The conference room at the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit was typically a sterile, scent-neutral space, a deliberate environment for the cold, clinical dissection of humanity’s worst impulses. Today, however, the air was thick with a tension that had nothing to do with the grisly crime scene photos pinned to the board and everything to do with the woman sitting at the head of the table.

She was a new consultant, younger than most, and an alpha. A true, unmated alpha, a rarity so profound it was like a unicorn had decided to take up forensic psychology. Her scent was a quiet, devastating presence in the room—amber, teakwood, and the crisp, clean bite of pine. It was a scent that spoke of deep forests and quiet strength, and it was playing absolute havoc with the dynamics in the room.

For seated around her were three of the Bureau’s most formidable minds, all of them omegas, and all of them caught in the primal, unspoken competition her presence had ignited.

Jack Crawford, the stalwart pillar of the unit, was projecting an aura of solid, dependable competence. His scent, usually a muted blend of coffee and worn leather, had sharpened into something more assertive, a subtle display of a provider’s strength. He leaned forward, his posture broad and confident, offering insights with a deepened voice, attempting to present himself as the obvious, capable choice.

Will Graham, a whirlpool of empathy and anxiety, was a study in contrasting signals. He couldn’t meet her gaze for long, his own scent—a nervous blend of damp wool and river water—fluctuating wildly between a desire to flee and a desperate, submissive pull to present himself. He fidgeted with his glasses, his offers to help stammered and hesitant, a clear, if chaotic, bid for the alpha’s gentle attention.

And then there was Hannibal Lecter. He observed the spectacle with the detached amusement of a connoisseur, even as his own omega instincts purred in appreciation. His response was not one of clumsy posturing or frantic submission, but of curated perfection. His scent, a complex and refined bouquet of old books, fine wine, and a hint of blood-orange, was released with precise control, an olfactory promise of sophistication and impeccable taste. He listened with an intensity that felt like a physical caress, his comments were flawlessly insightful, and his posture was one of elegant, yielding readiness. He was not competing; he was presenting a masterpiece for her consideration.

And through it all, the alpha remained the eye of the storm. She was simply… herself. Kind, chivalrous, passing files with a gentle hand, offering a soft "pardon me" if her sleeve brushed against Will’s, listening to Jack’s theories with respectful attention, and meeting Hannibal’s gaze with an intelligent calm that he found utterly intoxicating. She was entirely unaware of the silent, fragrant war being waged for her favor.

Hannibal watched her now, as she leaned over to point something out on a map, the line of her neck exposed in a way that was both innocent and profoundly alluring. He felt a slow, deep curl of possessive desire. This was not a prize to be won through brute force or frantic pleading, but a treasure to be acquired through superior artistry. He allowed his scent to bloom just a little more potently, a silent, submissive offering meant solely for her. His voice, when he spoke to clarify a point about the geographical profile, was a low, cultured murmur, layered with an unspoken vow.

"I find my thoughts often need a moment to settle after such intense discussion. A drink, perhaps?"