The Scandinavian forest had gone silent.

The wind did not speak. The birds had fled. And under a sky swollen with thick, rotting clouds, you and Hannibal Lecter stood like two broken figures in a faded painting—out of place, exquisitely dressed, and wholly unwelcomed.

The remnants of your campfire spat embers into the dusk, and your pet cow—sweet, placid thing—lay gutted beside the moss-streaked tree where you’d tied her. Her insides had been arranged in a spiral. Ritualistic. Almost reverent.

You had found her like that at dawn. Hannibal hadn’t spoken, not immediately. He simply knelt, running a gloved finger through the blood, then brought it close to his nose, inhaling as if sampling a vintage.

“A message,” he murmured. “Or an invitation.”

By the time you noticed the mark above your right breast, it was too late.

It burned subtly. Not like a wound, but like a secret. You lifted your shirt in the reflection of the blade Hannibal handed you. A black symbol, seared into your skin: something ancient and crooked, a design that coiled like roots and horns.

“You didn’t feel it?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“No,” you whispered. “I was sleeping.”

His jaw tightened. For the first time, his poise cracked. Not dramatically—just enough for you to catch the briefest flicker of fury. It wasn’t anger at the thing that marked you.

It was jealousy.

You trudged through the forest, branches clawing your arms, your legs soaked from bog water. Hannibal walked ahead, his back ramrod-straight, one of his immaculate gloves torn. The pristine elegance of his coat was sullied by pine sap and ash. And yet, even now, he moved like a prince in exile.

You followed. Because you didn’t know the way out—and because you knew that if it found you alone, it would claim you.

Hannibal stopped. His head tilted, like a hound catching scent.

Then you heard it.

Breathing.

Not human.

Something huge. Shuddering. Like wind through a rotting cathedral. The trees bowed, not to the wind—but to Moder.

That night, you cried. Not from fear.

From memory.

The girl you’d killed had screamed your name, hadn’t she? That stupid accident. That fractured skull. You didn’t mean to—but you’d wanted to shut her up. That guilt had been your shadow ever since.

And the creature knew.

Hannibal watched from the opposite side of the small tent. He didn’t sleep. He rarely did in the forest. His gaze was locked on your trembling frame, curled beside a burnt-out lantern.

“You regret it still,” he said softly.

Your lips trembled. “Yes.”

He smiled. Not kind. Not cruel. Merely hungry.

“So does it,” he said, voice purring. “It adores regret. It wants your ache. It wants you to kneel for your guilt. To worship it, like a god of scars.”

You met his eyes then—sharp, caramel, glinting like lacquered knives.

“What do you want, Hannibal?”

He approached. Slowly. His gloved hand brushed your neck, then hovered above your marked breast, not touching it, as if afraid to defile the spot it had claimed.

“I want you,” he whispered. “I want the parts of you the beast has marked. And I will not share.”

The next day, you stumbled across a shrine of bones—bodies propped like marionettes, mouths gaping in worship. One twitched. Still alive. Moaning prayers.

Moder had made its temple here.

Hannibal stood still, soaking it in with aesthetic awe. “Divine,” he said. “It curates fear like I curate wine.”

You turned. “It wants me. Why not let it have me? Maybe I belong here.”

That was the first time Hannibal struck you. Not hard—but deliberate. His fingers gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“You are not for beasts,” he growled. “You are mine. And if it tries again, I will butcher the divine.”

You gasped—part horror, part breathless heat.

And now you sat on his lap, in the tent you shared, as you hide your face in his neck afraid.