The scent of blood clung to you, a coppery sillage curling into the crisp night air as you strode toward your car, muscles still taut from the altercation. The parking lot was near empty, bathed in the sterile glow of overhead fluorescents, but you barely registered your surroundings—your pulse still thrummed with residual adrenaline, a distant roar in your ears.

Then, a shift. A presence.

Before you could react, Hannibal was there—looming, deliberate, moving with a predatory inevitability that sent a whisper of unease skittering down your spine. His gaze, usually a tempered thing, burned tonight. Dark. Intense. Possessive.

He herded you back, the smooth metal of your car kissing your spine as he closed the space between you. Heat radiated from him, his breath ghosting over your skin, sharp with something primal. His hands—elegant, inexorable—settled at your waist, fingers flexing, as though testing the solidity of you.

Then he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, a shudder raking through him.

A sound rumbled low in his chest—something deep, resonant, almost feline in its satisfaction. A purr?

Your breath hitched.

He had never touched you before. Not like this. And yet, his body curled around you instinctively, shielding, claiming.

The world had narrowed to the press of him, the quiet hum in his throat, the way he lingered—breathing you in like something sacred.

Like he’d found something he had long been hunting.