Hey ! I'm taking a little break from all my editing/corrections on my novel to get this chapter out before my brain explodes. If you liked it, please leave a review. I've got a lot of followers on this story but not much feedback (except for a few faithful ones, of course, who will recognise themselves). Reviews feed my muse ! Cheers

Like most mornings, Hannibal's hand found Frances' skin before the morning light even registered in his brain. Somehow through the night, the young woman had turned away from him, cuddling into a ball facing the door; she never turned her back to an opening. A reflex for people who felt unsafe, one his paranoiac patients could show. But she wasn't mentally sick, except for her case of PTSD. If she had travelled in the wilds with a company of knights of the fifth century, or worse, a dwarf, a wizard, two men and four hobbits – the elf would NOT be mentioned lest his jealousy surged – hunted by wraith riders and foul creatures, she had every right to be anxious about being ambushed. The subconscious always prevailed, no matter what the mind knew. From her writings, he had learnt how dangerous her life had been until now… And this world, being his wife, well… It wasn't as safe as people could think, and Frances knew it well. After all, it was just recently that a serial killer had attempted to kill him. And she slept in the Chesapeake Ripper's bed after all … anxiety was to be expected. Even though, as a couple, they had gone way beyond the initial arrangement. Somehow, he wondered if she still expected death by his hands someday.

Hannibal's fingers curled around her small waist; her soft flesh called for his attention. Frances sighed, scooting a little further back so that her whole body brushed his. Her hips, warm and plush, suddenly rubbed a very specific part of his anatomy that turned very eager. Hannibal's full lips landed on her shoulder, his tongue tasting her warm skin with delight. A soft hum was her only response, and his hand slid over her waist, caressing the warmth of her belly as he pulled her closer. His mouth feasted on her shoulders and nape, suckling, tongue swirling, lips wet with desire as his hand slowly moved further down.

As usual, Frances didn't protest when Hannibal joined their bodies, the quiet gasp quickly swallowed by another moan. Day after day, he enjoyed making love to her at daybreak. At dawn, she was always half-awake, pliable under his hands, her body responding to his every whim. Eyes closed, plush curves and muscles rolling sensually as she unconsciously took him. The moves of a dancer; and even in her state of half sleep, her body responded to his every command. Available for the taking whenever intimacy called to him. Like a dessert on a table or a ripe fruit awaiting to be picked, always ready to welcome him.

Panting, Hannibal caressed every bit of her flesh, tasted every inch of her skin, relishing in her sweet scent, marvelling that, even in sleep, she was always willing to welcome him. They were so evenly matched, even in the most intimate of places. Was this love? Hannibal's body tensed as he groaned his release, long fingers tightening around her throat. Pleasant bliss followed and the psychiatrist gathered the young woman in his arms, gently nuzzling her neck. She reached for his hands, pulling them to her chest before sliding back into oblivion, her breath gently slowing down, her wild curls tickling his neck.

Love. He certainly wished no harm to come to her. Her genuine smiles made his chest flutter, her pleasure calling his pride. Her beauty enthralled him, her courage and intelligence just as much; a worthy woman by his side. And she was HIS. His to love, his to possess, his to touch … his to kill.

Was this love?

Frances stirred sensually in his arms, rolling on her back without breaking the contact. So much for getting back to sleep but again, lovemaking was about sharing energy, and Hannibal always gave his utmost. Her lidded eyes were now peeking at his flushed face; for a moment, the psychiatrist wondered if she could read his mind. Had she guessed his existential interrogations? Cocking his head aside, his eyes detailed the soft curves of her reddened cheekbones, choosing to linger on the rosy lips that begged for a kiss. Neither awake, neither asleep, Frances barely acknowledged the soft touch of his lips before he slid out of bed. Her whimper of disappointment made him smile, as he ran the hot water in the adjoining bathroom.

The least he could do, if his desires had pulled her from restful sleep, was to help her emerge from slumber. A cup of tea would have been ideal, but she would no doubt protest about his absence much more than about the wakeup call. The days where they could linger in bed were scarce. Hannibal plunged the little square towel under the scalding water then wrung it carefully before walking back to Frances.

— 'Close your eyes,' he ordered gently.

Frances complied, and he lay the hot towel over her eyes and forehead with a tender gesture. The young woman hummed her assent; he had introduced her to this Japanese tradition a few months back and gained her approval. Hannibal smiled as she wiped her face with the piece of cloth, cleaning her skin. Frances had never visited Japan, but she would fit in nicely. She loved kendo, adored sushi and had a very strict moral code. She also enjoyed rules, learnt by observation, could push herself much further than she should and had a few habits that seemed very Japanese. Such as the way she folded laundry, sitting in seiza on the floor – remains from her Aikido classes. Or the way she drank Sencha tea, one hand over the bottom of the cup, just like a Japanese lady.

Hannibal wanted to take her to Japan, but for once, he was quite afraid of the questions she would ask. He had avoided talking about his surrogate aunt as much as possible, this ancient love still fresh in his mind. And now … he nearly felt unfaithful. Damn human emotions! The strict minimum of information had been shared regarding the Samuraï armour on display in the corridor, or his skill at kendo … or with the knives.

— 'Must you always be so perfect, darling?'

Frances' comment startled him out of his thoughts. Her warm chocolate eyes watched him carefully now, and he had no doubt she caught the pang of sadness and resignation in his own gaze before he retrieved the towel and kissed her cheek. Perfect. Far from it, especially to her. But he couldn't help who he was and wouldn't change it for the world. She had no choice but to accept it, or begone.

— 'Come, my beautiful. We're going out of the house for Christmas Week.'

His comment caused her eyes to shine brightly. One week, just the two of them was enough to stir her curiosity. But no matter how convincing she was, Hannibal refused to divulge his plans. A surprise was a surprise after all.

Punishment for his silence or facetiousness, Frances was behind the wheel today. Something about 'sharing the responsibility', as she said. And Hannibal had to admit that, for once, it was nice not to be the one in charge, although her driving was way more energetic than his. He'd got sloppy, living in the United States. Perhaps in ten years from now, she would slow down and take turns at a more reasonable speed. Not that it bothered him, really; Hannibal had reflexes that could rival a cat.

Everything he had to do was direct her on the route to take, and see her smile widen each time they took a turn that drew them closer to the Ocean. Hannibal slightly shook his head; she was his first case of 'sea' addiction.

The music switched to a piano piece composed by Ludovico Einaudi, causing Hannibal's lips to twitch. Italy … the country of his dead mother, one they shared a passion with – outside of Japan. Of course, Frances would love this composer, his songs conveyed such emotions … albeit without the technical complexity from a genius like Chopin. The whole Opera board would probably cringe, as he would have, at hearing such a commoner… Einaudi composed for the crowds, loved all over the world by people who knew nothing about classical music, earning scorn and disdain from connoisseurs. Yet, he understood why Frances would love it; her emotions led her so beautifully. And truth be told, Einaudi's pieces had been an excellent exercise as he learnt the harpsichord; they were relatively easy to play for a man like him. But Frances preferred the piano, its sound rounder, softer somehow.

Her body itched to dance as she drove, her head lolling from left to right with the flow of notes. Hannibal resolved himself to play some of those long discarded pieces for her, just to see if she could resist the pull. Ever since she had resumed figure skating, Frances also worked a classical routine to strengthen her muscles and improve her flexibility. She now danced around in the house, from kitchen to dining room, spinning with the plates in hand whenever she set the table or cooked. It was embedded in her, like the blood in her veins. Still, the famous 'Divenire', with all its joy and lightness, failed at chasing away the clouds in his head. His silence shifted from companionable to tense. It didn't take long for Frances to catch his mood, but she left him to his own devices.

For once, the psychiatrist was the one to break the subject.

— 'Have you read Freddie Lounds' latest article?'

His tone was light, almost disinterested but Frances wasn't fooled. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, her eyes flashing with a dangerous gleam.

— 'No. I don't read rags.'

Hannibal nodded, not the slightest surprised by the venom in her voice. Still, he wondered why the woman chose to ignore what was written about her. Perhaps she didn't want to find out about anything he might have done in tattle crime? A way to protect herself from his crimes? To protect him from …?

— 'Anything interesting?'

Hannibal almost started, catching her intense chocolate eyes. Almost. She was an interesting woman, his soon to be wife.

— 'She wrote about your encounter, mostly.'

Frances shrugged, unconcerned.

— 'Nothing I didn't expect. Why are you mentioning this?'

And smart.

— 'I was wondering whether I should sue her for the lies she spreads about you.'

— 'Bah. If it's about me, she'll never find anything. Won't she?'

Hannibal's eyes narrowed and Frances failed at keeping her façade, for behind the mask her eyes shone with a murderous look. She hated that journalist, and Hannibal would have killed her without a second thought … and maybe Frances would have loved to slit her pale throat herself. Perhaps not. But Freddie Lounds was too close to the FBI now; her disappearance would raise questions and expose them. And Frances would never approve of cold blood murder anyway; his fantasy could eat its heart out. Seeing that he was mulling over things, Frances called his attention again, offering another aperture to the problem.

— 'How about we let her bark the wrong tree? It keeps you safe and relieves pressure on Will'

Hannibal's eyebrows shot up; for a moment, the image of Freddie Lounds trying to climb an oak, hair wild and yelling her grievances to the branches was enough to cause his lips to quirk up. But in truth, there was nothing funny in Frances' statement. Letting the journalist spit her anger over his wife to remove him from the spotlight was an angle he had not considered. Surprising, since he was an expert at protecting himself … yet Frances had become his to protect, not one to be used and discarded as collateral damage. What she suggested was purely, and totally unacceptable! Freddie Lounds was attacking HIS woman and he itched to make her eat her computer. Part by part, slowly. Oh, how he would enjoy seeing her choking to death, her wide stupid eyes frightened ad he picked at his nails.

— 'You're not the wrong tree, Frances.'

Frances shrugged again, reaching for his hand as she didn't need to change gear for a while – the woes of manual transmission; the price of control. A gesture of companionship to ease his worries. It was strange, sometimes, how good it felt to have someone who could read his micro-expressions so accurately. Soothing and frightening all the same, for it meant no secrets.

— 'There's nothing to be found about me. Nothing.'

Hannibal shifted aside to face her completely, puling the zip of his sweater further down to get rid of the itching contact. His tongue ran over his lower lip, his senses concentrated over the slight moisture it left over it. Some pictures were more difficult to visualise than others, and his chest slowly constricted. Was it fear?

— 'Should the government get hold of you… With the national security rules, I'll be powerless to stop them. No amount of money or influence could protect you'

Silence greeted his statement as Frances took in his admission. Being in danger with no hope to survive was nothing new to her; he could see it by the way she came to the dreadful conclusion without missing a heartbeat.

— 'Then I'll perform seppuku without assistance. They probably won't expect it.'

A shudder ran through his spine, shaking him from head to toe. How could she be so nonchalant about her own death? Sometimes, he wondered if she didn't long for it. Speechless, Hannibal could only cover her hand with his other one. Seppuku … not the stupid Hara Kiri invented by the Occidentals. As per Japanese customs; Seppuku was a conscious act, one of death and honour. And had this conversation been purely rhetoric, Hannibal would have agreed that choosing one's death was an act of courage, one performed and not 'committed' like a criminal. He never accepted the occidental view of 'committing suicide', as if it was a crime, rejecting the idea that God should be the only decider in one's life.

His long fingers tightened on hers unconsciously, and his tongue seemed to thicken in his mouth when he spoke next.

— 'I don't want anything to happen to you, Frances.'

The young woman swallowed audibly, her gaze turning distant on the road.

— 'Things happen without us wanting it. Sometimes … they spiral out of our control and we are utterly powerless to stop them.'

Hannibal settled again in his seat. Funny how the role reversal – she driving and him being the passenger – had also switched the balance. Her words could have been one of his quotes; they struck true and hard. His parent's deaths… Mischa's. No amount of control could have saved them; he hated that he had not made his peace with it yet. The earliest trauma carved into his flesh like a brand. The hot iron sign of the devil magnifying his failure, hidden below layer upon layer of finely tailored clothes and manners. Better to delve upon her traumas than his…

The psychiatrist took precedence over the wounded boy, detached demeanour and pointed questions at the ready.

— 'What has happened, Frances, for you to speak thus?'

Would she be willing to play the game and grace him with an answer? Or would she see through his bluff and seek to delve deeper into his own psyche?

— 'Boromir's death. Haldir's. Tristan's as well, dead for a choice I have regretted ever since. Especially since Lancelot screwed up the whole thing!'

Frances' voice was rising again now, anger seeping through, regret as well. Regret for choosing to save Lancelot rather than Tristan like Merlin had asked of her. Hannibal understood her resentment; when reading 'La morte d'Arthur', he had keenly felt the loss of the King and his companions, assessing the waste with disappointment. How such a great man had ended so shamefully because of a woman's affair and his best friend's betrayal… It was sad.

— 'Did you know that he kissed me, that cad!'

The psychiatrist's eyebrows shot up; he didn't know whether he should be amused or…

— 'You left that out of your writings'

Her tingling laugh echoed in the car, and Hannibal's jealousy suddenly flared. He should have killed Lancelot when he had the chance. And eaten him. Leading King Arthur to his death was one thing, but laying a hand on his woman, how rude!

— 'Yeah, it was complicated enough not to dwell and such trivialities. I hope Gal… Will finds them detailed enough.'

Regaining his composure – as if anyone kissing HIS woman could be trivial – Hannibal gestured aside to indicate a road.

— 'Left turn here, little fairy.'

And nothing more was said about Lancelot and his horrible ways.

Frances' reaction to his beach house was priceless, her jaw nearly agape as she took in the view. The Ocean crashed in angry waves on the cliff side just below the terrace, and despite the cold wind it took her ages to realise that he had opened the front door and unloaded the suitcases. When he led her inside, holding her hand like a gentleman, the twinkle in her eyes only intensified.

In the main room surrounded by floor length windows stood a huge Christmas tree decorated from head to toe in red and golden hues. The Nordmann pine itself was magnificent, green needles vibrant as it stood a foot over their heads, but the decoration … the decoration was a work of art. So elegant, so fine even if the smallest of details. Glass baubles of deep red, green and blue delicately drawn with golden threads, wooden stars and shiny tinsel changing with the light populated the thick branches. A few feet away, a grand piano awaited for Hannibal's fingers to enchant her.

The magic of it all nearly brought tears to her eyes, and Frances turned to him in awe. When did he get the time to prepare such a surprise? His lopsided smile called a grin to her lips and she kissed him thoroughly. When she eventually pulled away, leaving them both a little breathless, Hannibal's twinkling eyes caught hers.

— 'May I introduce you to the master bedroom, my lady?'

It didn't take long for her strange mood to evaporate. Talking about one's death didn't hold a candle to being worshipped by a man of Hannibal's talent.