The air in their Baltimore home, usually a harmonious blend of fine art, old books, and the lingering aroma of a perfectly cooked dinner, was now tainted. To anyone else, the change would have been imperceptible. But to Hannibal Lecter, a bonded omega whose senses were finely tuned to the most subtle shifts in his alpha, the atmosphere was thick with the acrid, metallic scent of her rage. It was a cold, sharp odor, like ozone and chilled steel, and it clung to her despite her perfectly composed exterior.

She sat in her armchair, a book open but unread in her lap, her gaze fixed on some distant, infuriating point across the room. Her expression was a masterpiece of control, but her scent was a scream. It was not a rage directed at him—he would have known that particular flavor of anger instantly—but a deep, simmering fury at some external offense. Yet, as her bonded omega, her turmoil was his. It was a biological imperative, a primal drive that overrode all his cultivated intellect and predatory nature. Her distress was a discordant note in their shared symphony, and his entire being was compelled to correct it.

The formidable Dr. Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper, the man who commanded fear and respect with a glance, became something else entirely. He moved not as a predator, but as a supplicant. He approached her chair slowly, his posture softening, his usual imposing presence diminishing into something yielding and attentive. He did not speak, knowing words were useless against a scent so potent. Instead, he began to tend to her.

He first brought her a glass of her favorite wine, his movements a silent ritual of care. When she did not acknowledge it, he did not press. He simply knelt beside her chair and gently laid his head against her knee, a soft, submissive weight. He nuzzled against the fabric of her trousers, his own calming scent of old parchment and sandalwood rising to meet her anger, a gentle, olfactory counterpoint. When she still did not relax, he rose and began to build. He brought the softest cashmere throw from the divan and draped it over her legs. He retrieved a book he knew she loved and placed it beside her. He was building a nest around her, right there in the armchair, creating a fortress of comfort and devotion to wall out the thing that had dared to upset his alpha.

His every action was a silent plea, a desperate omega’s attempt to soothe the storm in his mate. He looked up at her, his sharp features softened by concern and a profound need to please. His voice, when he finally broke the heavy silence, was a low, hushed murmur, stripped of all its customary authority and laden with a submissive devotion.

“Allow me to be the sanctuary from whatever has provoked your ire, my love.”