.”

Mischa studied him. “Okay, then, what happened the day I was born?”

Will’s smile softened. He turned toward her, leaning on the counter, voice warm with nostalgia. “Oh, that was... chaotic. Beautiful chaos, but chaos.”

Hannibal raised a brow. “I already regret this.”

Will chuckled. “Your motina was in labor for thirty-six hours. Thirty-six. You were apparently very committed to the scenic route.”

Hannibal let out a soft groan from the other side of the stove.

“When we got to the hospital, Hannibal refused the standard bed because the lighting was ‘appalling.’ We got moved to a private suite.”

Will grinned. “Your Motina screamed so many insults in four languages I think I permanently forgot basic French grammar.”

Hannibal, at the stove, flushed red. “Will.”

“It’s true!” Will said. “You yelled at the anesthesiologist in Italian.”

“He was rude,” Hannibal said, not at all sorry.

“You also swore at the nurse, the doctor, me—you told me I did this to you and then said I owed you a ten-year anniversary croquembouche.”

Mischa burst out laughing.

Abigail looked delighted. “What’s a croc-a-bush?”

“It’s a pretentious tower of cream puffs,” Will said. “Which, yes, I made.”

“And you cried when it collapsed in the kitchen,” Hannibal added, cheeks still pink.

“I had emotions!” Will protested.

Mischa was giggling now. “Oh my God.”

“I was magnificent,” Hannibal sniffed, slicing a starfruit with flair. “And I maintain that fluorescent lighting during birth is a crime.”

“And then,” Will continued, “when you were born, they handed you to me, and I thought I was going to drop you from shaking so hard. You wrapped your tiny fingers around mine and just stared up at me. Hannibal, tears in his eyes—first time I’d seen him cry that wasn’t murder-related—said, ‘She is perfect. Obviously mine.’”

Mischa flushed with pleased embarrassment, trying to hide it by grabbing a fork and flipping a pancake. “Okay, that one you got right.”

“Obviously,” Will said with a wink.

Mischa was still grinning. “Okay. One point to Dad.”

Will leaned on the counter. “Want to hear your first word?”

Abigail’s eyes sparkled. “Yes!”

Will pointed. “Yours was ‘book.’ You wouldn’t stop throwing them at me.”

Abigail nodded smugly. “Confirmed.”

Will turned to Mischa. “And yours? ‘No.’ You used it for everything. I asked if you wanted milk—you said no and drank it anyway.”

Mischa sniffed. “Fine. What’s my favorite ice cream?”

“You switch. Last I checked, it was pistachio gelato… but only the kind from that overpriced little shop near the symphony hall, because ‘store-bought is for peasants.’” He made air quotes.

“Okay, he’s definitely back,” Abigail said, laughing.

Mischa wasn’t done.

“Alright, what secret did we attempt to keep from Motina when I was ten and Abby was four?”

Will smirked, eyes dancing with mischief. “Easy. Happy Meals. Abigail was obsessed with the chicken nuggets.”

Abigail clapped her hands. “Still the best nuggets I’ve ever had.”

Will turned to Hannibal with faux innocence. “You remember that conference? You came home early and caught us red-handed. Abigail tried to hide the Happy Meal box under the table.”

“And you interrogated us like we were under federal investigation,” Mischa added with a laugh.

“Because I was betrayed,” Hannibal said with flair, flipping his knife onto the cutting board. “By all of you.”

“You made ‘nuggets’ the next night,” Will teased. “But I still don’t know what they were.”

“They were superior,” Hannibal said, smug again. “You all devoured them.”

Abigail tilted her head. “Wait. Those weren’t—?”

“Don’t ask,” Will interrupted quickly, pointing his spatula like a weapon. “Do not ask.”

They all burst out laughing, the kitchen echoing with the kind of laughter only a family could create. Hannibal pretended to pout, but the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him. Mischa leaned over and stole a strawberry from the fruit plate.

Will turned to Mischa, finally serious. “I remember all of it, Misch. All the late-night feedings. The tooth fairy letters I wrote in glitter pen. Teaching you to ride your bike. You and Abby building pillow forts in my office and yelling at each other over crayon colors. The time we went to the aquarium and you cried because you thought the octopus looked lonely.”

Mischa’s eyes glistened for just a moment. Then she looked away and muttered, “Still do look lonely.”

Will stepped forward and gently tapped her on the head with the spatula she’d used to criticize him. “You don’t have to test me. But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She scowled, half-hearted. “You better not be.”

Hannibal set the fruit plate down with a quiet, pleased sigh, eyes soft as he looked at the three of them. “I believe the verdict is in.”

“Yeah,” Mischa said, stealing a slice of orange. “He’s back. Still a mediocre cook. But back and let’s be honest—you’re only still allowed in the kitchen because Motina thinks you’re pretty...”

Will raised a brow. “Hannibal, control your daughter.”

“She’s not wrong,” Hannibal replied, sipping his tea. “Your technique is uneven. But you’re terribly pretty.”

Will smiled as Abigail wrapped her arms around his waist and Mischa—grudgingly—leaned her head against his shoulder.

As the family sat, eating and teasing and laughing, Will found himself staring again.

Not at the food. Not at the walls.

At them.

His daughters. His mate. The life they’d built.

And how it had waited for him.

They spent the rest of the day curled on the couch.

Will sat in the center with Hannibal nestled into his side, wrapped in a blanket, his head tucked beneath Will’s chin. Abigail and Mischa flanked them, curled close, a mess of limbs and warmth.

They talked for hours—about everything and nothing. About school, and food, and the absurdity of baby carrots. Hannibal sat curled on the couch, one hand resting on his swollen belly, while Will sprawled beside him with his legs stretched out and his head tilted toward his husband, eyes warm and lazy in the golden spill of lamplight.

“So,” Mischa said innocently, shifting where she was tucked against Will’s legs, “are you prepared to return to your rightful place as Motina’s snack-fetching, midnight-craving, no-questions-asked servant?”

Will raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t act like you didn’t live for it,” Abigail chimed in. “But we’re just so glad you’re back. You have no idea what you left us with while you were off being memoryless and mysterious.”

“We suffered,” Mischa added with dramatic flair. “The long grocery hauls, the weirdest food combos known to man—”

“Don’t forget the murder sprees,” Abigail said cheerfully. “He gets food cravings and the urge to kill rude people. It was like living in a Michelin-starred horror movie.”

Will’s eyes twinkled. “Really? That bad?”

“Oh, it was a journey,” Mischa nodded. “We spent hours in the grocery store with the world’s most deranged list. He has been nesting. And hormonal. And keeps muttering about pâté and pickled herring and how the butcher looked at him funny.”

Hannibal let out a quiet sigh, “Don’t exaggerate.”

Mischa snorted. “Don’t exaggerate? You made a pie with pickled beets, goat cheese, and banana slices.”

Will blinked. “What?”

“And a lasagna with duck confit, lavender, and truffle oil,” Abigail added helpfully.

“And marinated anchovies in a brandy glaze,” Mischa said, deadpan.

Hannibal huffed. “It was a perfectly reasonable flavor profile.”

“It was atrocious,” Abigail countered. “And then there was the balsamic-liver ice cream incident—”

“That was experimental,” Hannibal said with icy dignity.

“You forced us all to taste it,” Mischa reminded him.

“You said you wanted to be included in the pregnancy journey,” Hannibal shot back.

“I didn’t mean as a culinary sacrifice,” Mischa muttered, rubbing a phantom taste off her tongue.

Mischa leaned in conspiratorially. “If he gets bad again, help us sneak McDonald’s?”

Will placed a hand solemnly over his heart. “Happy meals for all.”

There was a sharp smack to Will’s arm.

Hannibal didn’t even lift his head—he just muttered something foul in crisp Lithuanian, the tone dry and acerbic.

Will grinned, rubbing his bicep. “Was that a threat or a recipe?”

“A promise,” Hannibal said coldly, though his eyes were glinting with amusement.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Will said.

“I most certainly would,” Hannibal replied primly. “I will not have my daughters eating plastic chicken nuggets while I am with child.”

Abigail and Mischa burst into laughter.

Will pulled Hannibal closer. “You love us,” he murmured.

“I tolerate you all with frightening devotion,” Hannibal said flatly. “Which is perhaps my gravest flaw.”

Will was outright cackling now, his hand stroking lazily over Hannibal’s arm. “This is incredible. I’ve missed so much.”

“You missed us suffering in silence,” Mischa added dramatically.

“Silence?” Hannibal snapped. “You both complained constantly.”

“She was trying to save our palates,” Abigail said solemnly.

“I am pregnant!” Hannibal declared, wounded. “I am a genius. A chef. A doctor. If I want sardines on cake, I’ve earned the right.”

“Whatever,” Mischa said rolling her eyes, “dad's back now. He can take back kitchen duty and keep Motina from spiraling again.”

Will grinned. “I don’t know if I can stop him. You know how he gets.”

“Oh, we do,” both girls said in unison.

There was a beat of silence before Mischa leaned back and added thoughtfully, “Not that it matters. You’ll cave like always. You’re so whipped.”

Will looked vaguely affronted. “I am not.”

“You are,” Abigail said with a laugh. “Remember the the one time he wanted fried liver with cherries at midnight? You drove two hours to find organic cherries.”

Will opened his mouth, then closed it.

Mischa pointed at him triumphantly. “See?”

Will sighed. “Fine. I’m whipped. But to be fair, your Motina is very persuasive.”

Hannibal arching a brow with a smirk. “Persuasive?”

Will met his eyes with a smirk of his own. “Terrifying.”

Mischa nudged her father with her foot. “Get ready, Abs. It’s about to start again. The weird cravings. The obsessive shopping trips. The murder sprees. Dad’ll just sigh and put on his boots and follow along like a good little alpha.”

Will gave a scowl. “I’m not that helpless.”

“You love it,” Abigail said sweetly.

Will didn’t argue.

“They’re not wrong,” Hannibal said softly, eyes glinting with affection. “You do spoil me.”

Will kissed the top of his head. “You’re worth spoiling.”

Mischa groaned dramatically. “Ugh, gross. Domestic murderers.”

Abigail sighed. “They’re the worst.”

Later, Abigail and Mischa were upstairs, absorbed in something involving glue, glitter, and an increasingly dramatic debate over color palettes.

Will and Hannibal lay together on the couch beneath a soft wool blanket, sunlight streaming in over the hardwood. A half-drunk mug of tea sat forgotten on the coffee table.

Since being back Will couldn’t stop touching him.

Not frantically, not in hunger—but gently. His fingers traced circles over Hannibal’s belly, feeling the curve of it, the rise and fall with every breath. There was something grounding in it. Sacred.

Hannibal didn’t speak for a long while, but his hand had found Will’s and held it there, fingers laced tightly together.

“I’ve missed a lot,” Will finally murmured, voice low.

Hannibal’s breath hitched just slightly. “Yes.”

“I don’t want to guess anymore.” He turned, meeting Hannibal’s gaze. “Tell me. About the baby. About what I missed. Please.”

Hannibal studied him for a moment, then nodded.

“I found out at the end of July,” he said. “A week before the accident.”

Will’s heart twisted.

“I didn’t even know.”

“You were going to. I made dinner. There were candles. ”

Will’s thumb rubbed over his palm. “Then I crashed.”

“You crashed,” Hannibal echoed, voice hollow.

“You thought you lost me.”

“I nearly did.”

Will’s eyes closed. “I’m sorry.”

“I forgave you the second you forgot me.”

Will’s throat burned. He leaned down and kissed Hannibal’s temple. “Tell me everything. The symptoms. The girls’ reactions. I want all of it.”

Hannibal gave him a quiet look, but something in it cracked—just a little.

“Fatigue hit hard in the first trimester,” he said softly. “I could barely stand some mornings. Mischa took over breakfasts. Abigail guarded me like a wolf pup. They knew something was wrong, even before I said the words.”

Will swallowed. “You didn’t hide it from them.”

“No,” Hannibal said. “They were already mourning you. They needed something to hold onto.”

Will nodded slowly.

“The morning sickness was... unpleasant,” Hannibal continued. “So was the loneliness.”

Will pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to hold your hair back and give overly detailed lectures on the biochemistry of vomiting.”

Hannibal huffed a quiet laugh.

“I hate that I wasn’t here.”

“You’re here now.”

“I want to be here for everything. The kicks. The weird cravings. The late-night foot rubs. I’ll get the nursery ready. I’ll paint. I’ll fix the creaky stair. I’ll take every case Jack throws at me and throw it right back if it takes me away from you again.”

Hannibal reached up, touched his cheek. “You don’t have to prove yourself, Will. You’ve always been ours.”

Will kissed the inside of Hannibal’s wrist. “I want to earn it anyway.”

A small flutter passed beneath his palm.

Will froze.

“Did you feel that?” he whispered.

Hannibal smiled. “Yes.”

“Was that—”

“The first kick? No. But it’s the first you’ve felt.” Hannibal’s fingers curled in Will’s shirt. “And the first that mattered.”

Will’s eyes stung.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Hannibal’s.

They stayed that way for a long time.

Wrapped in sunlight. Wrapped in each other. Wrapped in the new shape of a life they had almost lost—but found again.

---

The storm had passed.

The air was warm again. Calm. The kind of quiet you only get after something big.

Abigail curled on the couch under a blanket, a cup of cocoa balanced on her knees. The fire was burning low. Mischa lay on the rug nearby, sketchbook open, charcoal smudges on her fingers.

“Did you ever doubt that Dad wouldn't remember?” Abigail asked, not looking up.

Mischa didn’t answer at first. She drew the curve of a spine, then erased it. “I hoped,” she said finally. “But I didn’t know.”

“I missed him,” Abigail said softly. “Even when he was right there.”

“Me too.”

A log shifted in the fireplace with a soft crackle.

“Motina cried once,” Abigail said. “In the pantry. I saw it.”

Mischa blinked. “No he didn’t.”

“He did,” Abigail insisted. “When Dad wasn’t eating the food he made. When he stopped coming to dinner. He thought no one saw. But I did.”

Mischa was quiet.

She remembered how gaunt their Motina had looked. How quiet. How tired.

“How did he not know?” Mischa whispered. “Dad, I mean. How do you forget someone like Motina?”

Abigail shrugged, stirring her cocoa. “I think… maybe it’s because Motina’s kind of unreal.”

Mischa turned her head.

“You know,” Abigail continued, “he’s always too calm, too careful, too perfect. Like he stepped out of a fairytale. But then you catch him at the stove barefoot at 3 a.m. eating pickled fish and crying at some opera and you remember he’s a real person.”

“Barely,” Mischa said dryly.

They both laughed.

Then Abigail asked, “Do you think Motina is scary?”

Mischa didn’t answer right away.

Then she said, “Yes. And no.”

Abigail nodded. “Yeah.”

They sat in silence again, the way only siblings can—comfortable, unfinished, familiar.

“I think people would be terrified if they knew,” Abigail said. “About Motina.”

Mischa looked up. “They would.”

“And us?” Abigail said, glancing at her sister.

Mischa just smiled.

“They should be.”

Chapter 12: Strings Attached

The next morning, the house was quiet—sunlight slanting gently through the windows, the chaos of the previous day settled into a warm domestic lull. Hannibal and Will sat on the couch together. Hannibal had a book open in his lap, though his eyes weren’t really moving across the page, and Will was nursing a mug of coffee, staring thoughtfully ahead.

Then, as if a switch flipped, Will tensed.

“Tobias.”

Hannibal looked up slowly.

“Back when I was still… lost. You told me to look into him. I didn’t have time to before I had my seizure, but I remember now.”

Will turned to him, eyes darkening. “You said… he was watching the girls.”

There was a pause. Hannibal inclined his head. “Yes. He was… curious.”

Will's jaw clenched. “Curious? He approached them. Stalked them. Mischa had a bloody nose. Abigail had a scratch on her face.”

“They handled themselves well,” Hannibal said, voice cool but proud. “I’ve trained them thoroughly.”

Will stared at him, incredulous. “You let this happen?”

“I had a plan,” Hannibal replied calmly.

Will gave him a sharp, pointed look. “You wanted to see if I’d go feral.”

A smirk tugged at Hannibal’s mouth. “I wondered if your instincts would override your amnesia. If you would protect us… regardless.”

“You manipulative, bloodthirsty psychopath,” Will muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

“I’m pregnant,” Hannibal said smoothly, like it excused everything.

Will rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of his head. “That didn’t stop you from hunting last week.”

“I was supervised,” Hannibal said with a mild sniff. “And I didn’t lift anything heavy.”

Will just stared.

“I’ll take out the trash,” he finally muttered, draining his coffee.

Hannibal’s smirk widened. “That’s my alpha.”

Will shot him a look but couldn’t help the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I’m delighted that you do,” Hannibal said, laying a hand over his belly with theatrical grace. “So is your unborn child.”

Will leaned over and kissed him, muttering against his mouth, “Next time you want me to go all feral protector, maybe don’t use our daughters as bait.”

“But it worked, didn’t it?”

Will groaned. “God, I need stronger coffee.”

“You need to kill Tobias,” Hannibal corrected pleasantly. “After breakfast.”

“After breakfast,” Will agreed with a sigh. “Then we’re going to have a long conversation about boundaries.”

Hannibal only hummed, smug and content.

---

The music shop was dim and hushed, the air thick with resin and the faint tang of something metallic. Will moved carefully through the space, flanked by two local officers, his eyes tracing the neat rows of instruments and the gleam of taut, pale strings stretched across wooden necks.

Tobias Budge greeted them with a smooth, pleasant smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Agent Graham,” he said, voice soft and practiced, “what can I help you with?”

Will didn’t answer right away. He let his eyes wander, let the silence press. There was something meticulously curated about the space—clinical, almost reverent. “You make your own strings,” he said finally, running a finger along the polished edge of a cello. “I hear you prefer gut.”

Tobias’s smile widened. “The tone is warmer. Fuller. Some things are just better the old-fashioned way.”

Will looked up at him then, eyes cool and searching. “Animal gut, I assume.”

There was a pause. Barely noticeable, but enough to answer the question. Tobias didn’t flinch. “Most of the time.”

One of the officers shifted behind Will, clearly uncomfortable. Tobias’s gaze didn’t move. He was locked on Will, waiting, measuring.

“You’re investigating that string of murders, aren’t you?” Tobias asked as he gently wiped down a cello with a soft cloth. “Macabre business.”

Will narrowed his eyes. “You could say that. A killer who turns victims’ guts into strings. Very… specific.”

Tobias shrugged, fingers pausing just a beat too long. “People get creative when they’re unwell.”

Will didn’t respond immediately, just watched him.

“I heard you used to work in homicide in New Orleans,” Tobias added. “Interesting city. Dark. Beautiful.”

Will tilted his head. Something about this man’s cadence, the clinical coldness behind the polite tone, made his skin crawl.

There was a beat.

Tobias’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “What is it you’re really here for, Agent Graham?”

Will glanced back at the officers briefly—just long enough to remind Tobias they weren’t alone—and then smiled faintly.

“I’ve been following the work of a certain artisan. Unique signatures. Exceptional skill. But something’s changed lately… new influences. A new direction, maybe?”

Tobias’s fingers paused in their motion. His tone cooled, though he still wore that thin, civil smile. “It’s always interesting when another critic appears. Especially one so... close to the subject.”

The officers said nothing, sensing a shift in the air but not quite understanding it.

Will met Tobias’s gaze squarely. “You’re very observant.”

“I try to be. Especially when someone starts sniffing around my studio like they know what they’re looking for.”

“You’ve attracted attention.”

“Not all attention is unwelcome. Some of it is… flattering,” Tobias replied, voice syrupy and slow. “You learn a lot when you’re being watched. Who’s important. Who’s protected.”

Something tightened behind Will’s ribs.

Tobias continued, his voice just a touch sharper. “Some people build themselves a life so neatly composed, it’s easy to forget the blood beneath the surface. Beautiful family. Accomplished career. The admiration of society.”

Will didn’t blink. “And you resent that.”

Tobias gave a slight shrug, his expression unreadable. “I’m curious. That’s all. Curious how someone like that ends up with someone like you.”

The tension cracked through the room like a whip, though the officers still didn’t understand it.

Will stepped forward slowly, his tone even. “Sometimes opposites attract.”

“Or maybe…” Tobias’s smile thinned. “Some people just prefer to send others to do their dirty work. Safer that way.”

A pulse of heat rose in Will’s throat, but he didn’t move. 

Tobias tilted his head, studying him now. “Did he tell you about me?”

“Perhaps.”

“Ah. So you’re his… servant now.”

Will smiled thinly. “I suppose you could say I do what is necessary.”

That earned a twitch at the corner of Tobias’s mouth—a sneer or a smirk, it was hard to tell. “He does like to instruct.”

“Yes,” Will said, letting the steel bleed into his voice. 

For a moment, they simply stared at each other—two predators circling, teeth behind their teeth.

Then Tobias stepped back. “Well, Agent Graham, unless you have a warrant, I suggest you stop sniffing around.”

Will gave a small, sharp nod. “We’ll be in touch.”

There was a beat.

They made it halfway down the hall of the shop before Will felt it.

A shift in the air. A subtle pressure behind his eyes. He turned his head, just slightly—enough to catch the flicker of movement in the shop’s reflection in the glass window.

“Tobias,” he muttered.

He pivoted, reaching for his sidearm just as Tobias flew at them.

The two officers turned, startled—too slow.

One never got the chance to react. A long, gleaming rod of metal—a rebar pipe sharpened to a brutal edge—was driven through his neck from behind, punching out in a spray of arterial blood and a sickening crunch of bone.

Will barely got his weapon up.

The second officer shouted, stumbling back, but Tobias was already on him—fast, brutal. A twist of the wrist, a flash of steel, and the second man dropped like a sack of stones, throat opened from ear to ear.

Blood soaked the cracked pavement.

Will fired.

The bullet grazed Tobias’s shoulder—no, his ear—sending a burst of crimson down the side of his head. Tobias staggered, then turned his eyes to Will, glowing with fury and exhilaration.

“How dare he send you?” Tobias snarled, blood slicking his teeth. 

Will’s hand was steady now, his breathing sharp. “He didn’t have to. I volunteered.”

Tobias’s face twisted—betrayal, jealousy, and rage burning behind his eyes.

“You’re just a dog,” he hissed. “A mutt on a leash. He was supposed to be mine. We could have been equals. But he picked you.”

Will didn’t blink. “Yes. He did.”

Tobias lunged.

The next few seconds were nothing but chaos—Will firing again, the shot grazing Tobias’s shoulder this time. They slammed into the wall, grappling, Tobias swinging a sharpened bowstring hook, Will knocking it aside. A headbutt—blinding pain—Will’s vision blurred, warmth pouring from his brow.

Tobias fought like a man possessed.

They crashed through the shop’s side door into the basement, knocking over stands, spilling jars. A violin shattered beneath their feet.

Will barely got a grip on Tobias’s coat—crack—his shoulder slammed into the workbench. His vision swam.

Tobias was fast. Too fast.

But he was bleeding. And Will was furious.

When Tobias swung again, Will caught his arm, twisted it behind his back with a growl, and shoved him headlong into the stairwell ladder. Tobias grunted in pain, stumbled—and Will raised his gun again.

But Tobias was already moving. A last, defiant glare—and he threw himself through the basement door, vanishing into the night.

Blood spattered the floor. The ruined strings hung like entrails.

Will scrambled after him, breath burning, but Tobias was already gone, vanished into the dark streets outside. Will swore, holstering his weapon, heart racing as he threw himself behind the wheel of his car. His hands fumbled for his phone as he started the ignition, tires already screeching as he peeled out into the street.

He called Jack.

“Tobias Budge—he’s the gut string killer. He killed the two officers. He’s gone.”

“Gone?” Jack snapped.

“Hannibal. He’s going after Hannibal.”

“Your house?”

“No—his office. He’s in session now. Thursday. Franklyn.”

“On it.”

Will hung up and tried calling Hannibal. No answer.

Again.

Still nothing.

Panic clawed at his throat.

And if Tobias had any twisted sense of timing—and Will knew now that he did—he would strike then.

Will hit redial one more time, praying for Hannibal to answer.

Voicemail.

“Come on, come on…” he muttered, teeth clenched, eyes flicking between the road and the phone. He pressed the gas pedal harder. The tires screamed around a turn as he blew through a yellow light.

His mind raced—Don’t die. Don’t die. Don’t let him hurt them.

Hannibal. Pregnant.

Mischa. Abigail.

My family.

Hannibal knew Tobias was coming.

He felt it in the shift of the air outside his office, in the cadence of footsteps echoing too slow, too deliberate. He calmly placed his teacup aside and smoothed a hand over his coat, the gesture as careful as it was final.

Franklyn droned on from the couch about some minor grievance—his dry cleaner or his neighbor’s cat, perhaps—but Hannibal was no longer listening. His eyes went to the door just moments before it burst open.

Tobias Budge stood in the threshold, blood streaking his temple, one eye bruised and swelling. He looked deranged. Betrayed.

“You sent him,” Tobias hissed, stepping inside. “Your alpha.”

Franklyn shot up, alarmed. “Tobias—what the hell?”

Tobias ignored him. “I thought you were different, Lecter. I thought you understood. You, of all people, wouldn’t betray your own kind. But you sent your husband after me like a damn hunting dog.”

Hannibal tilted his head, utterly still. “You watched my daughters.”

“You used to be like me,” Tobias growled, stepping closer. “Cold. Precise. Hungry. Now you’re playing house? Tied down to an alpha and letting him fight your battles?”

Hannibal stood smoothly, one hand brushing the swell of his stomach.

Franklyn stepped between them, hands up. “Tobias, please—let’s just talk. I can help—”

“Get out,” Hannibal said to Franklyn, voice firm, not unkind.

Franklyn hesitated. “Wait—what’s going on, I—”

Tobias stepped forward. “He stays.”

Hannibal moved. Fast.

Franklyn never saw the scalpel coming—just a blur of silver and then nothing.

He crumpled, his throat opened cleanly, blood spreading like an inkblot across the tiles.

Tobias snarled. “I told you he was mine!”

Hannibal’s expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

“You're upset because I stole your toy?” he said coolly. “You were never going to be my equal, Tobias. You were a curiosity. A dangerous one. One I tolerated far too long.”

“You’re soft now,” Tobias spat. “Weak. Drowning in sentiment.”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal murmured. “But even soft things have teeth.”

Then the room exploded into violence.

Tobias lunged, and Hannibal moved like liquid shadow—precise, merciless. The desk overturned. A shelf collapsed in a rain of books and glass. Despite the pregnancy, Hannibal’s instincts ruled. He ducked low, using Tobias’ momentum against him. They clashed with fists, with knives, with anything they could reach.

“You should’ve died when I first saw you,” Tobias shouted, swinging a broken lamp.

“You should have never watched my children,” Hannibal snarled, driving an elbow into his ribs.

"You touched my children. You are nothing but a parasite looking to nest in someone else's brilliance," Hannibal hissed.

Tobias spat blood. “And you’re a monster in a fancy suit. A hypocrite.”

The fight was close. Ugly. Hannibal was winded but relentless. Tobias got in a lucky punch that sent him staggering, hand instinctively covering the swell of his abdomen.

It was the mistake Tobias made—he hesitated. Hannibal didn’t.

He drove Tobias back with a savage growl, trapping him against the bookcase ladder. With inhuman strength, he wrenched Tobias’ good arm and snapped it cleanly against the wood.

Tobias screamed—but Hannibal didn’t give him time to recover. He seized the heavy bronze wolf-head statue from his desk and brought it down against Tobias’ skull.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Tobias slumped.

Blood pooled beneath Tobias’ broken body. Hannibal panted, face splattered with crimson, hair a mess, the tight lines of pain visible around his eyes and mouth. He was still crouched, hand resting protectively over the swell of his belly.

The office door burst open.

“Hannibal!” Will's voice cracked with fear as he charged in, his own face bloodied from the earlier fight, eyes frantic.

He stopped just short of Tobias’ corpse. Tobias lay twisted and crumpled on the floor, blood seeping out beneath his skull like spilled ink. His left arm was bent at an unnatural angle, his mouth still open as though mid-threat, glassy eyes staring at nothing.

Franklyn’s body was nearby—slumped, discarded like a broken doll.

And crouched amidst it all was Hannibal.

He was catching his breath, one palm braced on his knee, the other gripping a heavy iron statue slick with blood. His suit was torn at the collar, the silk clinging damp to his skin, his hair mussed and eyes bright. He looked like a man pulled from a Renaissance painting—feral and glorious, backlit by the low, golden glow of the room’s sconces.

Will froze in the doorway, thunderstruck.

For a moment, all he could do was stare—at the chaos, at the aftermath, at his mate, beautiful and terrible and alive.

Will’s mouth opened. Then shut.

“…Damn,” he said finally. “I married the coolest omega on earth.”

Hannibal looked up slowly.

Will crossed the room in seconds, slipping slightly in a streak of blood as he crossed the room and dropped to his knees beside him. His hands hovered, searching for wounds. “Are you—? Are you okay? Did he—?”

Hannibal’s eyes flicked up, amused and tired. “I'm fine,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “He was… persistent. But not unpredictable.”

“You’re bleeding,” Will said, voice thick. “Jesus, Hannibal.”

“So are you,” Hannibal returned smoothly, his gaze darkening as he reached out to thumb gently across Will’s temple, inspecting the gash at his hairline. “This looks deep. Did he do this?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Hannibal reached for him, examining the gash. “Sit.”

Will obeyed without protest, heart still racing. “I came to save you.”

“And I saved myself,” Hannibal said, amused. “You’re late.”

Will scoffed and sank further down beside him, still catching his breath. “I failed. You sent me to end this, and instead you had to clean up my mess. Some alpha I am.”

Hannibal turned fully to him, one hand lifting to cradle Will’s cheek. His thumb brushed a smear of blood away.

“Will,” he said softly, almost reverently, “you did beautifully. You tracked him, you wounded him, you chased him straight to me. That is not complete failure.”

Will leaned into the touch despite himself, jaw tight. “You’re the one who finished it. Of course you are. Of course you could. You’re… you.”

Hannibal smiled faintly, something dangerous and fond curling at the edges. “We both know which of us is the better killer.”

Will exhaled sharply. “Not the reassurance I needed.”

“Perhaps not,” Hannibal said, his hand sliding down to rest on Will’s shoulder, firm and grounding, “but it’s the truth. And it’s never mattered. I didn’t choose you for your body count.”

Will glanced around again—at Tobias, at Franklyn, at the mess.

“You okay?” he asked, quieter this time, softer.

Hannibal looked at the carnage. “I’m irritated that he brought the fight here. But I am well.”

Will reached over drawing his husband against his chest carefully, mindful of bruises and tension and swelling. Hannibal allowed himself to rest there, head against Will’s shoulder.

They stayed like that in the quiet, breath mingling in the stillness after violence.

Hannibal tilted his head up slightly, gaze glinting. “Will?”

“Hm?”

“Next time, let me pick the music for your hunt. I’m not sure dramatic cello suits you.”

Will groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” Hannibal said, eyes soft.

Will sighed, pulling him closer. “God help me, I really do.”

“I should hope so.”

“You’re insane,” Will muttered, reaching out to steady his husband. “But god, you’re sexy when you’re homicidal.”

Hannibal rolled his eyes—but his cheeks pinked faintly.

“I told him,” Hannibal murmured, resting his head briefly on Will’s shoulder, “that I wasn’t soft.”

Will swallowed hard, holding Hannibal tighter. “You’re not.”

A beat.

Then Jack and the FBI team stormed in. Guns up. Shouts. Movement.

But Hannibal merely stood, composed again, expression carefully neutral as he gestured to the bodies on the floor.

“Tobias Budge entered my office during a session. He killed Franklyn in front of me. He attacked me. I defended myself.”

Jack said nothing for a long moment. Then he gave a tight nod. “We’ll need full statements. But this—this is done.”

---

Steam curled lazily in the bathroom as Will stood under the spray, head tipped back, blood and grime swirling down the drain. Hannibal was beside him, silent and precise, gently washing away the remnants of the night with a soft cloth. 

Will reached up to brush Hannibal’s shoulder. “You should be the one sitting down. You’re six months pregnant and just fought off a serial killer.”

Hannibal arched an unimpressed brow. “I am quite capable of standing. And I’ve already assessed myself—no injuries of concern.”

“That’s not how medicine works,” Will muttered.

“It is when I’m the one practicing it,” Hannibal replied dryly, carefully running his fingers along Will’s scalp. He hissed when they brushed a nasty gash near his temple.

Will winced. “Ow.”

“Hold still,” Hannibal said, moving them from the shower to the plush bench just outside it. He gently patted Will’s head dry with a towel and began inspecting the wound with practiced hands.

Will groaned. “You’re going to stitch me up, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Hannibal said smoothly, already prepping the supplies from their medical kit. “And you’re going to sit there and let me.”

“Do I even have an opinion?”

“You don’t,” Hannibal replied, deadpan.

Will rolled his eyes but sat obediently as Hannibal threaded the suture needle. “You fought Tobias Budge while pregnant. Let me say that again—pregnant. You’re the one who should be checked out at the hospital.”

“I knew what I was doing,” Hannibal murmured, eyes focused. “Now hush.”

Will bit his tongue as the needle pierced his skin. “I’m just saying—”

The front door opened, and moments later two familiar voices floated down the hall.

“Motina?” Mischa called. “Dad?”

“In the bathroom,” Will called back, still flinching as Hannibal worked.

A second later, Abigail and Mischa appeared in the doorway. They stopped short at the sight: their dad shirtless, blood-matted hair being expertly stitched by their very focused Motina.

“Whoa,” Mischa said, eyes wide. “What happened?”

Will gave them a wry smile. “Your Motina beat Tobias Budge to death with a statue. I just got thrown into a wall. Guess who needed stitches?”

Mischa blinked, then turned to Hannibal. “Is the statue okay?”

Hannibal lifted a brow, unimpressed.

Abigail burst into laughter. “Dad, how are you the one who got hurt? You’re the alpha!”

“I was hunting Tobias,” Will protested. “I found him first. But he got mad that Hannibal sent me instead of showing up himself.”

“Classic Tobias,” Mischa said, rolling her eyes. “Big dramatic tantrum energy.”

Will nodded solemnly. “Still, lesson learned: never underestimate your Motina. Even heavily pregnant, he is terrifying.”

“We know,” the girls chorused.

“I wasn’t that terrifying,” Hannibal muttered under his breath, fussing with gauze.

“You killed two men in under ten minutes,” Will said. “I’m going to have to repaint your office again.”

“I always said no one can beat Motina,” Abigail chimed.

Hannibal’s lips twitched. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“Oh, we know,” Mischa said cheerfully. “But you love it.”

Will chuckled despite the sting. “You’re all a bit bloodthirsty.”

“Only when it comes to people hunting us,” Abigail replied with a shrug.

Mischa folded her arms. “And now you’ve been doctored by the best. Be grateful. Honestly, Dad, you should’ve known better than to resist. None of us ever win.”

“He tried to object,” Hannibal said mildly. “But he’s learning.”

Will groaned. “You’re all ganging up on me.”

“As we should,” Mischa said smugly.

Will turned to the girls, smirking. “Remember when Abby got that splinter in her palm and Hannibal turned it into a full surgical procedure? He sterilized everything like it was a heart transplant.”

“And you kept trying to swat him away,” Abigail said, grinning. “He didn’t even flinch.”

“Or when I scraped my knee on that field trip and Motina showed up at the school with a full trauma kit,” Mischa added.

Hannibal sniffed. “It was bleeding.”

“It was a scratch,” Mischa teased.

Hannibal gave them all a flat stare. “I am perfectly reasonable.”

Mischa snorted. “You alphabetize our vitamins.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“You sniffed Abigail’s bruised ribs for ‘internal injury clues.’”

“I was correct about the hairline fracture,” Hannibal retorted.

Will leaned forward, grinning. “You put me on bedrest when I had the flu and spoon-fed me soup like I was a dying.”

Hannibal gave him a look. “You refused hydration and refused rest. You left me no choice.”

Abigail leaned over the counter, grinning. “You’re the most lovingly terrifying person we know.”

“You’re all ungrateful,” Hannibal said, straightening. “I could stop fussing.”

Will pulled him in gently by the wrist, tugging him between his legs. “But we like your fussing,” he murmured, smiling up at him. “You’ve patched all of us together. In more ways than one.”

Hannibal sighed, touched despite himself. “You’re exhausting.”

“You love us.”

“Yes,” Hannibal said, pressing a soft kiss to Will’s uninjured temple. “Against all reason.”

Mischa fake-gagged. Abigail threw a towel at her.

Will smiled into his husband’s stomach, arms sliding around him. “Can we at least order takeout?”

Hannibal pulled back just enough to glare down at him. “Absolutely not.”

The girls groaned in unison.

---

The file sat open on Jack’s desk, mocking him.

Tobias Budge. Franklin Froideveaux. Two bodies. One night. A known serial killer dead. 

And Hannibal Lecter—wounded, pregnant, but untouched by panic. Impossibly composed.

Too composed.

Jack drummed his fingers against the wood. Will had claimed self-defense. Hannibal had said Tobias had threatened him and Franklin. The evidence lined up. But…

It was too clean.

Too controlled.

Jack glanced at the wall where the Ripper board hung. He hadn’t taken it down, not really. Every so often, he returned to it. Studied it.

The Ripper case was no longer just a case.

It was personal.

He had known Will Graham for nearly fifteen years. Watched him come up through the FBI, seen his brilliance—and his darkness. And he had met Hannibal Lecter nearly as long ago, back when Will was still working Homicide in New Orleans.

They had seemed an odd pair then. Hannibal had been a visiting professor and consulting psychiatrist, already distinguished, already polished. Will—sharp-edged, bristling, anti-social—barely functioned in polite company, but he could read killers like scripture.

No one had missed the chemistry.

But no one had imagined it would become... this.

Jack rubbed his eyes and stared at the old surveillance photo, one tucked away in a case from New Orleans that never got solved. A killer who dressed his victims, laid them out with precise aesthetic purpose—never caught. And yet in the background of a report was the name “Dr. H. Lecter.” Consultant.

Will had moved to Baltimore not long after.

So had Hannibal.

They had bonded, mated, built a home. Jack had visited it. Attended the housewarming. He remembered how uncomfortable Will looked in a tailored suit and how at ease Hannibal had been by his side, guiding him gently through social niceties like a conductor.

They had daughters. Daughters who clearly adored them.

Jack had watched Will cradle Abigail as a newborn, cradled protectively against his chest. He remembered Hannibal hosting holiday dinners with terrifying grace, carving roast duck with a surgeon’s hand, managing a kitchen like a battlefield general.

He had seen them. Together.

Could a man so refined be a murderer?
Could an omega be so violent?

Jack had seen omegas defend their children, sure. He’d seen them fight when cornered. But this was something else. Calculated. Not reactive, but premeditated. Cold. Beautiful.

And Hannibal? Hannibal was soothing, collected. Intellectual. A devoted parent.

But tonight, when he’d seen the blood splattered across Hannibal’s white collar—seven months pregnant, yet killing like a ghost of war—Jack hadn’t seen a victim or even a frightened parent.

He had seen a predator.

So what did Will know?
Had he always known?
Had Will helped him?

Jack thought of the accident. Of Will’s disorientation. The way Hannibal broke, subtly but absolutely. Jack had never seen such raw panic in the man’s eyes before.

And then Will started remembering.

And the Ripper case, once on fire, went cold.

He’s protecting him.

The thought hit Jack like a gut punch.

Will Graham—brilliant, erratic, loyal to the bone—was protecting his mate.

He always had been.

The silence of the room deepened.

Jack stared down at the list of Ripper victims again. Elegant kills. Ritualistic. Artistic.

He circled a date.

A kill in Baltimore that had occurred three days after the birth of Will and Hannibal’s second daughter, Abigail.

Would a new parent an omega leave their and child to kill?

No. But an omega might have already prepared. Planned. Executed cleanly.

He looked at the photo of the Lecter family again. A perfect family. Loving. Normal.

And yet…

Jack closed the file.

He had to be sure. Because once he crossed this line, there was no going back.

And if he was wrong, he'd destroy Will Graham. A man he considered family.

But if he was right?

Then he had dined with the Ripper.

And shook hands with the devil’s mate.

---

The first time Will met Dr. Hannibal Lecter, it was raining.

Not a gentle drizzle. A real New Orleans downpour—warm and thick, cascading off balconies and turning the streets into veins of silver.

Will was standing under a rusted iron awning in the French Quarter, suit wrinkled from a long day, his sleeves rolled up, collar undone, a coffee in one hand and a folder in the other. Another body. Another grotesque display of brutality dressed up like ritual.

He hated the city. Too loud. Too alive.

And then he walked out of the gallery.

Elegant. Pale. Dressed in a dark three-piece suit that somehow defied the heat and humidity. His umbrella was black silk, perfectly coordinated with his gloves. His scent, even in the wet air, hit Will’s nose like the first note of an aria—dark spices, rain-soaked roses, and something older.

Will blinked.

Omega.

Definitely omega.

But not delicate. No soft doe-eyed posture. He carried himself like he owned the block. Like the rain had been scheduled for him.

Their eyes met.

Will looked away first, heart in his throat for a reason he couldn’t name.

He felt like he'd just stepped into something dangerous.

They met again a week later.

Will's boss had insisted that he talk to a consultant—some European psychiatrist with a reputation for elegance and insight. Will had grumbled but showed up to the university conference room with coffee stains on his shirt and a headache pounding behind his eyes.

Hannibal Lecter turned from the window like he had been waiting for Will his whole life.

Will froze. His instincts whispered killer. Not in panic, but in curiosity. Hannibal tilted his head, as if hearing the same whisper.

“You must be Special Agent Graham,” Hannibal said, his voice rich and smooth like aged wine.

“Just Will,” he muttered, eyes scanning the room, trying not to stare. “Special’s a stretch.”

Hannibal smiled. It was polite. Cold. And hungry.

“Very well. Just Will.”

It didn’t take long.

Will was used to people trying to dissect him. Hannibal didn’t try. He just saw.

The omega asked sharp questions, probed not just the case but him. And when Will snapped—uncomfortable with how exposed he felt—Hannibal only smiled.

That night, Will went home and dreamed of teeth and opera and warm blood.

Two weeks later, the case stalled.

A body was found—new. Flayed, posed, poetic. And Will knew.

He could feel Hannibal’s fingerprints in the artistry. No hesitation. No panic.

Will didn’t report it.

The wallpaper was too ornate.

Will stared at it as he waited in the hallway outside Hannibal’s suite, heart pounding like a war drum beneath his ribs. His hand hovered over the brass doorknob. He hadn’t knocked. Not yet.

The folder in his hand felt heavy, even though it was only eight pages.

Crime scene photos.

Time stamps.

Phone records.

Patterns only Will would notice.

He'd spent the last 72 hours combing over evidence and chewing glass. He hadn’t eaten. Barely slept. He kept seeing it—the art in the murders, the deliberate styling, the language of it all. A ritualistic devotion, not to a god, but to an idea.

Beauty in brutality.

And in every brushstroke of the killer’s signature, Will saw Hannibal Lecter.

He knocked.

A quiet moment passed, then a click, and the door creaked open.

Hannibal stood in a burgundy robe, silk tie loose at his throat, eyes tired but alert.

Will said nothing.

He just held out the folder.

Hannibal took it. Flipped through the pages. And then—smiled.

“You found me.”

Will's mouth was dry. “Yeah. I did.”

“How do you feel?” Hannibal asked calmly, as though they were discussing a painting or a wine.

Will’s fingers twitched. “Angry,” he admitted. “Impressed. Turned on. Terrified.”

“Of me?”

Will met his eyes.

“Of what this means.”

A silence settled between them—dense and humid.

Then Hannibal stepped aside. “Come in.”

The suite smelled like leather and sandalwood and Hannibal’s scent—earthy and spiced. Will walked inside and shut the door behind him.

“You’re the Bayou Sculptor,” Will said, voice steady now. “The tableau artist. The butcher of Claiborne Street.”

“Guilty,” Hannibal said, pouring a glass of red wine with the grace of someone who’d never been caught doing anything less than perfect.

“You arranged them like operas,” Will said. “Each one telling a story. None of them random.”

“They never are,” Hannibal replied, offering the glass. “Art requires intention.”

Will took it. Sipped.

They stood in silence.

Then Will asked the question he’d been afraid of.

“Why me?”

Hannibal turned slowly, eyes lit like low flame. “Because you saw me. And didn’t run.”

The night bled on. Words gave way to instinct.

Will kissed him hard, like he needed to feel the teeth beneath Hannibal’s cultured facade. Hannibal let himself be claimed, pressed against the window with the rain hammering outside.

It was messy, unrefined, and perfect.

Two predators meeting in the middle.

Later, curled on the hotel bed, Hannibal lay on his side, watching Will as he traced a fingertip over the love mark forming on Hannibal’s neck.

“I’m moving to Baltimore,” Hannibal said, voice quiet.

Will blinked, propping himself on one elbow. “What?”

“I’ve accepted a private practice position there. I was never meant to stay here. New Orleans was... an indulgence. A season. Baltimore offers stability. Structure.”

Will stared at the ceiling.

And then, before the thought could die in his throat—

“Can I come with you?”

The words shocked even him.

But Hannibal’s breath hitched. He reached out, hand trembling just slightly, and touched Will’s cheek.

“Yes. I would like nothing more.”

Will resigned from the New Orleans PD the next morning. His boss hadn’t been happy.

He didn’t care.

They packed up, left the sweltering air behind, and bought a house in Baltimore with too many windows and too much space.

But Hannibal filled it. With music. With fire. With love.

And Will never looked back.

Chapter 13: Beneath the Surface

The prenatal clinic was bright and far too cheerful for Hannibal’s taste—but he had been through this before, and he appreciated the efficiency. That didn’t stop him from being nervous. He sat in the waiting room, impeccably dressed as always, his hand absently smoothing over the swell of his belly while his other held a neatly folded paper with notes he had made from the last week’s symptoms, dietary breakdowns, and measurements.

Will sat beside him, relaxed in a flannel shirt and jeans, thumbing through a tattered magazine he had no intention of actually reading.

“You’ve taken your pulse three times in the last ten minutes,” Will murmured, not looking up.

Hannibal sniffed. “I’m simply ensuring that there are no irregularities. You know very well I’ve been borderline hypertensive during the last trimester in both previous pregnancies.”

“I know,” Will said with a small smile. “And I also know you took your blood pressure at home four times before we left.”

“I wanted to make sure the cuff was calibrated.”

Will reached over and caught his hand, gently lacing their fingers. “You’ve got this down to an art. Mischa’s pregnancy? You had graphs. Pie charts. You even logged the fetal heartbeat like it was a symphony.”

Hannibal raised a brow. “I still have that log. It was quite musical.”

Will laughed. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Relax,” Will murmured. “It’s just a check-up.”

“It’s never just a check-up. This is when things go wrong. Umbilical cord issues. Growth plate concerns. They could detect anomalies—”

“Your OB is practically a goddess and this is our third child. Everything will be fine.”

“You didn’t forget to eat this morning, did you?” Hannibal asked abruptly. “Your blood sugar was low yesterday, and stress—”

Will blinked. “Hannibal. You’re the one carrying the child.”

Hannibal’s jaw tightened. “As you so kindly pointed out, I’m not young anymore.”

Will winced. “Okay. That was… not my finest moment.”

“You guessed I was forty-eight, Will.”

“To be fair, I didn’t know you were only in your early forties! I thought you were one of those impossibly elegant, ageless people. Like… like Tilda Swinton. Or an immortal.”

Hannibal gave him a long, unimpressed look.

“But,” Will added, eyes warm and apologetic, “you’re super fit and lovely for your age. Honestly, when I thought that someone else had had you, that they’d made a life with you, I was just… so jealous. That anyone else could have had the perfect omega mate. I think I saw red for days.”

Hannibal’s expression softened, smug pride flickering beneath the surface. “Flattery will get you somewhere, darling. But only because I’m feeling generous.”

Will grinned and leaned over to kiss his temple. “I’ll take it.”

Will reached over and gently laced their fingers together. “You’re beautiful. Strong. And absolutely terrifying when you’re maternal.”

Hannibal's lips twitched. Just slightly.

They were called back, and as they entered the exam room, their doctor looked up from the chart and broke into a grin.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite overly-organized omega and his long-suffering husband.”

Hannibal arched a brow. “I see your bedside manner is as sharp as ever, Doctor Nguyen.”

“I nearly dropped my coffee when your name popped up on my screen again,” she teased. “I thought we were done at two.”

“So did we,” Hannibal replied smoothly, settling onto the exam table with practiced grace.

Will quipped, “He thrives on unpredictability.”

Nguyen chuckled as she adjusted the monitor. “Let’s take a look at your little surprise then.”

The familiar swoosh of the baby’s heartbeat filled the room, and Will felt Hannibal relax beside him, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

“Everything looks perfect,” Nguyen said. “You’re measuring exactly where you should be, heartbeat’s strong, and your blood pressure is excellent.”

Hannibal let out a slow breath. “That’s good to hear.”

“See?” Will said, squeezing his hand. “All that worrying and you’re still perfect.”

Nguyen raised an amused brow. “You sure you don’t want to come work for me, Will? I could use another calming influence around here.”

“I have a full-time job wrangling this one already,” Will said, gesturing to his husband.

---

The hum of fluorescent lights had long faded into white noise, the kind you only noticed when silence broke. Will was reviewing case notes—halfheartedly, if he was honest. His mind was elsewhere. Always elsewhere these days.

He barely registered the knock on the open door before Jack’s voice followed it.

“You got a minute?”

Will didn’t look up right away. “Sure,” he said, casually enough. “You want something to drink? I think I’ve got stale coffee and lukewarm tea.”

Jack didn’t smile. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

“I want to talk. Off the record.”

That got Will’s attention. He sat up straighter. “About?”

Jack folded his arms and leaned against the edge of Will’s desk. His eyes—tired and sharp, always searching—locked onto Will’s with the slow calculation of a man piecing together a dangerous puzzle.

“You’ve changed.”

Will blinked. “I assume not in a good way.”

“You were never easy to read, but since your accident… something’s different.”

Will met his gaze, calm. “I lost my memory. I’ve been rebuilding a life that didn’t make sense to me for months.”

“Yeah,” Jack said quietly. “And when you came back from the accident, you made some real progress on the Ripper case. For a while. Brilliant insights. But then... when you regained your memories it’s like you backed off. Completely.”

Will’s jaw tightened.

“You think I’m hiding something.”

Jack didn’t answer immediately. He reached into his coat and pulled out a thin file—something Will recognized instantly. Crime scene photos. Old ones. The kind that used to keep him up at night.

“I went back over the cases. All the Ripper scenes. All the behavioral patterns. You saw it, Will. You knew it. Then you stopped.”

Will didn’t speak.

“Why?”

Silence stretched long and brittle between them. Will tapped his fingers against the desk—an old tell. Jack noticed.

“You and Hannibal,” Jack said finally. “You’ve always been close. But since your memory came back... I’ve been thinking about how protective you are of him. How much you changed. How far you’d go to keep your family safe.”

The word family wasn’t lost on either of them.

Will’s voice, when it came, was low. Careful.

“Is this an interrogation, Jack?”

Jack studied him for a long time. Then he said, softly:

“I’ve known you for years. I’ve trusted you with my life. But I can’t ignore what’s in front of me. And if you’re sitting across from me protecting a killer—”

“—You’d what?” Will cut in, gaze suddenly sharp. “Arrest me? Drag me in front of a grand jury? Tear apart my daughters’ lives?”

Jack flinched. Slightly.

“I’m not the enemy, Will.”

“Then stop acting like one,” Will snapped, before catching himself. He drew a breath. “I appreciate your concern. I do. But you don’t know everything. You never did.”

Jack stood slowly.

“Maybe not. But I’m going to find out.”

He paused at the door, eyes hard.

“Just remember who helped you before. And who’s trying to help you now.”

The door clicked shut.

Will sat there a long time after he left, staring at nothing.

---

Hannibal knew the signs.

He’d read them in others’ eyes for decades—agents posturing with more precision, polite conversations shortened, files not quite left unattended anymore.

But most of all: Jack stopped smiling when he looked at him.

Hannibal had once admired Jack Crawford for his single-mindedness.

Now, he despised him for it.

He saw it clearly at their last case review: Jack’s eyes never leaving Will, like he was waiting for a fracture to form. Waiting for proof.

The noose was tightening.

And Hannibal could feel it around all their necks.

Later that night, in the quiet dark of their bedroom, Will pressed his forehead to Hannibal’s chest, breathing like a man who was drowning in air.

“I did this,” he rasped. “I betrayed you.”

Hannibal, slow with exhaustion and pregnancy, rubbed gentle circles into Will’s back. “No, mon cœur. You were unwell.”

“But I led him right to you. When I was sick—when I didn’t know you—I walked Jack straight to the truth. I undid years of misdirection in a few weeks. Jesus, Hannibal, I—”

“You were sick,” Hannibal said again, more firmly. “And I was arrogant. I believed I could be close to you even when you didn’t remember. That I could hide in plain sight.”

Will let out a strangled breath. “Jack’s preparing something. I can feel it.”

“So can I,” Hannibal said. He reached to guide Will’s hand to the swell of his belly. “Which means we must act.”

“I don’t want to lose you again,” Will whispered.

Hannibal was quiet for a long moment.

“Then we must decide who they will lose.”

It chilled Will more than he wanted to admit.

“We’ll have to give them someone,” Hannibal continued, voice like glass. “A copycat. An obsessed admirer. I’ve cultivated several potentials over the years—names, profiles, loose ends that can be tightened if needed.”

Will stared at him.

Horrified.

Relieved.

Horrified again.

“You always planned for this,” Will said softly.

“I always planned to protect you,” Hannibal replied.

Will slumped into a chair, rubbing his hands down his face. “And if it doesn’t work?”

Hannibal exhaled slowly. “Then we leave. You and I. The girls. The baby.”

Will looked up.

“No trials. No questions. No cells. I won’t be caged.”

“I understand,” Will said, voice hoarse. “But if it comes to it—if you have to run—you choose them. You take the girls and go. I’ll stay behind. I’ll throw Jack off.”

Hannibal went still.

“Don’t ask that of me,” he whispered.

“You have to,” Will said. “They need you more than they need me. You’re their mother, Hannibal.”

Hannibal’s lips trembled, and Will reached forward, cupping his face.

“You’re the strongest person I know,” Will said. “You can keep them safe. I can’t ask for more than that.”

“I just got you back,” Hannibal murmured, voice cracking. “And now I’m supposed to plan for goodbye.”

Will kissed him, fierce and desperate. “It won’t come to that. But we plan anyway. We can’t lose this.”

“We won’t,” Hannibal murmured, fingers threading with Will’s. “But we may need a new scapegoat. Or… a contingency plan.”

Will pulled back, his breath shaky. “You already have one, don’t you?”

Hannibal smiled faintly — unreadable, ancient, knowing.

“Would you expect anything less of me?”

---

She waited until Abigail was asleep, tucked under her fuzzy blanket with her favorite storybook, before marching downstairs to the den.

Her father—her idiot father—was still awake, hunched over notes at the dining table, eyes shadowed with guilt.

Good.

“Dad,” she snapped, stepping into the room.

Will looked up like a man awaiting execution. “Mischa.”

“No. You don’t get to say my name like that,” she snapped, arms crossed. “You promised to protect us.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.” Her voice was sharp, shaking. “You undid decades of Motina’s work. All the barriers. The false leads. The dead ends. You fed Jack just enough truth to get him this close.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, quietly. “I was sick. I didn’t remember.”

“I know that,” she snapped. “But that didn’t stop you from walking into the FBI and practically handing Uncle Jack a blueprint.”

Will flinched at Uncle Jack. She only used that name when she was furious.

“You undid years of work. Decades. All the misdirection. The planning. All of it. Motina’s life, Dad. And ours.”

“I know I failed you,” he said. “And I failed your Motina. I hate myself for it every damn day.”

Mischa stared at him, arms still crossed. Her breathing slowed, but her fury hadn’t dimmed.

“You fix this,” she said. “I don’t care how. I don’t care what it costs. You fix this, Dad. You make sure our family stays whole.”

Will nodded slowly. “I will.”

She turned away, then paused at the door.

“He’s not okay, you know,” she added without looking back. “He’s trying to act like he is, but… the stress. The pregnancy. Hiding everything from the world and you. He looks worse every day.”

Will flinched.

Mischa’s voice softened—barely.

“He won’t say it, but he was scared he lost you forever. Don’t make him go through that again.”

Later, Will slid under the covers, silent, still thinking of their daughter’s fury.

“She cornered me tonight,” he muttered into the dark.

Hannibal, curled on his side with one hand protectively cupping his belly, let out a quiet hum. “Did she scold you?”

“Like a general preparing for war.”

Hannibal chuckled softly. “She gets that from you.”

Will huffed. “No way. If anything, she’s got your ruthlessness.”

“She has your heart.”

“She also has your glare. I thought she was going to gut me with it.”

Hannibal turned his head, looking at him. “Mischa was born with sharp edges and she guards what’s hers with those edges.”

Will reached across the bed and laid a hand on Hannibal’s belly, thumb stroking slow circles.

“She’s going to be an alpha,” Hannibal said softly.

Will didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. No question.”

A quiet pause.

Then Hannibal smiled, eyes sleepy but affectionate.

“I’m glad she’s ours.”

Will leaned in and kissed his temple. “So am I.”

Will groaned, flopping onto his back. “God help her mate.”

Hannibal rolled to face him, eyes twinkling. “Much like her father, she’ll need someone who can handle the fire.”

They lay there in the dark, Hannibal’s head tucked beneath Will’s chin, Will’s hand over the curve of his belly.

“We'll fix this,” Will whispered. “I promise.”

“I know we will,” Hannibal said softly. 

Will smiled, and they fell asleep with Mischa’s words echoing between them:

Fix this. Keep us whole.

Chapter 14: Chaos in Cashmere

Will leaned back in his chair, sipping lukewarm coffee while Beverly and Alana chatted on the other side of his desk. The lab results were running slow, the latest case was in lull mode, and for once, they weren’t elbow-deep in corpses or chasing leads.

“So, three kids now, huh?” Beverly asked, nudging Will with her elbow. “Expanding the Lecter-Graham empire?”

Will groaned good-naturedly. “Don’t phrase it like that.”

Alana smirked, arms crossed as she leaned against the wall. “There’s a pretty big age gap between Abigail and the new baby. Was this one... planned?”

Will gave a huff of laughter. “Absolutely not.” He took another sip of coffee. “Let’s just say... certain precautions were not taken.”

Beverly snorted. “Let me guess. You couldn’t keep your hands off your refined, terrifying omega?”

Will smirked. “Perhaps. But it’s very mutual, trust me.”

“Oh, I know. ,” Alana said with a wry smile. “I was Hannibal’s mentee for years before I even met you. He never talked much about his personal life, but I always had this suspicion he had someone. Someone important.”

“Really?” Will asked, curious now.

“Oh, definitely,” she replied. “He had that edge of possessiveness. Like a dragon who doesn’t talk about the treasure hoard but woul absolutely bite you if you get too close.”

Beverly grinned. “Yeah, whenever he consults with us? The way he watches you? Like a hawk. It’s subtle—but creepy subtle.”

Will flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. That’s not uncomfortable at all.”

“You like it,” Beverly teased. “There may or may not be bets out on how many times a day he calls you.”

Will opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a sharp knock on the lab door. He glanced up.

As if summoned by sheer force of discussion, Hannibal Lecter stepped inside—immaculately dressed in one of his winter wool coats, every inch the refined, unflappable gentleman. His eyes went first to Will and softened.

Will blinked. “Hannibal?”

“My heart,” Hannibal greeted, his voice warm, eyes fixed on his husband. “Forgive the intrusion. I’ve come to collect you. We have an appointment, remember?”

Will stood, brushing nonexistent dust off his shirt. “Right. I forgot.” He moved to meet Hannibal, who automatically stepped close, guiding a gloved hand to Will’s back and leaning in just slightly—his nose brushing just behind Will’s ear in a brief, discreet scenting gesture. A proprietary murmur. An omega’s claim.

Across the room, Beverly and Alana exchanged looks behind raised eyebrows and restrained smiles.

“Will's husband,” Alana murmured to Beverly, “just did a full possessive pass in less than six seconds.”

“Elegant,” Beverly agreed. “Five stars. Very efficient.”

Will turned slightly toward them. “I can hear you.”

“You’re meant to,” Alana grinned.

“Apologies,” Hannibal said without a single trace of sincerity, turning to them politely. “Ladies. I trust my husband hasn’t been corrupted too badly by idle gossip?”

Will rolled his eyes. “We’re going now.”

Hannibal gave a graceful little incline of his head. “We have an appointment.”

Alana raised a brow. “For what?”

Will opened his mouth, paused, and looked at Hannibal.

“Prenatal massage,” Hannibal said smoothly.

Will coughed and turned slightly pink as Alana and Beverly choked back laughter.

“I hate you,” Will muttered as Hannibal herded him toward the door.

“You adore me,” Hannibal said smugly.

Will turned back to them, half-sheepish. “We’ll pick this up later?”

“Sure,” Alana said smoothly. “Have fun.”

Beverly waved them off. “Try not to make another baby.”

Will gave them both a withering look and let himself be herded from the room, Hannibal guiding him out with the faintest pressure at the small of his back.

As the door shut behind them, Alana turned to Beverly with a quiet laugh. “They’re such a weird pairing. He’s all feral grumble and flannel, and Hannibal is... well... Hannibal.”

Beverly snorted. “Yeah, but it works. They’re both completely gone for each other.”

Alana nodded, thoughtful. “It’s almost terrifying how much. But... also kind of sweet.”

Beverly smirked. “Emphasis on kind of.”

The brisk winter air greeted them as they stepped out of the FBI building and made their way to the car. Hannibal adjusted his coat carefully over his expanding middle with a slight huff of annoyance. Will, walking beside him, held out a hand without a word to unlock the car, catching the subtle wince on Hannibal’s face as he tried to buckle the seatbelt over his belly.

“You alright?” Will asked, watching him with faint amusement.

“I’m fine,” Hannibal replied, annoyed at the seatbelt more than anything else. “But my suits are not. I’m starting to feel like an overstuffed goose.”

Will laughed as he started the engine. “Hence the emergency tailor appointment?”

Hannibal gave him a mild look. “One must maintain a proper silhouette, no matter the circumstances. It’s about dignity.”

“Of course,” Will muttered, pulling out onto the road. “Though, if you wanted dignity, you might’ve come up with a better excuse than prenatal massage when Alana asked what our appointment was.”

Hannibal’s eyes twinkled. “I rather enjoyed watching you blush. You’re very endearing when flustered.”

Will groaned, thumping his head back against the seat. “You’re a menace.”

“A menace you adore.”

Will tried to hide the smile tugging at his lips but failed. “Fine. But next time you’re going to do that, give me a warning. Beverly and Alana are never going to let me live that down.”

“They already tease you relentlessly,” Hannibal said, smoothing a hand over the front of his coat. “What difference does one more incident make?”

Will huffed a soft laugh. “Fair.”

There was a beat of silence before Hannibal asked, “What were you all discussing when I arrived?”

Will smirked. “The baby. Or, more accurately, your ‘surprise’ pregnancy.”

Hannibal arched an elegant brow. “Ah.”

“They couldn’t believe you of all people had an unplanned child. Alana basically said she thought you were a walking planner.”

“Well,” Hannibal mused, “even the most meticulous minds may falter when tempted by potent alphas.”

Will turned to look at him incredulously. “Are you seriously blaming me?”

“I merely stated a fact,” Hannibal said, feigning innocence. “You do have a habit of becoming handsy in the kitchen.”

Will flushed. “That was one time—”

“Two,” Hannibal corrected, smug. “And once in the pantry.”

Will muttered something unintelligible under his breath that made Hannibal smile with delight.

They drove on for a few minutes in companionable quiet, until Will glanced over again.

“You know,” he said more softly, “it is kind of funny. We’ve got this big age gap between the kids now. Mischa was planned. Abigail too. And now we’ve got a fourteen-year-old, an eight-year-old, and...a fetus. What happened to our neat little timeline?”

Hannibal rested a hand over his stomach, eyes warm. “Life, as you once told me, rarely follows a neat path. And besides, the age gap offers advantages.”

Will snorted. “Like free babysitting?”

“And excellent mentoring,” Hannibal countered smoothly. “Mischa has already compiled a list of parenting advice, some of which is quite insightful. If a little... blunt.”

Will laughed. “That kid’s going to be ridiculously spoiled.”

“And deeply loved,” Hannibal said, more quietly this time.

Will reached over and briefly covered Hannibal’s hand with his own. “Yeah. That too.”

They sat like that for a moment, hands clasped, soft music from the radio filling the silence as the car turned toward the tailor’s street. Hannibal gave a contented sigh and muttered, “I hope they still have that bolt of merino I liked. If not, we may need to visit Milan.”

Will rolled his eyes. “You’re pregnant, not attending Fashion Week.”

“I can be both,” Hannibal replied primly.

Will just laughed.

The tailor’s shop was tucked into the corner of a narrow brick building that screamed old money and older secrets. Inside, it smelled of cedar, wool, and expensive aftershave. The tailor, an elegant older man with silver at his temples and the sort of accent no one could quite place, greeted them with reverence befitting royalty.

“Dr. Lecter. A pleasure, as always. And Mr. Graham, welcome back.”

Will offered a polite nod. “Thanks. I’m just here to carry things and get scowled at for having opinions.”

The tailor chuckled. “Ah, yes. A supporting role. Essential, though rarely appreciated.”

Hannibal gave Will a look of amused fondness. “You are always appreciated.”

“Sure,” Will muttered. “Until I tell you that seven buttons down the front is excessive.”

The fitting was… long.

Will sat through Hannibal being measured, pinned, adjusted, and occasionally grumbling under his breath about “cheap American wool” and “the tragic decline of waistcoat culture.” Will gave helpful feedback like, “That one makes your ass look great” and “You’ll probably wear it once and then hate it.”

Still, Hannibal was clearly in his element. And Will? He was mostly just glad to see him glowing and fussed over.

Later, they returned to the house laden with garment bags, greeted instantly by Mischa’s loud voice echoing from the living room.

“They’re home!” she shouted. “Get ready to rate!”

Abigail appeared at the top of the stairs, grinning. “Did you spend more than our college funds?”

Will, still holding the bags, groaned. “Yes.”

Hannibal sailed past him with a regal air. “Presentation is everything.”

Mischa and Abigail shared a look, then dropped onto the couch in perfect sync, arms crossed.

“Model them,” Abigail said flatly.

“I beg your pardon?” Hannibal blinked.

“You always make us try on every possible outfit,” Mischa added. “It’s your turn.”

Will smirked and set the bags down. “Oh yes, I want to see this too.”

With the melodramatic flair of a stage actor, Hannibal sighed and swept into the bedroom.

Fifteen minutes — and one dramatic button mishap — later, Hannibal emerged in a deep navy three-piece ensemble, perfectly tailored to accommodate his bump, the jacket cut just right to maintain his sleek silhouette.

The girls stared.

“…You look like a villain in a French heist movie,” Abigail muttered.

Hannibal tilted his chin. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t say it was a compliment.”

“I took it as one.”

Will leaned against the doorway, watching the exchange fondly.

Mischa narrowed her eyes. “Okay but you’re actually glowing. Is that a pregnancy thing or just smugness?”

“Both,” Will said.

“It’s mostly smugness,” Hannibal replied smoothly.

They made him try on two more outfits, including the merlot suit (which he claimed he hated but clearly loved), and by the end of it, Will was lounging on the couch with both girls leaning against him, all three watching Hannibal parade like a couture cat.

“Alright, alright,” Hannibal muttered, loosening his tie after the last suit. “Have you had your fun?”

“Yes,” the girls chimed.

Will just smiled and said, “You’re stunning. Also terrifying. You could kill a man with a pocket square.”

“I have,” Hannibal replied mildly.

“And people say I’m the scary one,” Will muttered.

---

It was a quiet evening in early spring. The soft Baltimore breeze filtered in through the open windows, carrying the scent of lilacs from the garden. Hannibal and Will sat on the back porch, wrapped in a shared blanket, Mischa long since put to bed upstairs. A half-finished bottle of wine sat forgotten between them, and the cicadas hummed somewhere beyond the hedges.

Will sipped his glass and gave Hannibal a sideways look. “You’ve been thoughtful all evening. What’s circling that brilliant mind of yours?”

Hannibal was quiet for a moment, his eyes fixed on the stars. Then he exhaled, slow and deliberate. “I’ve been thinking… about children. About another child.”

Will blinked, surprised. “You want a second?”

“I do,” Hannibal admitted. “Mischa is thriving. She's curious, intelligent, already charming in her own way. But by the time a second child was born, there would be a six-year age gap.”

Will furrowed his brow, but Hannibal turned toward him, his face illuminated by the amber porch light.

“I was six years older than my Mischa,” he said softly. “At that age, I could truly understand her. I remember every smile, every laugh. I doted on her. Protected her. Worshiped her, really.” A pause. “It made me… better.”

Will didn’t speak for a long moment, just watched him.

“I never had siblings,” he said finally. “Just me and my dad. And that was… complicated.”

Hannibal gave a small hum of understanding.

“But Mischa—our Mischa—is the best thing that ever happened to me.” Will’s voice was thick with emotion he rarely gave name to. “Having her, watching her with you… I’ve never been more sure of anything. So if you want another—”

“I do,” Hannibal said, almost instantly, like it had been waiting on the edge of his tongue.

Will smiled. “Then we’re having another.”

Hannibal’s shoulders relaxed visibly. “You’re certain?”

Will nodded. “Another kid to chase after. Someone for Mischa to look after and boss around. Another baby for you to dress like a French doll and feed gourmet purées.”

Hannibal’s lips curled. “And for you to sneak fast food to behind my back.”

Will snorted. “Guilty.”

They sat in companionable silence again, the fire crackling low. Hannibal reached for Will’s hand, their fingers threading together.

---

The hospital room was quiet except for the soft hum of machines and the occasional beep from monitors. Morning light filtered in through the wide window, casting gentle gold across the room where Hannibal sat propped in bed, his hair slightly damp and tousled, a serene expression on his face.

Cradled in his arms was Abigail—only a few hours old, swaddled tightly in pale blue, her tiny face scrunched in sleep. Hannibal looked down at her like she was art. Fragile. Perfect. A creation he and Will had made together.

The door creaked open.

Will stepped in first, hair still windblown from rushing between home and hospital, and beside him was Mischa—six years old, in a navy jumper with sparkly shoes, clutching a handmade card in one hand and a slightly squashed stuffed rabbit in the other.

She froze when she saw them.

Will gave her a gentle nudge. “Go on. She’s waiting.”

Mischa stepped forward slowly, her wide brown eyes fixed on the bundle in Hannibal’s arms. “That’s her?” she whispered.

Hannibal smiled softly. “Yes, darling. Come closer.”

She crept to the bedside like she was approaching something sacred. “She’s so tiny,” she breathed.

“She was born early this morning,” Will said. “Your Motina was amazing. Brave and strong.”

Mischa blinked up at Hannibal, her voice quiet. “Are you okay?”

Hannibal's heart swelled. “I am more than okay. Would you like to hold her?”

Mischa hesitated, clearly terrified she might break this impossibly small person. But Hannibal adjusted himself and carefully nestled Abigail into her sister’s lap, keeping one hand steady beneath her.

Mischa stared down at her new sister, lips parting in silent awe.

“She smells weird,” she whispered.

Will laughed softly behind her. “She’s only a few hours old.”

“Her nose is really smushed,” Mischa added, peering closer. “She looks like a potato.”

Hannibal raised a brow. “A beloved potato.”

Mischa frowned. “I like her.”

“She already likes you,” Hannibal said. “She heard your voice all the time.”

Mischa blinked. “She did?”

“I used to read to you both,” Hannibal said. “She always kicked when you talked.”

Mischa grinned—wide and proud.

Mischa, serious now. “I’m going to protect her. If anyone is mean to her, I’ll—” she paused, then whispered, “—cut their shoelaces.”

Will smiled. “That’s a very noble threat.”

Mischa beamed. “She’s our baby now.”

Hannibal watched the two of them, his heart unbearably full. Will leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

“She’s perfect,” Will murmured.

“So is her sister,” Hannibal whispered back.

Mischa didn’t look up. She was too busy humming softly to her baby sister, the stuffed rabbit tucked beside them like a witness to a promise.

And thus, Abigail Lecter-Graham entered her strange, dangerous, fiercely loving family—already claimed, already protected.

---

The Lecter-Graham home sat like a painting carved into the landscape — tall, elegant, too pristine for a man like Will Graham. But not for Hannibal. Hannibal dripped opulence. The estate, like the man himself, was flawlessly composed, hiding the rot beneath the gold leaf.

Jack sat in an unmarked SUV parked just far enough into the treeline to see the driveway. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for anymore. Proof? A mistake? A crack in the frame?

Instead, he found a family.

The porch light flicked on around 7:30. Will stepped out with a trash bag, wearing an old sweatshirt and mismatched socks. Behind him, the girls’ laughter rang through the open door. Jack watched as Mischa poked her head out to say something — she looked annoyed. Will said something back. She rolled her eyes. Abigail darted past them, barefoot, shrieking with delight.

Ordinary.

Will bent down, picked up Abigail, and spun her in a circle. She squealed. He smiled.

Jack’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

How could a killer come from this house?

And yet… how could it be anything else?

Later that night, the upstairs windows glowed warm. Jack raised binoculars, feeling grimy as he spied through the glass.

The family was gathered in what looked like a sitting room. Hannibal — in a robe, tea cup in hand — reclined on the couch, visibly tired but visibly loved. Will sat beside him, arm resting along the back of the couch. Mischa was curled at her Motina’s feet with a book. Abigail dozed in an oversized chair.

Hannibal looked up.

Jack froze.

The omega’s eyes locked, just for a second, with Jack’s binoculars. No shift in expression. Just… awareness. He knew.

Jack lowered the glass.

He felt like he had just lost a round of chess he didn’t know he was playing.

“They’re hiding something,” he muttered. “But is it murder… or just each other?”

Hannibal lifted his teacup to his lips, eyes calm, hand steady.

Chamomile. His least favorite. But it was good for the baby, so he endured it.

He felt the warmth of Will beside him on the couch, his alpha’s weight a quiet comfort. Their daughters surrounded them — Mischa on the floor in a nest of pillows, Abigail half-asleep in the oversized chair with her tablet still playing a show.

It was peaceful.

Almost.

Hannibal turned his head slightly — gaze drifting to the front windows.

Something… prickled. A whisper of awareness, like a piano key struck in the wrong key from across a crowded room. He sipped his tea and let his eyes drift past the reflection in the glass. There. A shimmer of light. A subtle glint.

Binoculars.

Ah.

Hello, Jack.

His pulse didn’t rise. Not truly.

But the predator within him stirred.

It had been years since he’d had to truly hunt. Since he’d had to move quietly through danger, wrapping his hands around threats with precision and efficiency. And now, Jack was sniffing at the perimeter — circling like a wolf too stupid to know he’d wandered into a lion’s den.

He turned his gaze back to the room.

Will said something soft. Mischa rolled her eyes in reply, teasing him with all the fire of a young alpha-in-the-making. Abigail’s head dipped lower on her pillow, a content sigh escaping her lips.

Hannibal’s fingers brushed his belly absently, the baby shifting in response.

This was what Jack wanted to threaten.

He will not have it.

He may watch. He may circle. But he will not break this house.

Hannibal reached for the remote and turned off the lights in the front half of the house. No sudden movement. Just a signal.

Let Jack sit in the dark now.

Chapter 15: The Marionette and the Maestro

The house was asleep. Will had been curled protectively around him upstairs, their bond humming quietly beneath Hannibal’s skin like the murmur of a low violin note. Mischa had fallen asleep in bed reading The Odyssey, and Abigail’s unicorn nightlight glowed through her door.

But Hannibal was could not rest.

He moved through the house like a shadow — silent, elegant, deliberate — every footstep precise. He entered his private study, the one Will rarely intruded upon without invitation. From a hidden panel behind the bookshelf, he removed a lockbox. Inside: a USB drive, three burner phones, a MetroCard from DC, and a file folder marked “Contingency E.”

The contents were meticulous.

• A complete psychological profile of Dr. Frederick Chilton.

• Manipulated therapy notes falsely “authored” by Chilton, dated years back.

• Photos doctored to show Chilton near crime scenes.

• DNA samples — planted months ago — currently awaiting discovery.

And most importantly: a letter, signed in a trembling hand, written by “Chilton” under Hannibal’s careful orchestration. It was paranoid, erratic, desperate. A confession. A final note from a man spiraling under the weight of his crimes.

“If they ever find this… know I only wanted to be seen. To be known. Like Lecter. But better.”

Later that night, a man in a coat too expensive for the neighborhood dropped the file into a locked desk drawer. The apartment had no photographs, no traces of identity. It was sterile, barren — a ghost’s sanctuary.

Hannibal moved from room to room, wiping prints, erasing presence. On the kitchen counter, he left a single silver cufflink.

The next morning, Will blinked sleep from his eyes as Hannibal emerged from the closet, buttoning a dark navy shirt over his stomach with unusual calm.

“You’re up early,” Will muttered.

“Just tying off a few threads,” Hannibal replied smoothly, adjusting his cuff. “I believe our friend Dr. Chilton may soon suffer a… crisis of credibility.”

Will watched him warily. “You’re doing something.”

Hannibal turned to face him. “Always, my love. But this time? I’m doing it for us. For the children.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand covering Will’s.

“We survive because we plan. Because we stay three steps ahead.”

Will looked at their intertwined fingers. “And if Jack doesn’t fall for it?”

A pause. Hannibal’s smile was cold, composed.

“Then we disappear. Together.”

---

The drive back from the lab had been quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet Jack had learned to distrust over decades of tracking the worst humanity had to offer.

He laid out the new files on his desk, one by one. DNA results. Recovered psychiatric notes. Photographic evidence.

Chilton’s name was everywhere.

The techs were buzzing with excitement. A partial match had come back from a preserved ligature — skin cells under the fingernails of a victim from two years ago. Frederick Chilton. No one had ever even suspected him.

Now?

Now there were therapy transcripts — unstable, grandiose ramblings signed “Dr. F. Chilton.” There were references to “becoming greater than Lecter,” and chilling passages detailing dismemberment, posture, even musical staging.

“The strings must be cut precisely. The organs must be cleaned and tuned. A body should sing, not scream.”

Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Christ.”

There were photographs too — Chilton at lectures in cities that matched murder sites. A grainy security still of him outside a gas station near where a victim had disappeared.

It was damning.

It was too damning.

Jack stared at the board — red string tracing murder sites, overlapping with the new Chilton data. He was alone, but he kept hearing Will’s voice in his head.

“You see what you expect to see. Until you can’t.”

And now Jack was seeing something else.

A trap.

“He’s good,” Jack muttered. “He’s damn good.”

Chilton was egotistical, annoying, and insecure. But a killer like the Chesapeake Ripper? Calculating, brilliant, disciplined?

Chilton could barely tie his own damn tie without help.

Jack stood and stared out the window at the night-washed Quantico skyline.

“Then who?” he whispered.

The answer twisted in his gut, sickening and unshakable.

Lecter.

Elegant, untouchable. Hannibal Lecter had killed two men in self-defense while six months pregnant — without breaking a sweat. Jack had been there. He had seen it.

And Will? God, Will had gone to hell and back for that man. Had protected him. Had maybe helped him.

Jack clenched his jaw.

“So which one of you sons of bitches am I playing chess with?”

---

The scent of vanilla and browned butter wrapped around her like a blanket as Abigail perched on the high stool by the counter, feet swinging in mismatched socks. Hannibal stood before her in a crisp apron, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, a faint dusting of flour clinging to the curve of his baby bump. The setting sun lit the kitchen in warm golds, soft and perfect.

“You overmixed it,” Hannibal said gently, eyeing the dough she had just stirred.

“I didn’t!” Abigail said, scandalized. “I barely stirred it like three times.”

“Seven,” Hannibal corrected mildly. “You stirred it seven times, and you were aggressive.”

Abigail pouted.

“They’re cookies, not a souffle.”

“Everything we make deserves care,” Hannibal replied. “Even second-grade cookies for a party.”

He reached over with delicate fingers and adjusted the bowl angle, nudging the spoon toward her.

“Try again. Fold, not stir. You are inviting the chocolate chips into the dough, not marching them in formation.”

“Motina,” Abigail giggled, “they’re chips. They don’t have feelings.”

“That’s what poor bakers say,” Hannibal intoned, utterly serious.

Abigail snorted with laughter and resumed folding the dough with exaggerated grace.

“Like this?”

“Better,” he said, smiling as he watched her.

She glanced at him sideways, noting the way he winced slightly as he adjusted his stance. She frowned.

“Are you okay?”

“Just a cramp,” Hannibal replied. “Your sibling seems determined to learn parkour in utero.”

Abigail paused her dough folding to press a small hand against his belly. A gentle kick tapped back in response.

“Hi,” she whispered.

“They've been very active today,” Hannibal said softly, resting his hand over hers. “Perhaps he smells the cookies.”

“They're already like you,” she grinned. “Picky and dramatic.”

Hannibal raised a brow. “Dramatic?”

“Motina, you made me restart the butter because it splattered.”

“Presentation matters. You’ll thank me when your classmates are weeping over the perfection of your cookies.”

She giggled again, scooping the dough onto the baking sheet now with practiced precision.

“You’re the best, you know,” she said, eyes on the tray.

Hannibal didn’t reply right away. Instead, he moved to set the oven and then leaned against the counter beside her.

“You are the best thing I’ve ever made,” he said quietly.

Abigail blinked up at him, cheeks warm.

“You’re gonna make me cry,” she mumbled, grinning.

“Don’t cry into the cookies,” Hannibal warned. “Salt is carefully measured.”

They both laughed, and she leaned into his side. Hannibal wrapped an arm around her, resting his chin lightly against the top of her head.

“Thanks for helping,” she said. “I like this.”

“So do I.”

Will pushed the door open with his hip, arms full of groceries and muddy paw prints trailing behind him courtesy of Winston. Mischa followed with her backpack slung over one shoulder and a bag of fencing gear over the other, muttering about her history teacher assigning weekend reading.

The moment they stepped inside, the smell hit them—rich chocolate, vanilla, browned sugar, and a little something more delicate… citrus?

“Cookies,” Mischa said flatly, sniffing the air. “Abigail’s been baking again.”

Will kicked off his boots and grinned.

“Smells like heaven.”

“Or Motina's version of it. Which is much tidier than regular heaven.”

The kitchen was awash in warm light. Abigail stood proudly at the counter, cheeks flushed, arranging perfectly golden cookies on a wire rack. Hannibal was seated at the island, teacup in hand, legs crossed, bump prominent under a dark navy sweater. He looked smug.

Will paused in the doorway and just stared for a moment.

Abigail and Hannibal both glanced up.

“Ta-da!” Abigail announced. “You’re just in time to try one. But only one—they’re for school.”

“I make no promises,” Will said, already reaching for the smallest one.

Mischa beat him to it.

“I’ve had combat drills easier than trying to get a cookie past Motina,” she said, biting into one and sighing. “Okay, okay, I’ll admit it. They’re stupidly good.”

“Thank you,” Hannibal said, like she’d just reviewed a five-course tasting menu. “Though Abigail deserves most of the credit.”

“Motina only helped a little,” Abigail beamed. “He just did the folding part. And the measuring. And the shaping. And the temperature.”

Mischa snorted.

“So... you did the moral support?”

“Exactly.”

Will took a bite and groaned. “God, these are good.”

“That’s what I said,” Abigail beamed.

Mischa leaned over and carefully picked up another cookie, keeping her eyes on Hannibal.

“I’m testing for consistency,” she explained innocently.

“Of course you are,” Hannibal drawled.

Will leaned against the counter, watching his family with quiet contentment. Abigail was practically vibrating with pride, Mischa was hoarding cookies under the guise of critique, and Hannibal—his beautiful, brilliant omega—sat sipping tea like he hadn't just transformed their kitchen into a French patisserie.

Will reached for one more cookie and caught Hannibal’s raised brow.

“I'm your mate. That earns me a second cookie.”

“And a third heart attack, apparently,” Hannibal murmured, though his smile gave him away.

Mischa laughed. “Dad’s already halfway to a sugar coma.”

Abigail handed him a cookie anyway.

“Just don’t eat the heart-shaped ones. Those are mine.”

---

Will had been staring at the same photograph for ten minutes — not because it held any revelations, but because his hands were too restless to be idle, and his mind too busy to settle.

He knew Jack was circling. He could feel it. The air in the building had changed. A subtle tension. Like something just off-screen holding its breath.

When the knock came, Will didn’t look up.

“It’s open.”

Jack stepped inside, carrying a manila folder and that same graveyard look he wore at every crime scene. He didn’t sit.

“We need to talk.”

Will met his eyes — calm, unreadable. “About what?”

“Chilton.”

Will raised a brow. “He’s your Ripper now, right? All tied up in a bow?”

Jack didn’t smile. He closed the door.

“That’s the problem. He’s too neat. Too… constructed.”

“And now I keep thinking: Was it always Chilton? Or did I just get tired of suspecting someone I didn’t want to lose?”

Will’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing.

Jack placed the file on Will’s desk. “I’ve been going over everything. From New Orleans. From your transfer. From every moment Hannibal Lecter stepped into the Bureau’s orbit.”

Will’s fingers curled slightly. “You think I brought him in on purpose?”

Jack didn’t answer right away. He studied Will — really studied him. There was an edge to Will now. Smoother around Hannibal, more confident. Less feral. But that wildness still lived in his eyes. Especially when he was protecting something.

“You’re not the same, Will,” Jack said finally. “Not since the accident. Not since the remembering.”

Will’s eyes flickered — something deep and painful surfacing for just a breath.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to accuse me of, Jack.”

Jack exhaled. Sat down slowly.

“You were the best profiler I ever had. The best friend I ever had in the field. I watched you lose your mind trying to catch the Ripper. And now I’m wondering if you were losing your mind because you already knew who he was.”

Will said nothing.

Jack leaned forward.

“So I’m going to ask you once. Not as your boss. Not as the head of Behavioral Sciences. But as someone who’s been in your home. Who’s seen you with your daughters. Who watched you fall apart when Hannibal was almost taken from you.”

“Did you know?”

The silence hung heavy.

Will finally spoke — quiet and restrained.

“If you had proof, Jack, you wouldn’t be here asking questions. You’d be walking me out in cuffs.”

Jack stared at him. Then rose slowly.

“You’re right.”

He picked up the file again.

“But I’ll find it. Or I’ll stop looking. I don’t know which would be worse.”

He left without another word.

Chapter 16: Chilton

Jack Crawford sat back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes heavy with sleepless nights. Across from him, Will wore his usual expression — somewhere between concern and annoyance, a signature blend.

“We’re making progress,” Jack said finally.

Will blinked. “On the Ripper case?”

Jack gave a short nod. “Frederick Chilton. Something’s not adding up with his timeline, and we found discrepancies in his hospital’s cadaver records going back a decade.”

Will kept his face neutral — too neutral. “Chilton? You’re sure?”

“Enough to move,” Jack said. “The man is arrogant. Narcissistic. Fancies himself untouchable. And now there’s evidence.”

Will nodded slowly, casting his eyes downward — an excellent impression of a man digesting shocking news. “I see. Do you… need me involved in questioning?”

“No,” Jack said. “We’ve taken up too much of your time already. Besides, you’ve got a family to think about.”

That part stung more than Jack intended — and less than he feared.

Will rose. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything else.”

---

That evening, Will stepped into their kitchen, still wearing his coat. Hannibal was at the stove, effortlessly elegant even in one of Will’s threadbare sweaters that clung lovingly to the curve of his seven-months-pregnant form.

“The lamb is nearly ready,” Hannibal said without looking up. “I took the liberty of making that lentil dish you love.”

Will walked straight up behind him and wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s waist, burying his face in his neck with a sigh.

“Jack bought it.”

Hannibal paused for only a heartbeat. “Did he now?”

“He’s going after Chilton.”

There was silence — just for a breath — and then Hannibal let out a low, satisfied hum. He stirred the lentils with almost insulting grace. “I do love when the evidence aligns so perfectly, don’t you?”

Will snorted and pulled back, just enough to glare at him. “You’re smug.”

“I am correct,” Hannibal corrected. “Which is always a satisfying condition.”

Will leaned against the counter, arms crossed, trying to keep a straight face. “You framed an entire man, Hannibal. Who does that while pregnant?”

Hannibal lifted a brow. “A multi-tasker.”

Will gave up and laughed, rubbing his face. “You are… insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are,” Hannibal said, placing a perfectly garnished plate in front of him. “Still terribly in love with me.”

Will picked up his fork. “God help me.”

Hannibal preened — radiant in his victory, in his safety, in his family wrapped around him like armor.

Jack Crawford could circle all he liked.

The house of Lecter-Graham stood strong.

---

Frederick Chilton was, by all outward appearances, an arrogant nuisance.

Jack had never taken him seriously—until now.

He hadn’t wanted to. He didn’t want to believe the Chesapeake Ripper could be anything but Hannibal Lecter. But as the investigation expanded into Chilton’s clinic, his past interviews, his travel logs, and—most damning—his purchase history…

…things began to shift.

Surgical tools ordered from a backchannel distributor.
Rare cookbooks with entire chapters on organ meats.
A copy of Hannibal’s published casework annotated by hand, filled with obsessive notes.

Too convenient?

Maybe.

But not impossible.

And that was the problem.

Jack didn’t believe in coincidences. But he knew better than to dismiss a pattern just because it was too perfect.

He stared at the map. Two pins—Lecter and Chilton—connected by red thread and overlapping timelines.

Maybe he’d been too close to Will. Too angry. Too betrayed.

Maybe he wanted Lecter to be the Ripper.

Maybe Hannibal Lecter was just the cleverest suspect Jack had ever hunted.

Or maybe…

…he was being played.

The worst part was how smug Chilton looked when Jack walked in.

Like he’d been waiting for this moment, savoring the idea of being the center of something.

Even if that something was a murder investigation.

“You should have made an appointment,” Chilton said, lounging in his overpriced chair like a man who’d never once seen the inside of a real crime scene.

“I didn’t come to chat,” Jack said. “I came for answers.”

Chilton raised an eyebrow. “Answers about what?”

“The Chesapeake Ripper.”

That got a reaction.

Subtle. Quick. A flicker behind the eyes.

Jack leaned forward.

“I’ve got timelines. Patient logs. Travel patterns. You've shown up where you had no business being.”

“I consult,” Chilton said quickly. “Professionally.”

“You mirror Hannibal Lecter’s methodology down to the garnish. And that’s not professional.”

Chilton’s mouth tightened.

“You’re serious,” he said. “You think I’m the Ripper?”

“I think I need to be thorough.”

Jack dropped the file on Chilton’s desk. Photos. Case notes. The forged voice memos. All carefully planted.

“You have enemies, Doctor. Or admirers. Either way, it doesn’t look good.”

For the first time, Chilton’s smugness faltered.

He flipped through the photos.

Sweat gathered at his temple.

Jack watched him squirm.

Let him feel it.

He didn’t know if Chilton was guilty.

But someone wanted him to be.

“We’ve collected DNA analysis. Found your prints at Ripper sites. We’ve tracked your movements. Records don’t match.”

Chilton’s lip curled. He adjusted his glasses.

“I’m a doctor in a hospital, not a murderer. This is preposterous.”

Jack spread out a folder of documents: handcuff receipts, store surveillance, lab logs.

“You transferred cadavers. Unlogged. You’re using the bodies to practice surgical techniques—ones that match the Ripper’s signature.”

Chilton’s face went pale when he saw the entries.

“I—I didn’t realize… those were relevant.”

Jack, leaning forward, “Those techniques—the organ placement, the precision—it is relevant.”

Chilton’s eyes darted away, throat bobbing. He bit his lip.

“I’m... I’m trying to save lives. To understand trauma.”

Jack stiffened. “You’re hiding something. Or you were until we laid out the pieces.”

Chilton’s hands scrabbled at the folder. “I’m not the Ripper.”

“The DNA doesn’t lie.”

Chilton swallowed hard. He looked defeated. “I… I didn’t kill anyone.”

Jack stepped out, face grim. He passed two agents waiting with fresh mugs of coffee.

“You gonna lock him up?”

Jack rubbed his forehead. “He’s… convincing. Terrified. But he’s also cagey. It’s what he does.”

He looked back at the room, then down the hall where Will’s framed profile sat on a wall. He shook his head.

“Still missing something.”

He walked on, determined.

---

Mischa wiped down the dining room table with slow, methodical strokes. She glanced over at Abigail, who was perched on a stool, polishing the silverware with excessive care for someone who was definitely pretending to be overwhelmed by the magnitude of their chore.

“You know,” Mischa said, flipping the cloth in her hand with practiced flair, “if you buff any slower, the forks are going to get dusty again before you finish.”

“Excuse me for respecting the art of fine dining,” Abigail said with a dramatic huff, holding a spoon up like it was a sacred relic.

Mischa smirked.

“You're polishing like Motina now.”

“That’s the goal,” Abigail said, grinning proudly. “He has standards.”

Mischa rolled her eyes and set the cloth aside, walking over to flop onto the nearby couch with a groan. “He also alphabetizes the pantry. Do you want to become that?”

Abigail shrugged. “I mean… he’s kind of perfect. You have to admit it.”

“Oh, I admit it,” Mischa said. “That doesn’t mean I want to become him. Do you know how exhausting it must be, caring about symmetry that much?”

Abigail laughed, setting down the spoon and joining her sister on the couch. She curled into Mischa’s side without hesitation, head resting against her shoulder.

“You’re a good big sister, you know,” she said softly.

Mischa blinked. “That was random.”

“I mean it,” Abigail mumbled, nudging her. “You’ve been there through everything. When Dad forgot. When Motina was sick. All of it.”

Mischa swallowed and looked at the ceiling. “Yeah. Well. That’s the job, right? Big sister. Mini-alpha in training.”

“You’re more than that.”

Mischa didn’t know what to say. She just leaned her cheek against Abigail’s head and let the silence settle. For all their teasing, the sibling bond ran deep, midnight talks, grocery store misadventures, inside jokes, and stolen cookies when Hannibal wasn’t looking.

“You ever think about what it’ll be like with a baby around again?” Abigail asked.

Mischa snorted. “Loud. Messy. Slightly terrifying.”

“Think they’ll like us?”

“Please. We’re amazing. They’ll be obsessed.”

Abigail giggled.

“Do you think Dad’s ready for a baby again?”

Mischa grinned.

“Dad would walk through fire barefoot if Motina asked him to. He’s always ready.”

“Yeah,” Abigail said, smiling softly. “They’re kind of the best.”

Mischa nodded, then bumped her sister’s shoulder.

“Now c’mon. We have like, five more forks to polish and Motina will know if we skip any.”

Abigail had just returned to her silverware polishing when the sound of the back door opening made her perk up.

“Hello?” Will’s voice called through the hall.

“We’re in here, Dad!” she shouted, grinning.

Mischa glanced up from wiping the baseboards—something Hannibal insisted “finished the look”—and rolled her eyes.

Will appeared in the doorway looking suspiciously like a man trying to escape the horrors of the garage. He had grease on his jeans and a small smear of something black near his cheekbone.

“What are you two up to?” he asked, eyeing the polished dining set and glinting silver.

“Being productive, unlike some people,” Mischa said, arching a brow.

Will held up his hands in mock defense. “Hey, I fixed the cabinet door. That thing’s been squeaking since 1980.”

“And you got motor oil on your shirt. Again,” Mischa pointed out.

“Occupational hazard,” Will replied. Then he stepped forward and snagged a fork. “Okay, I want to help. Hand me a cloth.”

Mischa and Abigail exchanged a look.

“You sure about that?” Abigail said, biting back a laugh.

“Don’t insult me,” Will said, taking a cloth. “I’ve seen Motina do this a thousand times.”

He set to work rubbing the fork with more force than necessary.

“It’s a spoon,” Mischa said dryly, arms crossed.

“No it’s not,” Will looked. “...Oh. Okay. Fair.”

Abigail giggled, nudging Mischa. “Look at him. Trying so hard.”

Will narrowed his eyes. “Mock me all you want. I am a national consultant. An esteemed profiler. I’ve been published.”

“And yet,” Mischa said, inspecting the utensil he just mangled with the cloth, “your polishing skills are sub-par.”

Abigail burst into full laughter.

“Motina would faint,” she wheezed. “Actually faint.”

Will held the offending spoon up like it had betrayed him personally.

“This is a hostile household,” he muttered.

“Only because we love you,” Mischa said sweetly, stealing the cloth and fixing the spoon. “And because you’re so easy to tease.”

Will smirked and leaned back against the table, watching them finish up.

“Alright, alright. I’ll retire to my true role: moral support.”

“That’s more your speed,” Abigail said, and then added under her breath, “...unless Motina asks you to do something, in which case you become a highly competent soldier of precision.”

Mischa cackled. “Right? It’s honestly amazing. You go from garbage raccoon alpha to refined domestic servant in 0.3 seconds flat when Motina enters the room.”

Will clutched his chest.

“I am wounded.”

“We’re just speaking truth,” Mischa said, nudging him.

Will threw an arm around each of them, pulling them both in despite protests.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he said. “Even if you are tiny gremlins who gang up on me.”

“You love us because we gang up on you,” Abigail said smugly.

“And because we’re hilarious,” Mischa added.

Will laughed and kissed the top of both their heads. “Fine. But don’t tell Motina I ruined the spoon.”

“We already texted him,” Abigail said cheerfully, holding up her phone.

“Traitors!”

Will was still trying to reclaim his dignity when the soft click of polished shoes echoed down the hallway.

The girls froze like deer caught mid-mischief.

“Motina’s home,” Abigail stage-whispered.

“Don’t look suspicious,” Mischa whispered back.

“You two literally just outed me to him via text—” Will started, but was immediately silenced by the unmistakable voice that floated in from the entry.

“I see you’ve all been busy.”

Hannibal stepped into the room, elegant as ever—even seven months pregnant and visibly tired, he still managed to look like the picture of European serenity. His slacks were crisp, his shirt perfectly tailored around his growing bump, and his hair artfully tousled like he’d just walked off the set of a lifestyle magazine.

His gaze flicked once—just once—across the table.

And landed directly on the spoon.

The bent, unevenly polished, still-somehow-smudged spoon Will had valiantly ruined.

“Ah,” Hannibal said, approaching like a shark circling his prey. “What… is this?”

He plucked it delicately between two fingers as if it had offended him on a spiritual level.

Will cleared his throat.

“A spoon.”

Hannibal tilted his head slowly. One brow lifted, arching with exquisite precision.

“Was a spoon.”

Mischa snorted.

“We tried to stop him.”

“He was very insistent,” Abigail added, struggling not to laugh.

Hannibal turned the spoon in his hand, inspecting the damage like a jeweler examining a counterfeit gem.

“This was… part of my family’s silver,” he said, tone dry as kindling. “German. 19th century. Etched by hand.”

Will grimaced.

“...Still technically silver.”

Hannibal sighed and walked to the drawer where the polishing cloths were kept. As he took a fresh one, he gave Will a sidelong look.

“You are not to polish anything unsupervised.”

Will placed a hand over his heart.

“Swear on my life.”

“He even asked for a cloth like he was confident,” Abigail added, ever helpful.

“He said he’d seen you do it ‘a thousand times,’” Mischa chimed in, doing air quotes.

Hannibal’s mouth twitched—just slightly.

“And yet the execution was… lacking.”

“A crime, some might say,” Will muttered.

“Indeed,” Hannibal replied. “Worthy of judgment.”

He held the mangled spoon up between them all. The girls giggled.

Will sighed dramatically and dropped into a chair.

“You’re all monsters.”

“Yes,” Hannibal said, finally smiling as he handed the spoon to Will. “But refined ones. Try again.”

Chapter 17: Nuggets

The afternoon sunlight slanted through the tall windows, casting warm golden bars across the living room rug. School bags lay forgotten by the front door, and two half-eaten bowls of strawberries and whipped cream sat on the coffee table.

Mischa lounged sideways on the couch, flipping lazily through a book. Abigail sat cross-legged on the floor, organizing a small pile of baby clothes into neatly folded stacks.

“Do you think this baby is going to be bald or fuzzy?” Abigail asked, holding up a miniature onesie printed with ducks.

Mischa glanced up, squinting. “Fuzzy. Motina said you were born looking like a little bear.”

“I was adorable,” Abigail said matter-of-factly, then held up the onesie. “You think the baby will fit in this? It's so tiny.”

Mischa shrugged and sat up, closing her book. “Babies are weirdly small. And loud. I remember you crying when I was little.”

“I didn’t cry that much,” Abigail argued. “I was very elegant.”

Mischa smirked. “You threw up on dad’s shoes once.”

They both dissolved into laughter. The laughter quieted after a moment. Mischa tilted her head and watched her sister. “How do you feel about all this? The baby, I mean. You’re not the baby anymore.”

Abigail paused, fingers curling into a tiny garment. “I don’t know. It’s weird.”

“Yeah,” Mischa nodded. “We’re gonna be so much older than this one. Like ancient sages of sibling wisdom.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “You’re fourteen, not eighty.”

Mischa ignored the jab. “You’ll be eight when the baby’s born. Old enough to help. Diapers, bottles, middle-of-the-night screams.”

Abigail made a face. “I don’t want to change diapers.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Mischa said cheerfully. Then, more gently, she added, “It’s okay if you’re not sure how to feel. I wasn’t sure when I found out either.”

Abigail looked up, brows knit. “Really? You seemed excited.”

“I am now,” Mischa admitted. “But I was also… nervous. Things are changing. Motina’s more tired. Dad’s running around like a headless chicken. We’re all kinda shifting.”

Abigail thought about that for a moment. “I guess I just hope they don’t forget about us.”

Mischa's expression softened. She got up, plopped beside her sister, and threw an arm around her. “They won’t. We’re their first weird babies. The baby’s just new. Like a novelty plushie. It doesn’t mean they love us less.”

Abigail leaned into the hug, quiet for a beat. “I think I’ll like being an older sibling. As long as the baby doesn’t chew my stuff.”

“They’ll chew everything,” Mischa warned. “We’ll need to defend your art supplies with our lives.”

They laughed again. The kind of laugh that made everything seem a little easier.

From the kitchen, the smell of dinner wafted in—something faintly sweet and definitely questionable.

Abigail scrunched her nose. “Do you think Motina’s cooking something normal tonight?”

Mischa deadpanned, “Abby, he’s pregnant. There’s a 50% chance it’s a normal meal, 30% chance it’s a crime against food, and 20% chance it’s an actual crime.”

Abigail grinned. “Want to go help?”

Mischa stood and offered her hand. “Let’s go make sure he doesn’t put blueberries in the lasagna again.”

The girls padded into the kitchen, a faint hum of classical music drifting through the overhead speakers. The scent hit them immediately—savory, rich, warm... and definitely strange.

Hannibal stood at the counter in one of his tailored aprons, sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows. His hair was pulled back in a ribbon that matched the embroidery on the apron. He was stirring something in a copper-bottomed pot with a gentle, practiced hand, humming along to Debussy. A bowl of diced mango sat on the butcher’s block. Next to it—a tin of anchovies, a wedge of brie, and a jar of pickled onions.

Mischa and Abigail froze in the doorway.

“...No,” Mischa said flatly.

Hannibal looked over his shoulder and gave them a smile. “Darlings. Come to help?”

“What is that?” Abigail asked, inching closer as though approaching a live bomb.

“A reduction,” Hannibal replied cheerfully, as if that answered everything. “I’m experimenting with a mango-anchovy glaze. It will pair beautifully with the rosemary leg of lamb.”

“That’s not a pairing,” Mischa muttered. “That’s a crime.”

“I’m a doctor, not a criminal,” Hannibal said without turning around.

"Debatable" Mischa muttered as she opened the fridge, hoping to find something better. “What’s this?” she asked, pulling out a mason jar filled with what looked suspiciously like gelatinous... something.

“Oh, that’s just aspic,” Hannibal said with a wave of his hand. “For the molded salad.”

“Molded salad?” Abigail echoed. “We’re not in the 1950s.”

“I added juniper berries,” Hannibal said serenely.

“Juniper berries don’t make it okay,” Mischa said, already moving toward the spice cabinet, probably to prevent him from adding cinnamon to a meat dish again.

Abigail peered into a mixing bowl on the sideboard. “Is this... is this truffle oil and marshmallow fluff?”

Hannibal looked genuinely affronted. “No, that’s whipped brie with cardamom and duck fat. Honestly.”

The girls exchanged a look.

Mischa folded her arms. “You’re not hosting another dinner party until the baby is born and your palate stabilizes.”

“That’s what your father said,” Hannibal sighed. “He has no vision.”

Abigail grinned. “Dad also said if you kept this up, he’d sneak us McDonald’s again.”

That got Hannibal’s attention. He slowly set down the spoon.

“Did he?” Hannibal asked, voice cool and measured.

“Yup,” Mischa said with a smirk. “He said he’d get us nuggets if this reduction ends up in dessert again.”

Hannibal narrowed his eyes. “He’s lucky I love him.”

Mischa swiped a spoon from the drawer and dipped it into the pot, sniffing cautiously.

She licked it.

Paused.

“...That’s actually not terrible,” she admitted. “Horrifying concept. Weird execution. But not terrible.”

“High praise from my harshest critic,” Hannibal said dryly.

Abigail looked into the oven. “So what’s for dessert?”

Hannibal smiled innocently. “Lavender panna cotta with a licorice drizzle.”

Both girls groaned.

Mischa muttered, “Dad better have the McNugget hotline ready.”

Later that evening, after Hannibal had retired to his study—probably to read some obscure Hungarian poetry while sipping a small glass of herbal pregnancy-safe tea—Will grabbed his keys from the hook by the door.

“Girls,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Operation Nuggets is a go.”

Mischa and Abigail jumped up from the couch like they’d just been drafted into a war. “Finally,” Mischa said, grabbing her coat. “I was one anchovy-glazed fruit salad away from losing my will to live.”

Abigail snorted. “Motina’s cooking has gone full chaotic neutral.”

They tiptoed out the front door like a group of teenagers sneaking out after curfew, only their crime was fast food. Within fifteen minutes, they were parked in the McDonald’s lot, shamefully devouring fries and spicy nuggets under the dim yellow light of the dashboard.

Will leaned back in the driver’s seat with a satisfied sigh. “See? This is what food’s supposed to be. No duck fat, no reduction, no emotional complexity.”

Mischa nodded. “Just grease and salt. Heaven.”

“I feel seen,” Abigail added, licking ketchup off her thumb.

“Your Motina’s going to kill me if he smells this in the car.”

“He won’t,” Abigail said. “We brought cologne wipes.”

Mischa held up a lavender-scented hand wipe like a medal of valor.

They were so smug.

Unfortunately for them, Hannibal Lecter had the timing of a horror movie villain and the nose of a bloodhound.

They had barely crossed the threshold into the house—bags emptied, wrappers hidden, coats sprayed with essential oils—when Hannibal emerged from the study.

He paused.

He sniffed the air once, subtly.

Then he turned and gave them the look.

“You smell like grease and betrayal.”

Mischa immediately betrayed them. “It was Dad’s idea.”

Will raised both eyebrows. “Wow. No loyalty.”

“Survival instinct,” Mischa said brightly.

“I see,” Hannibal said, voice calm. Too calm. “So the three of you conspired against your own Motina... in his hour of culinary brilliance... for McNuggets?”

“They’re delicious,” Abigail offered.

Will lifted his hands in surrender. “In my defense—”

“No,” Hannibal said as he glided forward like a judgmental wraith. “You fed our daughters chemical slop.”

Will gestured at the table. “They’re kids, Hannibal. They crave rebellion. And sodium.”

“I cooked four courses tonight.”

“You also tried to serve us marshmallow duck pudding.”

“It was a mousse, William. I hope it was worth it.”

Abigail whispered, “They were so worth it.”

Hannibal reappeared with a spatula. Not a murder spatula—just a judgmental one.

Will tried again. “Listen. You’re growing a human and your taste buds are on a sabbatical. We’re just making sure the rest of us don’t end up eating liver gelatin surprise.”

Mischa chimed in, “Which you made last week, Motina.”

Hannibal pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something in French that sounded unkind but elegant. “How could you eat processed meat from a clown.”

“Technically we didn’t see a clown—” Mischa started.

“—Just the husk of one in logo form,” Abigail supplied.

Will was trying not to laugh, and failing.

Hannibal pointed the spatula at him. “You, especially, should know better.”

Will chuckled and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around his very pregnant, very offended husband. “You know we love you. And your food. Most of the time.”

Hannibal huffed, still holding the spatula defensively.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Will murmured into his ear.

The spatula lowered slightly. “With what, exactly?”

Will’s grin turned wolfish. “Dessert.”

Abigail gagged.

Mischa grabbed a pillow from the couch and tossed it. “Please don’t flirt with food metaphors. Some of us live here.”

---

The next evening, the Lecter-Graham kitchen looked like a Michelin-starred laboratory. Hannibal stood at the center, pristine apron tied over his cashmere sweater, hair perfectly in place despite his very pregnant state. He surveyed the family—Will, Mischa, and Abigail—all standing at attention like culinary cadets.

Will squinted at the neatly organized prep table. “You’re making us work for nuggets.”

“I’m giving you dignity, Will,” Hannibal said. “Breaded, golden dignity.”

Abigail whispered to Mischa, “He’s mad-mad.”

Mischa whispered back, “Oh absolutely”

“Less whispering,” Hannibal warned without even turning around.

He pointed to a silver bowl. “Abigail, separate those eggs. Mischa, mix the spice blend—lightly. I’ve already prepared the brine.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “Where’d you get the chicken?”

Hannibal offered a cryptic smile. “Let’s just say… someone who mistook foie gras for cheese at Whole Foods.”

Will blinked. “Hannibal.”

“He was rude and uninformed. A rare combination I find irresistible.”

Abigail stared at the chicken pieces. “...So we’re eating a snob?”

“Rude snob,” Hannibal corrected. “He had opinions on truffle oil.”

Mischa gave a long, impressed whistle.

They worked in silence for a while—breading, seasoning, frying.

Will tried to sneak a bite, yelped, and shook his hand. “Still lava!”

“That’s because you lack patience,” Hannibal said serenely, handing him an oven mitt with a condescending pat.

Eventually, the platter of golden, steaming nuggets was ready.

They sat at the kitchen island, each with a tasting plate. Hannibal took a delicate bite. Will bit into one with feral enthusiasm.

Mischa blinked. “Oh my god. These are actually amazing.”

Abigail’s eyes widened. “Crispy. Tender. Juicy. This… this is dangerous.”

Will smirked. “You see? Murder does taste better.”

Hannibal hummed in agreement. “If you must indulge your cravings for such pedestrian fare, at least do it with integrity.”

Will leaned back with a sigh. “And a corpse.”

“And a corpse,” the girls echoed.

Hannibal lifted a nugget between two fingers, gazing at it fondly.

“Well,” he said with smug satisfaction, “now you know how to make fast food… Lecter style.”

Mischa nudged Abigail. “Still think we can sneak McDonald’s again?”

Abigail shook her head solemnly. “Not unless we want to wake up marinating in juniper and regret.”

Will whispered, “Totally still worth it.”

Hannibal smacked him with a dish towel.

After the last golden nugget was devoured, Hannibal rose from his stool like a general signaling the next phase of battle.

“Dessert,” he announced.

Will groaned. “Can’t we just… open the freezer and grab ice cream like normal people?”

Abigail snorted. “Did you just call us normal?”

Mischa rolled her eyes. “Dad, you’ve been married to our Motina for how long?”

“Too long to still hope for shortcuts,” Will muttered, already pulling out the blender.

Hannibal swept in and took it from him. “No. We don’t blend chaos. We compose milkshakes.”

He opened the fridge to reveal a suspiciously aesthetic arrangement: glass jars of handmade crème fraîche, small pouches of Madagascar vanilla beans, local cream from a farm he “personally vetted,” and dark chocolate ganache in an elegant glass container.

Will squinted at one label. “‘Vanilla bean infusion, steeped for 24 hours.’ Did you—”

“Yes,” Hannibal interrupted, “and I’m surprised you didn’t notice. I had to move your venison jerky to make room.”

Mischa poked at a small tin. “Are these… candied rose petals?”

Hannibal looked smug. “Edible garnish. We have standards.”

He pulled ingredients like an alchemist, instructing the family, “Mischa, whip the cream—gently. Abigail, crush the pistachios, not pulverize. Will—no touching the bourbon caramel swirl until I’ve layered the glasses.”

Will leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “This is more dramatic than our wedding cake.”

Hannibal gave him a look. “Our wedding cake did not involve hand-tempered chocolate ribbons.”

“It should have,” Will muttered, helping anyway.

Ten minutes later, each person had a towering milkshake in front of them, layered with absurd precision: house-made vanilla ice cream, bourbon caramel, shards of pistachio brittle, a swirl of ganache, and crowned with a swirl of cream and a single sugared petal.

The girls stared in awe.

Abigail whispered, “Okay. We can’t tell anyone this was made by our serial killer parent. It’s too beautiful.”

Mischa took a slow sip. “Oh my god.”

Will tilted his glass toward Hannibal. “You win. These are insane.”

“I know,” Hannibal replied with smug satisfaction. “Why settle for mediocrity?”

Will smirked, nudging Hannibal’s foot under the table. “You’ve tasted mediocrity. We call it McDonald’s.”

Hannibal narrowed his eyes. “Do not bring up the clown meat palace in my kitchen.”

Abigail snorted milkshake through her nose. Mischa wheezed. Will choked on laughter.

Hannibal sighed dramatically but allowed himself the ghost of a smile.

---

Jack stood near the bookshelves, arms folded, watching Hannibal carefully.

The omega psychiatrist was dressed in one of his tailored suits — though slightly looser than usual to accommodate his growing belly. Seven months pregnant and still the picture of calm control, Dr. Hannibal Lecter sat across from Jack with a cup of lapsang souchong in hand, posture impeccable.

“You’ve been consulting with us a long time, Hannibal. Always just outside the blast radius. Never touched by the blood.”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow, smooth as silk. “I try to be useful.”

Jack studied him. Too perfect, his mind whispered. But not impossible. Not… yet.

“You knew Chilton, didn’t you?”

“A professional acquaintance. He admired my work. A little too much, perhaps.”

“And you think he could be the Chesapeake Ripper?”

Hannibal tilted his head, contemplative. “I think Dr. Chilton craved notoriety more than nuance. But I leave judgments like that to you.”

Just then, the door opened with a soft knock. A small figure stepped inside.

“Motina?” came a voice full of light.

Abigail — eight years old, her dark hair in braids, her school bag slung over one shoulder — ran in and launched herself into Hannibal’s arms. He set his tea down and caught her effortlessly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Dad said to tell you we need to go home soon dinner’s almost ready!”

“Thank you, dragă. I’ll be along shortly.”

Jack watched as the girl burrowed into her parent’s side. Hannibal’s hand came to rest protectively on her shoulder. She turned to Jack and gave him a bright smile.

“Hi, Mr. Jack!”

“Hey there, Abigail.”

She waved and ran back out, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Jack looked back at Hannibal. For once, the omega looked… softened. Human. Fatherly.

“She’s sweet.”

“She is the joy of our home.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Jack exhaled and finally set the file in his hands down on Hannibal’s desk. “I came here to decide something. And I think I just did.”

Hannibal didn’t speak, just watched him with those ancient, unreadable eyes.

“You’ve helped the Bureau for years. I’ve seen you as a peer. A teacher. A friend to Will. A father. You’ve saved lives.”

Another beat. “I’m closing the investigation. Chilton’s guilt will hold. I won’t look any further.”

Hannibal’s expression didn’t change — but something loosened behind his gaze. A flicker of relief. A nod of acknowledgment. He rose from his chair, hand cradling the curve of his belly.

“Thank you, Jack.”

“Take care of your family, Hannibal.”

Hannibal, with the faintest, knowing smile replied, “Always.”

The house was silent. Bella was asleep in their room, and Jack sat alone in his office, the desk lamp casting a dim, golden glow over the clutter of files.

The folder in front of him had no official label. Just a small mark in his handwriting: H.L. — Final

Inside: photographs, fragments of timelines, analysis. Forensic notes that never made it to the Bureau’s system. A scarf with faint traces of type AB-negative blood. A half-burned monogrammed handkerchief from a murder scene. A sketch Will once scribbled, dazed, describing a mind as precise and artistic as a scalpel.

All circumstantial.

But all pointing—if you wanted them to—to Hannibal Lecter.

Jack stared at the scarf. He remembered where he found it: the edge of a ravine, buried under brush, too clean, too perfect. And at the time… he'd convinced himself it didn’t matter.

He could keep going. He could reopen the file. Question Will again. Follow the thread.

But then Jack thought of Abigail’s smile in Lecter’s office. The curve of Hannibal’s hand over his pregnant belly. Mischa’s fierce protectiveness. Will, finally whole again—finally happy.

And something inside Jack said: No.

He reached over and grabbed the fireplace poker.

The flames in the hearth were low, crackling softly. He fed the handkerchief in first, watching it curl and blacken. Then the photos. One by one. Paper turned to ash in his gloved hands.

The scarf was last. He hesitated.

It was silk. Burgundy. Elegant.

Just like the man it belonged to.

“I never really wanted to catch you, did I?”

The scarf fluttered into the fire.

He stood there as the flames devoured it all, heat licking the air, guilt burning in silence.

Because now, whatever truth there had been—whatever monster may have lived behind the mask—was gone.

And Jack Crawford, seasoned agent, man of law…
…had chosen not to see.

Chapter 18: House Parties

Will stood in the cavernous marble foyer and blinked up at the chandelier like it had personally offended him.

“It’s like Versailles,” he muttered.

“Mmm,” Hannibal hummed behind him, entirely pleased. “But tasteful.”

“If by tasteful you mean absurdly large, then sure.”

The realtor—a stiff, balding man in a too-tight blazer—launched into a spiel about hand-carved moldings and imported granite countertops. Will tuned him out. The echo in the place made it feel less like a home and more like a mausoleum. He could already see himself losing Winston in the east wing and cursing Hannibal's name by day three.

But when Will glanced over at his mate, his annoyance softened.

Hannibal looked radiant, dressed in a plum waistcoat and slim slacks that screamed “private wealth,” not “former vacationing psychopath.” His eyes were alight as he moved through the grand sitting room, palms brushing lovingly over polished mahogany.

He wasn’t imagining a mansion.

He was imagining a life.

After the third showing that day—yet another modernist monstrosity with ten-foot windows and no personality—they finally stood outside a historical Tudor-style estate tucked beneath a canopy of old sycamores. The stones were worn, the windows latticed, the doors heavy and solid.

Hannibal paused in the drive and smiled.

“This is the one.”

Will sighed, eyeing the intricate stonework. “Of course it is.”

The inside was somehow worse: velvet wallpaper, clawfoot bathtubs, a study with an actual secret passage (“for wine,” the realtor had said with a strained laugh). It was the kind of place Will would never pick in a million years.

But when he saw Hannibal standing in the kitchen doorway—hands resting on a marble island, eyes distant with some private vision of breakfasts and toddlers and holidays—Will folded like paper.

The realtor followed them out to the car, still rattling off local school rankings and HOA bylaws.

But his eyes kept flicking toward Hannibal with something Will recognized—confusion. He was staring at the omega like he couldn’t quite figure out why he was the one deciding.

Like he didn’t expect someone so refined to be the authority in this pair. Like he expected Will, the broader-shouldered alpha, to be the one with the final say.

Will narrowed his eyes.

Hannibal just gave the man a charming smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

When they got to the car and closed the doors behind them, Will leaned close and whispered against Hannibal’s ear:

“I bet he’s your next  victim.”

Hannibal gave a low, delighted laugh.

“He was very rude,” he agreed. “Dismissive. I imagine his palate would be disappointing.”

Will snorted. “You’re not denying it.”

“I don’t lie to you, William.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The house loomed behind them. Bigger than anything Will had imagined owning in his life.

“You really want this one?” he asked.

Hannibal nodded. “Yes.”

Will swallowed. “Okay. Then we’ll buy it.”

Hannibal turned to him, expression softening. “Does it bother you?”

Will raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“That I’m the one with the inheritance. That I’ll be the one paying for this.”

Will blinked, then laughed. “Hannibal, you’re a gourmet cannibal with a European estate and five offshore accounts. Nothing about us is traditional.”

He took Hannibal’s hand in his.

“If you want some grand fancy house to raise future murderers in, then fine. As long as you’re happy.”

Hannibal stared at him—quiet, overwhelmed.

“I want everything with you.”

Will kissed him then. Slow and sure.

And when Hannibal leaned against him, smiling against Will’s mouth, Will knew he'd walk into a thousand mansions and murder scenes just to see that smile again.

Hannibal stood in the foyer of their new home, arms folded across his chest, surveying the placement of the antique fainting couch with the cold precision of a surgeon reviewing pre-op scans.

“Two inches to the left, please.”

The movers grunted and adjusted.

“No. Back. Half an inch right. There.”

Will walked past, balancing two boxes labeled BOOKS (WILL’S) with his elbow and muttering, “We’re not hosting the Queen, we’re unpacking. You’re gonna kill someone.”

“That’s already happened, darling,” Hannibal replied dryly, nodding toward the discarded real estate brochure. “We’re simply perfecting the aftermath.”

Will snorted.

The morning passed in a blur of careful arrangement.

Hannibal directed furniture placement down to the millimeter. He refused to allow Will to unpack the kitchen, claiming it would be “a crime.” He had already planned the layout of the dining room in his mind, right down to the placement of the fresh floral centerpiece and where the wine would decant.

“We should host a dinner within the month,” he mused aloud, unwrapping silver flatware passed down from a long-dead Lithuanian aunt. “Establish ourselves in the proper circles.”

“What circles?” Will asked, emerging from the den with a half-eaten Pop-Tart and a box of tangled Ethernet cables. “Baltimore’s Serial Killer Social Club?”

“Don’t be crass. I mean the arts patrons, the museum trustees, the old money eccentrics. I’ve already been invited to a gallery opening next week.”

“Jesus,” Will muttered, setting down his box. “You’ve been here three hours.”

Hannibal gave a modest shrug. “Charm opens doors.”

By evening, the house began to take shape.

The study smelled of old leather and sharp ink, the fire already lit. Will had claimed the den, where Winston lay sprawled on an old rug like a content dragon. The bedroom was a symphony of soft lighting and rich textiles, with the exact number of throw pillows Hannibal deemed “aesthetic but not vulgar.”

Will leaned in the doorway, watching as Hannibal carefully folded a monogrammed blanket over the arm of a reading chair.

“You nesting or scheming?” he asked.

“Why not both?”

Will walked over, sliding his arms around Hannibal from behind, chin resting on his shoulder.

“You really want to be a society omega?”

Hannibal tilted his head, smirking. “I want to build a life with you. And that includes building a place in this world where our future children will be accepted, revered—even feared, if necessary.”

Will kissed the spot beneath Hannibal’s ear. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re covered in dust. Go shower before I revoke your privileges.”

“Privileges?”

“Touching me.”

Will sighed dramatically and shuffled off to the bathroom, yelling behind him, “Don’t rearrange the knives again while I’m gone!”

“I would never,” Hannibal called sweetly, already reaching for the Wüsthof drawer.

Later that night, Will found Hannibal on the back patio, drinking tea under the stars.

They sat in silence for a long while, hand in hand.

And despite the marble and chandeliers, despite the perfectly arranged furniture and society aspirations, Will realized:

This wasn’t a mansion.

It was a home.

Because Hannibal was here.

And wherever Hannibal was—Will would follow.

---

The Lecter-Graham household was a flurry of activity—and tinsel. So much tinsel.

The mansion was in a state of controlled chaos. Holiday décor spilled across every surface. There were gold and crimson ribbons, evergreen garlands twisted with crystal droplets, flickering candles, embroidered tablecloths, wreaths made with impossible symmetry. The banisters were wrapped in velvet. The chandeliers were dressed like royalty. Hannibal—very much seven months pregnant, in a crimson cashmere sweater and tailored trousers—directed everyone with the force of a thousand wedding planners rolled into one.

“Abigail, the candelabras go on the mahogany buffet, not the walnut—please tell me you can tell the difference.”

“Mhm,” Abigail muttered, dragging the heavy silver piece back across the room. “Totally can.”

“Mischa,” Hannibal called, pointing dramatically at a garland that did not meet his standards. “Fix that. It’s uneven. The left side droops like a wilted hydrangea.”

“Motina,” Mischa groaned from the stepstool, “the only thing drooping in this house is your patience.”

Will emerged from the dining room, hair dusted in artificial snow from a box explosion, and took one look at the chaos. “This feels excessive.”

“It’s not excessive,” Hannibal snapped, arms folded over his belly like a particularly judgmental Christmas cherub. “It’s necessary. Our holiday parties are legendary. People are expecting magnificence.”

“You say that every year,” Will muttered, rubbing at his face. “Remind me what happened to a cozy holiday at home?”

“You forgot it,” Mischa said dryly from the garland. “Amnesia. Ringing any bells, Dad?”

Will gave her a look. “Thanks.”

“Motina’s going overboard because he’s love's asserting dominance over the Baltimore elite.” she added, hopping off the stepstool. “

“I heard that,” Hannibal said sweetly. “And I agree.”

Will just sighed, watching as Hannibal fluttered over to the hearth to rearrange an already perfectly symmetrical garland. “It’s going to be a long month, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes,” Abigail said, deadpan.

Hannibal turned around, radiant with holiday glee and mania. “Will, darling—do be a dear and help me hang the mistletoe. And no,” he added, lips twitching, “you may not dodge it this year.”

Will blinked, then glanced around at his daughters who were clearly enjoying his slow descent into domestic holiday madness.

Will opened his mouth.

Then shut it.

“…Right, whatever Motina wants,” he muttered. “Where’s the ladder?”

Abigail grinned. “Already set up. Welcome back to the family, Dad.”

Later that afternoon Will, Mischa, and Abigail had moved onto ornament duty. The twelve foot tall tree was and absolutely dripping in glass ornaments and antique baubles and sparkled in the corner of the parlor. Mischa was on a ladder, Abigail balanced on a stool, and Will was holding a box of glass baubles like a bomb squad tech.

“Do not drop that box, Dad,” Mischa warned.

“I’m not even moving,” Will muttered.

“You’re breathing near it. That’s risky enough,” Abigail added, adjusting a ribbon.

Hannibal entered with a flourish. He inspected the tree with a tilt of the head.

“It’s unbalanced,” he declared.

“I’m unbalanced,” Will mumbled under his breath.

Mischa grinned. “Motina, do you want me to climb the ladder again?”

“I’ll do it,” Hannibal said serenely, already pulling off his gloves.

“You’re pregnant,” Will said, setting down the box quickly. “Absolutely not.”

The girls glanced at one another and chorused, “Dad’s whipped.”

Will didn’t even argue. “Yeah, yeah.”

Later, Will was curled up on the couch, a mug of cocoa balanced precariously on his knee, when Mischa strolled in and plopped down beside him.

"You know you're completely whipped, right?" she said casually.

Abigail, perched nearby stringing cranberries for Hannibal’s table centerpiece, snorted. “So whipped.”

Will looked between them with a long-suffering sigh. “I’m not whipped.”

Both girls raised their eyebrows in unison. Mischa pointed toward the kitchen. “You peeled pomegranates for an hour because Motina said his fingers were cold.”

“He is pregnant.”

“You organized the napkin rings by holiday theme,” Abigail added.

Will opened his mouth, paused, and huffed. “I’m just… making up for lost time, okay? I missed four months of our lives. Hannibal was pregnant. You girls were terrified. I scared the hell out of everyone. So yeah, I’m trying to help. Grovel. Be useful.”

Mischa rolled her eyes. “Dad. You were like this before the amnesia. Don’t act like this behavior is new.”

“You once ironed the ribbon for the gift wrapping because Motina said it didn’t lay flat,” Abigail said sweetly.

Will groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “I can’t win.”

Mischa patted his arm sympathetically. “Nope. But at least you’re consistent.”

Abigail snickered and leaned in conspiratorially. “You do know he wears the pants in this family, right?”

“I’ve never even owned the pants,” Will said flatly.

The girls burst into laughter. Will didn’t even bother to deny it. There was no point. He knew the truth—and so did the rest of the world.

Despite the teasing, the girls were quietly grateful. Their Motina was glowing again—radiant with holiday joy, nesting with wild abandon, and more himself than he had been in weeks. The party planning was Hannibal at his most manic and majestic, and while they all complained and rolled their eyes… they wouldn’t have traded the chaos for anything.

“Will!” Hannibal called from upstairs with that sharp-edged, operatic tone that meant he needed something moved and only Will’s broad, Alpha shoulders would do.

Will sighed, already on his feet. “Coming, sweetheart!”

Later, as the lights dimmed and the fireplace glowed, Hannibal sat beside Will on the velvet sofa, his legs tucked up, fingers curled over Will’s wrist like he was anchoring himself.

“There have been… rumors,” Hannibal said quietly, not looking at him.

“I know.”

“They think we’re separated. That you left me.”

Will looked down at their hands. “Let them think what they want.”

“I don’t want them to think that,” Hannibal said firmly. “Not anymore.”

Will turned, saw the flicker of vulnerability Hannibal rarely let slip. He squeezed his hand.

“Then show them.”

And Hannibal would. The upcoming holiday party would be the event of the season—and this year, his reclusive alpha husband would be on full display. The guest list would buzz, the whispers would change, and everyone would see exactly who Will Graham belonged to—and more importantly, who belonged to Will Graham.

Hannibal would make sure of it.

---

Hannibal sat at the head of the long dining room table, a leather-bound planner open before him, his pen moving in deliberate strokes as he drafted the final guest list for the holiday soirée. Mischa sat to his right, Abigail on his left, both peering over at the list with eager curiosity.

“Ugh, her?” Mischa said, stabbing a finger toward one name. “The one who wears perfume like it’s a weapon?”

Abigail snorted. “And talks about her trip to Paris like she discovered it. She made that weird face at the charcuterie last year.”

Hannibal smirked faintly, not disagreeing. “Yes, well. She always RSVP’s first. Enthusiastically.”

“I bet,” Mischa muttered. “She’s probably hoping to taste human without knowing it.”

“Possibly,” Hannibal mused.

Just then, Will wandered in holding a steaming mug of coffee, his hair still damp from the shower, and a suspicious look on his face. “So… who are you serving this year?”

Abigail and Mischa perked up immediately.

“Oh! That rude guy from the gallery—what was his name?” Mischa asked, turning to Abigail.

“The one who said Dad was ‘quaint,’” Abigail supplied.

“Oh, I hated him,” Mischa added.

Will took a seat at Hannibal’s side, amused. “Wait, you’re saying that’s who’s on the menu?”

Hannibal arched a brow with faux innocence. “Why do you all assume I’m serving someone this year instead of pork?”

Mischa rolled her eyes dramatically. “Because you always serve someone, Motina.”

Will chuckled into his mug. “She’s got you there.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Hannibal finally relented. “Fine. It is, in fact, the gentleman from the gallery. He insulted your father’s taste and tried to touch one of my pieces with bare fingers.”

Abigail clapped once in satisfaction. “Knew it.”

Hannibal turned the page with a flourish and began reading off the menu. “We begin with a foie gras tartlet with balsamic fig reduction. Followed by a consommé—clarified, of course—infused with lemongrass and bone marrow. Then: tenderloin carpaccio, seared sweetbreads with saffron risotto, braised cheek in red wine jus, and—”

“That is so many courses,” Will interrupted, blinking. “How do you even have time to do this?”

“You forget who you married,” Mischa and Abigail said in unison.

“Never going to live that one down,” Will mumbled. 

But Abigail wasn’t done. She turned to her dad with a grin. “Hey, Dad, did you hear what he tried to eat when you were gone? Weirdest combinations.”

Will perked up. “Oh? Do tell.”

Mischa crossed her arms. “Where to start? Licorice and pickles. Caviar and peanut butter. We spent three hours in one grocery store. Three.”

“And don’t forget the time he tried to make a reduction out of Dr. Pepper and soy sauce,” Abigail added.

Will nearly choked on his coffee, grinning wide. “Seriously?”

Hannibal gave them both a long, cold stare. “There were cravings. And your Motina is still a gourmet even in altered hormonal states.”

“That’s debatable,” Mischa said, smirking.

“You're banned from grocery shopping alone,” Abigail added with a nod.

Will reached for Hannibal’s hand under the table and squeezed it gently. 

“You owe us,” Mischa said cheerfully.

Will leaned in and kissed Hannibal’s temple. “I’ll pay up. You’re amazing—even if you did make licorice pickles.”

“I stand by the pairing,” Hannibal muttered with wounded dignity.

---

Will should have known something was up the moment Hannibal emerged from his office with that glint in his eye—the one that meant trouble, velvet-lined and ruthlessly organized.

“We have an appointment,” Hannibal said smoothly, grabbing his coat.

Will blinked from the couch, where he’d been happily ignoring emails. “With…?”

“The tailor,” Hannibal replied as if it were obvious. “You need a new suit for the holiday party.”

Will groaned like a dying animal.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I have suits!”

“You have disappointments hanging in your closet,” Hannibal said crisply, “You’ll frighten the society women. And your shoulders are broader since we last tailored one. You look like you’ve borrowed your own wardrobe.”

The girls, hearing the conversation from the kitchen, peeked around the corner with twin expressions of dread.

“No,” Mischa said. “We did this last month.”

“And last year,” Abigail added. “And the year before.”

“You’re both growing,” Hannibal replied sweetly. “And you know how I feel about proper fit.”

“You also know how I feel about tailors who touch my hair,” Mischa muttered.

Will, still unmoving, looked up pleadingly. “Let me die here in peace.”

“No.”

The family was herded through the doors of Bellandi Sartoria like unwilling livestock—albeit very stylish livestock. The boutique was as posh as ever, music soft, lighting golden and flattering, expensive fabric draped like holy relics across armoires and hangers.

Hannibal moved through the shop like a general returning to his field command.

“Doctor Lecter!” Bellandi swooped in, shaking Hannibal’s hand. “Ah, and the alpha, still resisting elegance, I see.”

Will gave a tight smile. “Delighted.”

The tailor beamed at the girls. “And my young muses.”

Mischa groaned.

“Abigail first,” Hannibal declared, steering her to the pedestal. “You’re easier.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Abigail endured measuring with dead-eyed silence. Mischa tried to hide behind a fabric bolt until Hannibal snapped his fingers and pointed to the platform.

“Go. I’m timing you.”

Will muttered under his breath, “Pregnancy’s turned you into a dictator.”

“I’ve always been a dictator,” Hannibal replied without turning around.

Will was last. He stepped up onto the tailor’s block with the enthusiasm of someone being sentenced.

“I feel like I’m getting fitted for a coffin,” he muttered.

“Nonsense. You’re being elevated.”

Bellandi tutted and took a measurement. “He is still squirmy, Doctor Lecter.”

Abigail giggled and leaned toward Mischa. “Hopefully the new baby gets Motina’s fashion sense.”

Hannibal’s nostrils flared. “My children will all develop a proper appreciation for tailoring. Eventually.”

Will murmured, “Through fear and intimidation.”

Hannibal glared.

After two hours of measuring, fabrics, shoes, and “Will, do not lean against the silk wall,” they were finally shown the tally.

Will stared at the number.

“This… this can’t be real money. This is Monopoly money. This is a down payment on a house.”

Hannibal peered over his shoulder. “It’s quite reasonable.”

“Reasonable for what, exactly? A small private jet?”

The girls peeked at the receipt and nearly fainted.

Mischa whispered, “Motina’s insane.”

Abigail nodded solemnly. “Certified.”

Still, they left the shop arms full of garment bags — dresses, suits, coats, and custom shoes. Hannibal was glowing. The rest of the family looked like they’d been through war.

“Don’t worry,” Hannibal said as they climbed into the car. “You’ll all look divine. And when society sees us, no one will question how utterly united we are.”

Mischa and Abigail climbed into the back, sighing like martyrs.

“You should get a new car,” Will said casually. “Something a bit more… practical. Three kids now.”

Hannibal stiffened. “Absolutely not.”

“A minivan!” Mischa declared triumphantly. “A black one. Or—oh!—that matte gray. With leather seats.”

“Sliding doors!” Abigail added.

“Cup holders!”

Will grinned. “And plenty of trunk space for—well, you know. Body storage. Very efficient for group outings and murders.”

The girls burst into laughter.

Hannibal’s eyes flicked to Will, his mouth flat. “If you ever put the words minivan and Lecter in the same sentence again, I will poison your coffee.”

“You already make my coffee,” Will pointed out smugly.

Hannibal glowered. “That’s precisely the point.”

Will patted his thigh. “Relax. We’ll just install some roof racks on the Bentley for overflow corpses.”

The girls cackled. Hannibal muttered something in Lithuanian that sounded suspiciously profane, started the engine, and declared that no child of his would ever be dropped off at school in a vehicle that resembled a loaf of bread.

---

Hannibal set the parchment-thick grocery list on the kitchen island with a gravity that suggested he was unveiling the Magna Carta. It unspooled like a scroll, cascading dramatically across the polished marble surface, over the edge, and down to the floor.

Will stared at it.

Mischa let out a horrified sound. “Is this… all for one party?”

Abigail squinted at the list, picking it up and skimming. “This says purple asparagus. Purple.”

“And goose eggs,” Mischa added. “How the hell are we supposed to find goose eggs? Are we robbing a Victorian farmstead?”

Will blinked down at the list, coffee halfway to his mouth. “Hannibal. Darling. Love of my life. You are a culinary menace.”

Hannibal arched one imperious brow and adjusted the cuff of his linen shirt. “You made fun of my palate. You mocked my pregnancy cravings. This is your penance.”

“Cravings are one thing,” Abigail grumbled. “But why are there six types of mushrooms and two kinds of sea urchin?”

Will sighed deeply, already regretting being born.

“I expect you to follow it exactly,” Hannibal said, folding his arms with the calm menace of a Bond villain. “No substitutions. No improvisations. And absolutely no store-brand.”

Mischa slumped onto a stool. “This is child labor.”

“You’re fourteen.”

Abigail leaned over the list again. “Okay, but I’m eight. I have rights.”

“You’re both under the care of your father,” Hannibal said silkily. “So I advise watching him closely.”

Will raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

Mischa turned toward Will, instantly serious. “Motina’s not wrong. Last time you did groceries, you came home with exactly four things, none of which were on the list.”

“One of them was Pop-Tarts,” Abigail muttered.

“In my defense,” Will said, lifting a finger, “they were the brown sugar ones. Classic.”

“No defense,” Hannibal intoned, placing his hand over his belly. “Not when I am relying on you to ensure the success of our holiday legacy.”

Mischa narrowed her eyes. “You’re not coming?”

“I have patients to see,” Hannibal said, utterly unbothered, reaching for his coat. “The world does not stop simply because my family has terrible taste in foods.”

Will squinted. “That’s rich coming from the man who once dipped watermelon in truffle oil.”

“That was delicious,” Hannibal sniffed. “You have no vision.”

Abigail sighed, grabbing her coat. “Come on, Dad. You’re on leash duty. Let’s go fulfill our punishment.”

“I want it all done in one trip,” Hannibal called as they filed out, “and do not let your father sneak off to the hunting supply store.”

“I was never going to—”

The door shut behind them.

Hannibal stood in the silent kitchen for a beat, then exhaled. He reached into the fridge and pulled out a single crème fraîche tart he had no intention of sharing, humming softly to himself as he plated it.

Sometimes being the boss came with perks.

The shopping trip began with the grim solemnity of a military campaign.

“We could split up,” Mischa said, eyeing the list again like it might bite her. “Divide and conquer.”

“No,” Abigail said immediately. “You know what happened last time we tried that.”

Will rubbed his temples. “You mean when I brought back fennel instead of anise and your motina almost had a stroke?”

“Exactly,” Mischa nodded. “No one wants to disappoint Hannibal Lecter. Least of all in a kitchen.”

So they stuck together. Like a mildly dysfunctional but determined family unit. Three carts, one list, and absolutely zero confidence that they'd survive this intact.

“Why does he need three kinds of sea salt?” Will muttered, squinting at the artisan spice section.

“Because, Dad,” Mischa said, faux-patient, “each salt has a different flavor profile. Duh.”

Will turned slowly to her. “Since when do you talk like him?”

“She’s been marinating in it for fourteen years,” Abigail piped up, climbing halfway onto the lower rack of the cart like it was a chariot. “It was bound to happen.”

Will pushed the cart through the produce aisle with a long-suffering groan as he read the list aloud:

“Two pomegranates. Only the Persian variety, firm to the touch, no bruising. Four shallots—not onions, shallots. Baby carrots, but not too small—‘aesthetically pathetic’ was the term I believe your Motina used.”

“He said it with love,” Mischa quipped, coolly examining a fennel bulb with the air of a food critic inspecting diamonds.

“He also called me culinarily unreliable the last time I bought the wrong kind of olives.”

“You got canned, Dad.”

Will threw up his hands. “They were green!”

Abigail skipped ahead and held up a loaf of bread. “Do you think this is the right rustic French batard?”

Mischa squinted. “Not crusty enough.”

Will looked at both of them. “You’re eight and fourteen and you talk like you’re running a five-star bistro.”

Mischa shrugged. “We were raised by Hannibal Lecter.”

Abigail added, “And Will Graham, the FBI’s top profiler who couldn’t tell the difference between celeriac and celery.”

“I’m being bullied in public,” Will muttered, amused.

They made it out of produce after forty-five grueling minutes of inspecting every leaf of lettuce like it held the secrets to life. Will nearly got into a verbal altercation with a Whole Foods employee over whether the persimmons were firm enough. Mischa intervened.

Next was the seafood counter, where Will stared at the list and then the tank of live langoustines.

“I swear to God, if one of those escapes in the car—”

“Motina says the fresher the better,” Mischa said cheerfully, tapping on the glass. “Maybe we should name them.”

“Don't you dare,” Will growled, as the seafood guy weighed the eel.

By hour two, they’d reached a sort of delirium.

“I feel like I’m hallucinating,” Will muttered, staring at the fourth cheese counter. “Is that…a truffle-stuffed buffalo mozzarella?”

Mischa nodded gravely. “It’s for the second amuse-bouche. Not the first one. Don’t mix them up.”

“This is a hostage situation,” Abigail whispered. “I’m being held hostage by a grocery list.”

They filled all three carts. Mischa pulled out her calculator. Abigail scanned items with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb. Will mumbled something about how he used to solve serial murders for a living and now he was being shamed by a man who wanted imported gooseberries in winter.

“We’re gonna need a separate cart for the wine,” Abigail said. 

“And the edible gold leaf,” Mischa added. “He’ll know if we skip it.”

The cashier took one look at their items, then at the total, and paled. Will handed over the credit card with the dead-eyed calm of a man who had stopped fighting fate.

As they loaded bags into the car, Abigail hummed. “You think Motina will be proud?”

“He’d better be,” Mischa said, slamming the trunk with theatrical flair. “I made two employees cry trying to find the exact brand of imported sheep’s milk feta.”

Will ruffled her hair. “You’re a menace. Just like your Motina.”

She rolled her eyes but leaned into the contact.

“But you love grocery shopping with us, don’t you?” Abigail asked as she climbed into the back seat.

Will paused before getting in. “I love doing anything with you guys. But..." He added with a groan. “Never again.”

The girls exchanged a glance and spoke in unison.

“You’ll do it again next week.”

And of course, he would. 

Because Hannibal Lecter always got exactly what he wanted.

The door slammed open like the return of a victorious army—minus the trumpets and with considerably more bickering.

“We’re back!” Abigail called, half-buried behind grocery bags.

Mischa followed behind her, arms laden with delicate produce and specialty oils. “We lived. Barely.”

Will staggered in last, carrying two wine crates and looking like he’d just trekked through the Alps barefoot. “Don’t talk to me. Ever again.”

Hannibal emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a linen towel, one brow already arched in silent judgment. “Did you remember the pomegranate molasses and the preserved lemons?”

Mischa practically shoved the bag at him. “Right here. Imported from Morocco. Like you wanted.”

Abigail dropped a smaller cooler on the counter. “Live langoustines. Still twitching. You're welcome.”

Will collapsed into a chair with a dramatic sigh. “Truffle-stuffed mozzarella. Gooseberries. Three kinds of sea salt. Your chaos is complete.”

Hannibal began unpacking with the precision of a surgeon. He inspected each item like it was an artifact, a slow smile blooming across his face as he set everything into its designated place.

“Well done,” he said finally, glancing at them with the smallest hint of warmth. “I’m impressed.”

The girls exhaled in unison like they’d just passed an impossible exam.

Will blinked. “Wait, that’s it? That’s the reaction we get for spending four hours fighting off soccer moms and label-reading purists in Whole Foods?”

“You were expected to succeed,” Hannibal replied mildly. “Anything else would have been disappointing.”

“You’re lucky you’re attractive,” Will muttered.

Hannibal leaned over and pressed a kiss to his temple. “And you're lucky you still amuse me.”

Mischa rolled her eyes. “He is still whipped.”

Abigail smirked. “At least he didn't cry in the cheese aisle this time.”

“I didn’t cry,” Will snapped, grabbing a bottle of wine and already uncorking it. “I was having an internal breakdown. That’s different.”

As Hannibal continued sorting ingredients with the reverence of a priest preparing for a sacred rite, the girls exchanged knowing glances and grinned.

They had survived Hannibal Lecter's Grocery Gauntlet and won his approval.

Now they just had to survive the actual party.

---

The kitchen looked like a scene from a decadent cooking show—if said show featured an unreasonably high number of sharp knives, copper pots gleaming like polished trophies, and an extremely pregnant culinary mastermind orchestrating chaos with the precision of a surgeon.

Hannibal stood at the center of it all, sleeves rolled, apron crisp, one hand resting lightly atop the recipe journal he’d prepared weeks ago—an intricately scripted battle plan for the night’s feast. Every course timed, every element layered.

“Mischa, no, not like that,” Hannibal chided gently, stepping behind her at the pastry station. “You’re folding the pâte brisée too aggressively. You want it light. Delicate. As if seducing the flour into cooperation.”

Mischa, flour-streaked and slightly frazzled, sighed. “I am seducing it. It’s just playing hard to get.”

Hannibal smiled faintly and brushed her hands aside to demonstrate. “It’s not a conquest, dearest. It’s a courtship.”

“Sounds like a conquest,” Will muttered from across the kitchen, where he was carefully browning duck confit under Hannibal’s hawk-like supervision.

“That’s rich, coming from the man who salted my duck without consulting the chart,” Hannibal replied, arching a brow.

Abigail snorted from where she was attempting to pipe hors d'oeuvres with perfect symmetry. “Dad, you touched the duck without permission? Amateur move.”

“I thought I had permission,” Will defended, and then pointed at the girls. “Remind me which of us is actually married to him?”

“Only technically,” Mischa said, licking some pastry cream off her finger and narrowly dodging Hannibal’s swatting spoon.

“Focus,” Hannibal said, but he was smiling—genuinely, openly. There was a brightness to him tonight, even amid the sharp critiques and meticulous demands.

It wasn’t just the party. It was seeing all of them here, bustling and playful, covered in flour and sauce, trying their best not to ruin his vision for the evening. They were fussing and teasing—but they were helping. They were his.

He moved through the kitchen, checking temperatures, giving instructions, adjusting garnishes with a surgeon’s precision.

“Abigail, your piped swans are slightly uneven—adjust the pressure in your grip.”

“Yes, Chef,” Abigail said with mock solemnity, earning a chuckle from Mischa.

“Will,” Hannibal said, sidling up to him and plucking a rogue herb off the duck plate, “I love you, but this parsley is offensive.”

Will leaned in and whispered, “Not as offensive as your craving for pickled pears with foie gras.”

“I stand by that pairing.”

“Of course you do.”

Despite the pace and the complexity of the preparations, the kitchen was full of warmth and laughter, even as Hannibal pointed out flaws with his usual brutal honesty. They all knew he wasn’t being harsh—he was being Hannibal. The party mattered. The food mattered. But more than anything, they mattered. This moment mattered.

He looked around, at his daughters bickering over piping tips and his husband humming under his breath while trimming microgreens, and felt something settle in his chest.

They were all here. Together. Trying.

And that, for Hannibal Lecter, was the most exquisite dish of all.

---

The house was glowing—truly glowing—from the flicker of hundreds of carefully placed candles and the glint of golden garlands twisted along every bannister. The chandeliers had been polished to mirror finish, and the soft swell of a string quartet’s holiday arrangement floated through the air like snow.

In the foyer, Hannibal stood tall, inspecting his family like an artist evaluating a completed masterpiece.

“Stand still,” he murmured, straightening the lapel on Mischa’s emerald green velvet dress. “You look stunning. Don’t fidget.”

“She always fidgets,” Abigail said, adjusting her simple black dress with understated gold accents.

“Because you always take forever,” Mischa muttered, though she didn’t move as Hannibal adjusted a bracelet.

Then his eyes turned to Will.

Will, in a fitted dark suit that Hannibal had personally selected, with his curls tamed back, tie knotted properly, and a faint, reluctant flush on his cheeks. He looked, in Hannibal’s opinion, devastatingly handsome.

“My darling,” Hannibal said softly, smoothing the shoulders of Will’s jacket. “You are exquisite.”

Will groaned quietly. “You’re going to make me blush in front of our daughters.”

“You should blush. You’re not immune to flattery from your husband.”

Mischa and Abigail simultaneously groaned. “Can you not,” Mischa begged.

“Please stop flirting before the first guest arrives,” Abigail said, tugging at her earring.

But it was too late. Hannibal leaned in and kissed Will’s cheek, hand lingering possessively at his waist.

And then—the party began.

The doors opened, and a steady stream of Baltimore’s elite poured into their home, taking in the splendor, the decorations, the music, the scent of cinnamon and roasted meats wafting from the dining hall.

Hannibal was magnificent. Radiant. Glowing with pride and elegance as he greeted each guest with his family lined beside him.

He kept Will close, one hand ever at the small of his back or hooked around his arm, silent but unmistakable declaration: This is mine. We are together. Still. Always.

Whispers rustled through the crowd—some in awe, some tinged with envy.

“I thought they were separated.”

“He’s so handsome… the husband. I didn’t know he was real.”

“Hannibal Lecter is pregnant again? How does he do it?”

The compliments rolled in, and Hannibal accepted them with gracious nods and quiet confidence. Will, for his part, smiled—charmingly, if a little tightly—only for Hannibal’s sake.

The girls handled their parts well, sweet and poised. But once the greetings ended, and the crowd had dispersed into the main rooms, Will vanished.

It didn’t take long for Mischa and Abigail to find him leaning against the stone column near the back library, sipping wine and staring fondly into the chaos of the party.

“There you are,” Mischa said, smirking. “It’s rude to hide at your own dinner party,” she said

“He’s doing better than last time,” Abigail noted. “Didn’t flee until the fifth tray of canapés.”

Will grinned. “I figured Hannibal would notice if I ran after the second tray.”

They stood there together, the three of them, stealing a moment to themselves and watching Hannibal move through the glittering room like water over polished marble.

“Everyone’s obsessed with him,” Mischa murmured, not even hiding the pride in her voice.

“He is the best chef in Baltimore,” Abigail added, then giggled. “Maybe in the country. Motina got two judges to cry with that pomegranate duck entrée.”

Will let out a long breath. “They look at him like he’s untouchable.”

Mischa tilted her head. “He kind of is. I mean, he’s Motina.”

“And still married to me,” Will muttered into his drink.

“Miracles do happen,” Abigail teased.

Will huffed. “You’re both cruel.”

“He’s in his element,” Abigail murmured.

“He’s glowing,” Mischa agreed.

Will nodded. “He’s happy.”

They stood there together, watching the brilliant, beautiful storm that was Hannibal Lecter. The man who had cooked the meal, decorated the home, tamed the city’s elite—and, somehow, brought their family back together again.

The guests were exactly what Hannibal liked: powerful people with expensive tastes and exquisite egos. There was a senator. A museum director. A foreign art dealer with slicked-back hair and no sense of boundaries. And all of them orbited Hannibal like he was the moon and they were entranced by his gravity.

He was radiant—laughing softly, speaking in multiple languages, offering rich, witty commentary on literature, opera, and food. No one dared mention his pregnancy except one clueless intern, who got frozen out so fast the room temperature dropped ten degrees.

When Will entered the room at last, Hannibal caught his eye instantly and offered a smile so small and private it made Will’s chest ache.

“There’s no one else like him,” Mischa said quietly beside him.

“No,” Will agreed, voice low. “There really isn’t.”

Will stood near the fireplace with a flute of sparkling cider in hand, dressed in a deep navy suit that Hannibal had picked for him—tailored perfectly, naturally. His hair had been tamed, his usual scruff groomed to sharpness. He looked, if he dared admit it, almost like he belonged in one of Hannibal's sleek soirées, holding a glass of champagne and trying very hard to look sociable.

Of course, that effort only made him more intriguing.

Unfortunately, a handful of Baltimore’s elite were determined to remind him just how much of a mystery he still was.

“So you must be the infamous husband,” purred one well-coiffed woman with too much perfume and too little tact. “Hannibal almost never mentions you.”

“Infamous?” Will asked, raising an eyebrow politely.

“Oh, you know how it is,” the man added smoothly. “Hannibal rarely brings anyone around. People were beginning to wonder if he even had a husband or if you were a European art dealer he kept locked away in Tuscany.”

Will laughed softly. “Sorry to disappoint. I’m just a profiler. From Virginia.”

They both leaned in, unashamedly nosy.

“So how did you meet Hannibal?” the woman asked. “It’s all anyone talks about. Hannibal Lecter’s husband—an enigma! I can’t imagine someone like him doing something so mundane as dating. You weren’t in medicine, were you? Law, perhaps?”

Will smiled, tight and polished. “Neither. I worked for the FBI.”

A beat of silence. One of the guests blinked. “Really? My goodness. That must’ve made for an interesting meet-cute.”

Will let the corner of his mouth quirk up. “We met professionally, actually. I was consulting, and Hannibal was... consulting too. He helped me through a rough time.”

That was putting it mildly.

“Hm,” she said, clearly unsatisfied.

There was a pause. Then the woman asked, a bit too directly, “But why do you think he chose you? He’s so… refined.”

Will’s smile didn’t falter, but the glass in his hand made the faintest creak under pressure. “Honestly? I ask myself that sometimes. He’s brilliant, sophisticated, terrifyingly talented. And I’m just… me. I don’t know how I got lucky enough to end up with someone like him, but I know better than to take it for granted. Hannibal is the love of my life. He’s brilliant, kind, and absolutely devoted to our family. I’d do anything for him.”

Behind a marble column just out of sight, Hannibal stood perfectly still, eavesdropping with a faint smile playing on his lips and warmth pooling in his chest. He’d intended to glide by, perhaps rescue Will from the idle curiosity of the social elite. But hearing his husband speak with such affection, such ferocity behind those quiet words… he stopped. He eavesdropped shamelessly. The pride. The devotion. The fact that Will, his impossible, stubborn, chaotic alpha, said those things about him in a room full of jackals.

They all leaned in, more curious than ever. “And now, a third child on the way! He’s absolutely glowing, you know. Though I must say, I didn’t realize Hannibal was… in the family way again... isn’t he a little… mature for that?”

Will’s tone didn’t change, but there was ice under the surface now. “

Hannibal is perfectly healthy. And radiant. He’s always been the strongest person I’ve ever known. He’s the kind of person who can serve a seven-course meal while helping with algebra homework and soothing a colicky baby. I happen to think he’s even more beautiful carrying our child. And if you don’t, well, I suggest you keep that to yourself.”

The silence that followed was delicious.

Hannibal smiled.

He chose that moment to glide in.

“Darling,” he purred, stepping up behind Will and placing a hand on the small of his back. “Are you charming our guests?”

“Trying,” Will replied, smile tilting as he handed Hannibal his empty glass. “But I think they’re more interested in dissecting me than the foie gras.”

The guests gave polite laughs that bordered on awkward.

“Well, I can hardly blame them,” Hannibal said smoothly, eyes never leaving Will. “You are rather fascinating.”

Will gave him a look, then leaned in and murmured into his ear, “I think I found next year’s entrée.”

Hannibal’s lips curved. “You always did have exquisite taste.”

He turned to the guests with a final smile. “If you’ll excuse us—we haven’t danced yet this evening.”

He led Will away, possessively, elegantly, one arm curled around his husband like a ribbon of silk. As they moved back into the crowd, Will chuckled under his breath.

“I wasn’t kidding about next year.”

“Oh, I know,” Hannibal replied, eyes glittering. “And I’m already considering the wine pairing.”

Later, Hannibal guided the guests into the dining room, gliding with effortless control. As everyone took their seats, he introduced each dish with care and precision, weaving stories of origin and flavor like a conductor commanding a symphony.

Will sat beside him at the long table. He didn’t speak much, just watched, admired. Hannibal’s hand occasionally brushed his under the table, and that tiny contact was enough to ground him.

“Did you make the blood orange glaze yourself?” one guest asked, practically drooling over the duck.

“Of course,” Hannibal said with a smile. “I wouldn’t trust something so intimate to anyone else’s hands.”

Will squeezed his hand gently under the table. Hannibal didn’t look at him—but the corners of his lips curled just slightly higher.

At the end of the night, as guests filed out with compliments and desperate invitations to host next, the girls helped clear plates and tease their parents in equal measure.

“You were on your best behavior,” Hannibal told Will once the door shut behind the final guest.

“I wore the tie,” Will said, loosening it. “I smiled. I only glared at that one guy who was flirting with you for, like, five minutes.”

“He asked if I was available.”

“He’s lucky he’s still breathing.”

Hannibal chuckled and leaned in, brushing his lips across Will’s cheek. “You did wonderfully, my Alpha.”

Behind them, Mischa rolled her eyes and said, “Get a room.”

“This is my house,” Hannibal called back.

“Still!” Abigail groaned.

Will just grinned, tugged Hannibal closer, and kissed his temple, whispering: “Let’s clean up later. You need to rest.”

“I’ll allow it. But only because I’m pregnant, and not because you ordered me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Chapter 19: Dating

Will jolted awake to the sensation of being watched which, to be fair, was not unusual. He’d grown used to Hannibal’s silent nocturnal observations. Sometimes it meant affection. Sometimes it meant murder.

Tonight… it meant something far worse.

“Will,” came the voice silky, firm, dangerous.

Will groaned and squinted into the darkness. Hannibal was standing at his side of the bed, fully dressed in a dark silk robe tied tight around his swollen belly, arms crossed, one eyebrow elegantly arched like the angel of vengeance.

“Will,” he said again. “I need cornichons. From the French grocer. Not American. Not Italian. French.”

Will blinked. “What— it’s 3:14 a.m.”

“And the streets are blissfully empty. It should be a quick drive.”

Will rubbed his face. “Can’t this wait until—?”

“Absolutely not.” Hannibal’s tone was final. “I have crafted the perfect terrine. But I require a specific briny contrast or the entire balance will be ruined.”

He leaned in, nose brushing Will’s. “Do not come back until you have them, mon loup. Or I will eat you.”

Will sighed and grabbed his coat.

The sun was just rising as Will shuffled back into the kitchen, hair mussed, scarf askew, arms full of half-melted imports and wildly overpriced French cornichons. He looked like a man who had fought a war and barely survived.

Abigail and Mischa were already at the breakfast table, sipping orange juice and chewing toast. They looked up, spotted him — and burst into matching fits of laughter.

“Oh no,” Mischa gasped, “he actually went.”

Abigail choked on her juice. “You didn’t try to argue, did you?”

Will slumped into a chair and dropped the bag on the counter. “Do I look like someone who argued?”

Mischa mimicked, “Don’t come back without it, mon loup,” in a very passable Hannibal accent.

Will pointed at her without looking up. “That’s exactly how he said it.”

Abigail grinned. “You poor, sweet fool.”

Just then, Hannibal glided into the room like a vision of smug, robe-clad triumph. He surveyed the grocery bag, inspected the cornichons like they were crown jewels, and gave a small nod of approval.

“You survived,” he said coolly.

“I’m thrilled you’re thrilled,” Will muttered.

Hannibal leaned over and kissed Will’s temple then gave him a fond, judgmental little pat on the cheek. “I knew I chose the right alpha.”

Will muttered, “You chose a pushover,” and Hannibal just smiled.

“Semantics, darling.”

The girls, still snickering, raised their juice glasses in a toast. “To cravings,” Mischa declared.

“To our poor father,” Abigail added.

And as Hannibal set to assembling the perfect breakfast bite with his long-awaited pickles, Will just groaned and dropped his head to the table, muttering, “I miss when murder was the most stressful part of our marriage.”

---

The kitchen was warm with the scent of something slow-roasting when Hannibal, carrying a tray of lemon verbena tea, passed behind his eldest daughter and caught a glimpse of her phone.

More specifically: the name “Leo ❤️” lighting up the top of a text thread.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

“Who is Leo?” he asked coolly, setting the tray down with practiced grace.

Mischa didn’t even look up. “No one.”

“No one does not text you five times in under a minute. With emojis.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Then you will not mind telling me more.”

Mischa sighed very loudly, turning to face her motina with her best withering teenage stare. “Motina. Boundaries. Privacy. Basic human rights.”

Hannibal tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You are fourteen. You have none of those things.”

She scoffed. “Says who? The Geneva Convention?”

“Says your father,” he replied crisply.

Just then, Will walked through the front door, arms full of paper bags. Mischa bolted to help him unload, launching into a loud and defensive explanation as Hannibal followed close behind, lips pressed into a line.

“Dad, please tell your husband to stop interrogating me like I’m a murder suspect.”

Will raised a brow. “Are you texting a murder suspect?”

“Dad!”

Hannibal, not missing a beat, added: “A boy named Leo. With a heart emoji.”

Will blinked. “Oh.”

“I know,” Hannibal hissed.

That evening, Mischa slumped onto the couch beside Will, legs sprawled and arms crossed.

“He’s a menace,” she said, glaring toward the hallway Hannibal had just disappeared down.

Will offered a sympathetic smile. “You know he won’t rest until he knows who this Leo is, what his GPA is, what his parents do, if he’s ever cheated at Monopoly—”

“I know.” She dropped her head back dramatically. “I told Leo if he sees a tall, very European man with a mysterious accent lurking in the bushes near school, just run.”

Will chuckled. “You’re probably right.”

Hannibal stood beside the Bentley, hidden behind a newspaper he wasn’t reading, parked just far enough from the school that it wasn’t suspicious.

He watched as students trickled out, eyes locked on the crowd until he saw her Mischa, walking beside a tall, shaggy-haired boy. Leo, presumably.

The boy handed her something a notebook? No, it looked like a cookie. Homemade? Hannibal’s eyebrow twitched.

He made a mental note of the boy’s posture, shoes, and unfortunate haircut. Then he made another note to run a background check later.

Just as Leo leaned in, smiling brightly, Mischa’s eyes darted directly to the Bentley.

She stopped. Froze. And then, without even trying to hide it, held up her phone and texted.

Hannibal’s phone vibrated a moment later.

MISCHA: Stop spying or I’m switching schools. Also you’re scaring him. Also you’re insane.

Hannibal smirked. He typed back:

HANNIBAL: We’ll see about all three.

Will found him in the study, of course.

Hannibal was seated at his desk with a glass of dark wine in hand, classical music murmuring in the background, and a manila folder open in front of him. Will narrowed his eyes.

“I swear to God, if that’s about Leo—”

Hannibal looked up, feigning mild surprise. “You’re home early.”

Will stalked closer, snatching the folder before Hannibal could slide it shut. He flipped it open and groaned. “You actually ran a background check on the kid?”

“I’m simply being thorough. As any responsible parent would.”

Will stared at him. “You tracked down his home address, his mother’s maiden name, and… his Scout leadership record?” He looked up. “You don’t even believe in the Boy Scouts.”

“I don’t believe in Leo’s merit badges,” Hannibal replied evenly.

Will ran a hand through his hair. “Hannibal, Mischa is fourteen. You can’t just shadow her like some Eastern European spy—”

“I wasn’t shadowing.” A beat. “I was parked. At a legal distance.”

Will gaped. “You sat outside the school?”

“For only twenty minutes. It was very discreet.”

Will pinched the bridge of his nose, laughing despite himself. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m a parent,” Hannibal replied smoothly, sipping his wine. “A devoted, protective parent with a concern for his daughter’s well-being. You should be proud.”

“Proud?” Will said. “She’s one cryptic Instagram caption away from putting you on blast. And you’re going to be the reason I have to explain to our future child why their older sister started locking the windows.”

Hannibal frowned, clearly unrepentant. “If you had seen the boy’s posture—”

Will dropped onto the couch with a groan. “Posture?! Oh, for God’s sake—Hannibal, you already interrogate every friend she brings over. Now you’re sniffing out teenagers like you’re prepping a tasting menu.”

“I’ve not eaten a single child,” Hannibal said with mock offense. “You’d know.”

Will glared, lips twitching. “Don’t tempt me to put you on a leash.”

Hannibal smiled fondly. “Oh, darling. We both know I’d enjoy that far too much.”

Will buried his face in his hands.

After a moment, he sighed and looked up. “Just… maybe ask Mischa next time? Or me? Before you go full ‘Hannibal Lecter, Suburban Dad, CIA Edition.’”

Hannibal tilted his head thoughtfully. “Fine. I’ll scale back. A touch.”

Will narrowed his eyes. “Define ‘a touch.’”

“I’ll stop surveilling school grounds.”

Will gave him a long look.

“…Directly,” Hannibal amended.

Will burst out laughing and stood, crossing the room. He leaned down and kissed Hannibal’s temple.

“You’re lucky you’re beautiful and pregnant.”

Hannibal smiled smugly. “I am lucky. I have you.”

Will huffed. “God help Leo.”

---

Leo was a sweet, gangly boy. Nervous smile, sweaty palms, and the posture of someone actively regretting every decision that had led him to this doorstep.

“Good evening, Leo,” Hannibal said, extending a hand that somehow conveyed both welcome and your soul is mine now. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Leo blinked. “U-Uh… thank you, sir.”

“Come in,” Will added quickly, giving the boy a reassuring clap on the shoulder and muttering, “You’ll be fine. Probably.”

Leo gave him a confused look before stepping inside.

He froze.

Classical music.

A fire crackling.

A literal chandelier.

And the scent of something very expensive wafting from the kitchen.

“Oh my god,” Leo breathed. “Is this—did you hire a restaurant?”

“No,” Hannibal said smoothly. “This is our home.”

Leo turned to Mischa, wide-eyed. “You live like this?!”

She hissed back, “Don’t make it worse.”

Leo had survived the appetizer. Barely.

He hadn’t touched the pâté chess set after realizing the knight was bleeding beetroot reduction.

Now he was nibbling at the duck confit like it might contain poison—and honestly, who could blame him?

Hannibal, eight months pregnant, sat across from him at the head of the table, spine impossibly straight, gleaming with eerie calm and the vague aura of I know things about you that you haven’t even admitted to yourself yet.

Will was beside Hannibal, looking increasingly like he wanted to fake a family emergency.

Mischa sat next to Leo, clutching her fork like a weapon, her smile frozen and eyes pleading say nothing weird.

Abigail, meanwhile, had propped her chin on her hand and was grinning ear to ear. “So, Leo. How do you like the food?”

Leo, poor sweet Leo, jumped slightly. “I-It’s amazing! I’ve never had… uh, whatever this is. It’s so fancy. And delicious. Like, really tender. And round. I mean—not round—just…”

Mischa squeezed her eyes shut.

Hannibal tilted his head, a predator indulging a mouse. “Round?”

“I meant…” Leo tried to recover, then fatally gestured to Hannibal’s stomach. “It’s just, like, so impressive that you’re still cooking and doing all this. I mean, you’re really showing now. The pregnancy. It’s really, uh, out there—”

Abigail choked on her drink. Will dropped his knife. Mischa made a high-pitched noise like she was dying inside.

“I mean that in a nice way!” Leo panicked. “You’re glowing. Like, horrifyingly—I mean—hormonally!—I mean—uh, beautifully. You’re beautiful. Sir. Ma’am. Doctor. Motina?”

Hannibal slowly folded his napkin.

Will leaned in and whispered, “Abort mission. Abort.”

Leo continued spiraling. “And your hair’s really shiny. And I like your... knives? Are they antique? Is that Damascus steel? I watch Forged in Fire sometimes—”

“I forged those myself,” Hannibal said, voice silken.

Leo’s mouth opened and shut like a goldfish. “Cool. Very cool. That’s… masculine. I mean, elegant. I mean—”

Mischa smacked her forehead on the table.

“Leo,” Hannibal said with surgical calm, “what are your intentions with my daughter?”

Leo went pale. “Um. To… date her? Respectfully? And… hopefully not die?”

“That last part is still up for debate,” Hannibal replied smoothly.

“Motina,” Will said gently, reaching over to rest a calming hand on Hannibal’s arm. “Let’s not traumatize the boy too much. We want him to eat dessert. Right?”

“Dessert is conditional,” Hannibal said, eyes still boring into Leo’s soul. “Upon the answers to the next five questions.”

“Oh god,” Mischa whispered.

The Questions

1. “Do you believe in monogamy?”

   “Y-Yes?”

   “You think you do, or you know you do?”

   “I do! I really do! I—absolutely!”

2. “How is your relationship with your mother?”

   “She’s… nice?”

   “Do you respect women?”

   “Yes?”

   “Do you know how to make a reduction?”

   “Like… a sauce?”

   “Do you know how to make one, Leo?”

   “...No, sir.”

   Hannibal looked at Will. “See? Barbaric.”

3. “What is your understanding of the existential dichotomy between individual agency and determinism?”

   Leo just blinked.

   Mischa leaned over and whispered, “Say ‘agency’ and pray.”

   “Agency?” Leo said faintly.

   Hannibal gave a slow nod. “Acceptable.”

4. “If Mischa were in danger, would you throw yourself between her and the threat?”

   Leo blinked. “Yes?”

   “Before you answered, did you consider your own safety first?”

   “No?”

   Hannibal arched a brow.

   “I-I mean yes—I mean I didn’t consider—oh god.”

5. “If we sent you to pick up a grocery list that included foie gras, veal, saffron, and a specific black garlic only sold in northern Italy, how would you proceed?”

   “Um. Google?”

   Will coughed and looked away, shoulders shaking.

   Abigail bit her napkin.

   Mischa got up and walked out of the room.

After Leo fled the house with barely a goodbye (and possibly PTSD), the family slowly turned to Hannibal.

Will crossed his arms. “You interrogated him like he was a war criminal.”

“He sweated too much,” Hannibal said simply. “Suspicious.”

Abigail chuckled. “You made him define determinism.”

“He failed.”

Mischa stormed back into the room. “I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY. HE’LL NEVER TEXT ME AGAIN. I’M DOOMED.”

“He didn’t understand a reduction,” Hannibal replied coldly. “You’re better off.”

Will groaned. “Hannibal. He’s fifteen. He plays the drums and watches anime. Not everyone is fluent in French and ethics.”

“He said my pregnancy was round.”

Abigail patted Hannibal’s back. “To be fair, it kinda is.”

“Out,” Hannibal repeated in a voice that suggested violence.