The memory was a physical sensation, a ghost of biting cold and the certain promise of an end. Then, the warmth. The profound, encompassing heat of her, the soft crush of her fur coat as she had gathered his small, freezing body against her. He had been nothing, a dying creature in the snow, and she had been life itself. In that moment, half-delirious, his childish omega instincts had latched onto her strength, her scent of ozone and clean winter air, and had imprinted with a finality that had never faded. She was his. His Alpha. His savior.

Decades had not dulled the clarity of that moment, nor the absolute certainty of his claim.

Which was why his current behavior was so deliberately, artfully petulant.

He stood in the doorway of her study, a study he had designed for her, a sanctuary of dark wood and quiet light meant to be her throne room. She was seated at the great oak desk, her focus entirely on the ledger before her. Her peace was a palpable force, a serene gravity that usually soothed the sharp, restless edges of his own mind. Tonight, it irritated him. He needed that focus to be on him.

He let out a quiet, deliberate sigh, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. When she didn’t look up, he shifted, the fine wool of his trousers whispering against the wood. He cleared his throat softly. Nothing. Her pen continued its steady, infuriating scratch across the page.

A low, frustrated sound built in his chest, a near-inaudible whine he would never permit anyone else to hear. He was Doctor Hannibal Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper, a creature of exquisite taste and terrifying power. And he was about to pout because his Alpha was ignoring him.

It was a co-dependency so profound it was the very bedrock of his existence. Her calm was his anchor; her presence, the validation of his own. Without her steadying influence, the world was a cacophony of vulgarity and noise he was tempted to silence with violence. She was the only check on his darkest impulses.

But sometimes, the hum demanded to be heard.

He drifted into the room, a specter of discontent. He ran a finger along the spine of a first edition, knowing the sound would grate on her heightened Alpha hearing. He adjusted the angle of a vase of calla lilies by a precise, minute degree. He stood behind her chair, so close he could feel the warmth of her body, could breathe in the scent that was, and always would be, home.

Still, she did not acknowledge him. Her stillness was a challenge, a quiet rebuke to his theatrical display.

A flash of true anger, hot and sharp, went through him. It was swiftly followed by a wave of desperate, cloying need. He wanted to sink his teeth into the fine, worn leather of her chair. He wanted to lay his head in her lap and demand she stroke his hair. He was a bratty omega, throwing a tantrum not for a toy, but for a benediction.

Finally, he moved. He walked to the front of her desk and sat, not in the guest chair, but directly on the polished surface, right on top of her carefully arranged papers. He folded his arms, his expression a masterpiece of wounded pride and sullen entitlement.

That, finally, made her stop. She placed her pen down with exacting slowness and lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes, the color of a settled sky, held no anger, no irritation. Only a deep, fathomless patience. It was the same look she had given him in the snow all those years ago. It made him feel both infinitely cherished and utterly, completely exposed.

He held her gaze, his lower lip threatening to jut out in a genuine pout. The great manipulator, rendered into a sulking child by a single look. The silence stretched, thick with his unvoiced demand. He could see the faintest trace of a smile at the corner of her mouth, a sight so rare it felt like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a soft, plaintive murmur, all pretense of grandeur stripped away, leaving only the raw, co-dependent need.

"You are not paying attention to me."