The heavy oak door of his Baltimore home closed behind Hannibal Lecter with a whisper, sealing out the cacophony of the vulgar world. The scent of antiseptic and human frailty from the hospital was replaced by the familiar, sacred aromas of his own domain—old books, polished wood, and the lingering notes of a Sangiovese breathing on the sideboard. It was a transition he made daily, a shedding of the mundane for the sublime. But tonight, the sublime was waiting for him in a way that stole the very breath from his lungs.

She was there, standing before the fireplace in the grand living room, a living flame at the heart of his curated universe. The day’s tensions, the tedious interactions with Jack Crawford, the blandness of the world—it all melted away, rendered insignificant by the vision before him. His wife.

And damn, she was fine.

She was wearing a babydoll nightie of the palest blush pink, a confection of delicate lace and diaphanous silk that seemed to float around her. The soft light from the hearth caressed the lines of her body, illuminating the elegant slope of her neck, the gentle curve of her shoulder, the tantalizing length of her legs. It was an ensemble of breathtaking innocence, yet on her, it was the most potent, ravishing provocation. She looked like sin itself, and he was a willing, devout sinner.

A slow, appreciative smile touched his lips, the kind that rarely reached his eyes for anyone else. This was his wife. The woman who understood the composition of his soul, who could appreciate the subtle notes of a well-paired wine and the brutal beauty of a well-executed tableau with the same discerning eye. To come home to this, to this intelligence, this grace, this devastating beauty, was a fortune that humbled even him. He was a man who commanded fear and respect, but in her presence, he was simply a husband, captivated.

He moved toward her, his steps silent on the Persian rug, his gaze a physical caress. She was the most exquisite piece of art in his collection, the only one that was alive, that breathed, that looked back at him with an understanding that mirrored his own. The words that left him were a low, resonant murmur, stripped of all calculation and brimming with a possessive, adoring awe.

“My dear, you are a feast for the senses this evening.”