They are bound hand and foot, and this is no simple romantic love between partners. In their eyes, their hands are stained with blood up to the elbows. Nothing can atone for their sins—neither hers nor his. They remain trapped unless one of them dares to cast off these chains, to sever this bond that should land them either on the gallows or in an asylum.

Hannibal knows she keeps a Glock beneath the pillow, her dainty hand gripping it through the night, warming the cold plastic with a fear.

And he? He is a man who luxuriates in his appreciation for art and refinement, never shying away from his taste for the exquisite. Beneath his pillow rests a carved dagger, its ornate hilt cold and familiar—a cherished memento from one of his more indulgent appetites.

She knows, with chilling clarity, what awaits her should she dare to make a reckless, dangerous move against Hannibal. Her fate would be far worse than that of the piglets he once savoured with a fine rouge bordeaux.

"You look exhausted, ma chérie," he says, tilting his head slightly, his gaze lingering on his wife's weary reflection in the mirror. "Up all night again, were you?"

The corners of his lips curl ever so slightly as she lifts her head, struggling to bear the weight of his light, teasing gaze. And yes, he can see it—the faint fear in her eyes, like a fawn caught in the open. Hannibal would be cursed if he denied how much he relished it.

He slips a hand into the pocket of his dark plum wool trousers, drawing out a slender silver chain adorned with an angel-shaped pendant. His keen eyes instantly lock onto the bare skin of her back, exposed by the evening dress, where goosebumps of fear ripple across it.

This is no mere gift; no, this is a trophy, which means he knows her little secret—the one she has desperately tried to keep from him. A warning? Oh, undoubtedly.

"She was far too loud, too defiant," the cold steel brushes the woman's neck, tightening like a noose. "But you, my dearest wife, I know you're obedient to me, aren't you?"