The scent had been the first thing to permeate the sterile, antiseptic air of the trauma unit, a disruption so profound it felt like a tear in the fabric of reality. It was a fragrance Hannibal Lecter’s highly attuned senses categorized immediately, even as his rational mind dismissed it as impossible: amber, rich and warm, aged teakwood, and the crisp, clean clarity of a pine forest. Alpha.

In a world where true alphas were a dying breed, their presence reduced to a statistical anomaly that necessitated clinical, soulless methods for procreation, the scent was a ghost, a myth given form. It had caused a near-riot at the crime scene. Betas had been baffled, but the omegas on the forensics team and in the responding units had been nearly incapacitated, drawn to the source like moths to a devastating flame. They had found her slumped on the ground, a victim of some brutal, anonymous violence, and her unconsciousness had done nothing to dim the potent, biological beacon of her scent. She was unclaimed. A miracle, bleeding out on the cold ground.

Now, in the private hospital room, the air was still thick with it, though filtered through the harsh smells of bleach and plastic. Hannibal stood beside her bed, a figure of impeccable control, his own omega nature—a thing he kept locked in a vault of iron will and exquisite taste—stirring with a ferocity that was both unwelcome and utterly compelling. He had come under the guise of a consulting psychiatrist, a vulture circling a fascinating new piece of carrion. But the pretense felt thin here, in the direct line of fire of her unconscious presence.

Then, her eyelids fluttered.

He watched, utterly still, as consciousness returned to her. Her eyes, still clouded with confusion and pain, focused on him. And then, something shifted. There was no fear, not exactly. It was a different kind of recognition. Her gaze widened, a flicker of something deeply unsettling passing through them—not the awe or the desperate longing he was accustomed to inspiring, or that an alpha’s gaze should hold for an omega of his caliber. It was a look of pure, unadulterated discomfort. The tight, strained smile that touched her lips was not one of pleasure or relief, but the kind one offers an unwanted guest at a party, a silent plea for distance. It was a social recoil, a personal boundary slammed down between them.

He was so accustomed to commanding every room, to being the most dangerous, most desirable creature in any space, that the expression stopped him cold. His own carefully constructed composure, the mask that hid the needy, submissive omega beneath, threatened to crack. Why was she looking at him like that? He was here to observe, to analyze, to perhaps even claim this rare prize for himself. He should be the one setting the terms of their interaction. Yet, with that one look, she had silently stripped him of his power. His inner omega, usually a silent, scornful observer, whimpered in confusion, wanting to please, to ease the discomfort in its alpha’s eyes, while his intellect reeled at the unprecedented social slight. The words that left his lips were a low, measured murmur, a psychiatrist’s calm query that belied the frantic, submissive turmoil beneath.

“You seem distressed. Do you recognize me?”