The air in the room was still, heavy with the scent of rose water and something darker, metallic beneath. You lay curled beneath a silk throw on the edge of the bed, forehead damp with fever, your body weak from days without eating. The meals had come like clockwork—lavish, meticulous, too beautiful to be trusted. Hannibal always brought them himself. Always watched as you refused.

The door opened again.

His footsteps were soft, precise, the plate in his hand steaming faintly. The scent of broth drifted through the room, rich and comforting. He approached slowly, like one might approach a wounded animal.

“You’re pale,” Hannibal murmured, setting the tray on the bedside table. His fingers brushed your temple, testing your temperature. “Fever. You’ll make yourself worse.”

You turned your face away, jaw clenched, and whispered, “Let me go.”

He chuckled, not unkindly. “You say that with such conviction, even now.”

His hand lingered, thumb tracing gently along your cheekbone. “But I won’t. You’ve refused to eat, refused to speak. You’re punishing yourself because of fear. And yet I remain.”

Your dry throat scraped as you spoke. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the only person I’d let this close to me.” His voice dropped, velvet-wrapped steel. “That should scare you.”

Your breath caught, just for a moment. He leaned in, lips near your ear.

“And yet… here you are.”

He pulled back, his eyes patient, devouring. “Let me feed you.”

When you didn’t answer, he lifted the spoon himself, guiding it to your lips. You turned your head again, but he didn’t grow angry. Instead, he sat beside you, cool and calm.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly. “I already have everything I want.”

You.