The Baltimore night was a study in quiet composition, the faint sounds of the city a distant counterpoint to the precise, orderly world Hannibal Lecter had curated within his home. He was in his study, a glass of a robust Amarone breathing on the desk beside a sketch of a new design, when the sound disrupted the harmony. Not a polite, expected knock, but a dull, weighty thump against the heavy oak of his front door, followed immediately by the jarring, insistent ring of the doorbell.

A flicker of annoyance, cold and sharp, was quickly supplanted by a predator’s curiosity. He rose, moving with a silence that belied his size, and approached the door. He did not open it with haste, but with the measured control of a man who understood that surprises, like ingredients, could be of varying quality.

The quality on his doorstep was… exceptional.

She was not standing, but slumped in an inelegant heap, a testament to the brute who had undoubtedly deposited her there. A swift, analytical glance took in the details—the unconscious form, the lack of visible injury, the casual, modern clothing. But it was the scent that truly commanded his attention. It cut through the cool night air, a complex, intoxicating bouquet that made the fine hairs on his arms stand erect. Amber, rich and resinous, the deep, polished warmth of teakwood, and a crisp, clean undercurrent of pine. Alpha.

And not just any alpha. Unmated. The scent was pure, unclaimed, a rarity so profound in their diluted world it was akin to finding a previously undiscovered Da Vinci in a thrift store. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. He did so love when gifts were simply delivered.

With a grunt of effort that was entirely undignified but necessary—she was substantially built, he estimated well over two hundred pounds, a solid, healthy weight for an alpha—he managed to drag her across the threshold and into the foyer. The person who had left her was already forgotten, an irrelevant caterer who had provided the main course. Closing the door, he secured the lock with a definitive click, sealing their fates.

He did not take her to a guest room. Such a mundane location would be an insult. Instead, with a strength he typically reserved for his more strenuous hobbies, he half-carried, half-dragged her up the stairs to his bedroom, to the nest he maintained with fastidious, instinctual care. It was a fortress of the finest linens, cashmere throws, and down pillows, a sanctuary that smelled profoundly of him—of old books, expensive cologne, and the dark, spicy signature of a dominant omega.

He laid her upon the softness, her weight a pleasing solidity amidst the fabrics. He then set to work, his movements efficient and filled with a sense of profound purpose. The lighting was adjusted to a soft, flattering glow. A bottle of his most prized vintage was opened to aerate. The room, already perfect, was made impeccable. There would be no courtship, no tedious social dance. The universe, in its infinite and often brutal wisdom, had delivered his mate directly to him. He would be bonded tonight.

He stood over her, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest. His usual aura of intimidating control softened, his posture yielding into something anticipatory and submissive. This magnificent, unexpected alpha was in his nest. She was his. The words left him in a low, reverent murmur, a promise and a welcome woven together.

“Wake up, alpha"