Hey. I have to admit that I quite lost motivation to go on due to the lack of feedback on this story. I divested my energy to other projects in the meantime. I'm still progressing at a snail's pace.
It was a strange noise that woke her up. From Hannibal's presence only remained wrinkles in the sheets and his usual fragrance. His side was cold; he'd been up for hours. Frances groaned her disappointment. New Year had passed with a simple candlelight dinner, and the routine resumed as if they had never left to Italy.
Usually, she would lounge until he came to fetch her, but the white light filtering through the windows called to her. There was this smell in the air… Naked, the young woman hopped to the curtain and took a peek outside.
A grin broke upon her face; the Valar had heard her plea, at last! Snow covered the backyard with a heavy layer. Even the road was white, not a single piece of concrete in sight ! Shivering, she draped herself in the heavy curtain and watched, mesmerised, as more snow poured from the sky and dusted trees, people and hedges alike with its mantle.
Shaking the curtain away, Frances proceeded to dress warmly. A dark sweater – cotton and silk – and warm leggings, she ventured in the corridor. Despite her shuffling upstairs, Hannibal had yet to show. Strange, when he usually greeted her at the first noise, even the faintest.
"Hannibal ?"
Frances' voice echoed in the seemingly empty house and she frowned. The faint sound of metal clanging called her down to the kitchen, but her husband was nowhere in sight. An uneasy ripple ran up her spine, and Frances circled the counter to the living room, soft footsteps in the eerily silent house. No one in the living room, but that strange echo that seemed to come … from below.
Frances froze, all senses alert, her heart rate increasing a notch. The next noise, a shuffling sound, as if something was dragged upon a surface, indicated that it came from the pantry. Slowly, cautiously, the young woman opened the door. The trap to the basement was open, its wide opening darker than the gates of hell. A gush of cold air greeted her, causing her to shiver.
The basement; the place she only knew from their sparring matches. The place that Hannibal never used, even to stow his beautiful Bentley when the wind blew the garden to pieces. It wasn't forbidden, per se, but Frances had agreed to trust Hannibal on his activities. And this trust encompassed this unspoken limit; the basement was his domain. Unless they fought, swords out, she never went down the belly of the house. But she wasn't naïve enough to ignore what might have happened down there. But today … today she needed to know.
Step after step, Frances descended the concrete stairs into the darkness, wondering if she was about to meet her end. Perhaps Hannibal had had enough. They have lived through two New Year together already; he'd tamed his beast for so long. Soon, they would celebrate their first year anniversary… Would she ever clink her glass to his? Another shiver went up her spine, and Frances steeled herself.
The darkness gave way to shadows, and…
"There you are, my beautiful."
His voice startled her so much that she nearly missed a step. The smoothness echoed against concrete walls as she caught a glimpse of him. Hannibal was standing in a corner, bend over a counter, working on … something with the scarce light of a side lamp.
"How was your sleep ?", he asked.
"Devoid of a husband", she deadpanned, taking a few steps forward.
The counter was laden with white substance, and she gathered that the strings attached in Hannibal's back were the ties of his apron. Her eyebrows shot up when he chuckled.
"Forgive me, I got too caught up to be able to join you."
Hannibal stepped aside, his dark eyes twinkling in mischief to show her his work.
"It was too hot in the kitchen to make a proper flaky pastry. I couldn't work the butter that kept metling."
An incredulous smile lifted the corner of her lips, yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that he had played her. Her husband's tall frame loomed over her when he dropped a kiss to her cheek, mindful not to dust her with flour. A few seconds of silence ensued; there were both standing in his basement, Hannibal's presence overwhelming, watching a piece of square dough that had been folded over twenty-seven times already.
"I wanted to treat you with a galette."
Of course! The first Sunday of January, French people made galette to celebrate the Epiphany. King's day. But she'd never heard anyone that could make their own. The idea was altogether crazy and impressive.
"Wow", she whispered. "Thank you."
Hannibal smiled, relishing in the merry expression that had overtaken her features.
"You are very welcome, my beautiful. Now, let me finish this, and we will partake in breakfast."
The idea of a shared morning meal lit up her eyes, and she nodded.
"I'll go and press some oranges."
Hannibal kissed her lips and watched her go, her posture more relaxed. He smirked. The test was pretty conclusive; Frances was still watching him like a hawk, but he had a little leeway in mornings. She had got used to him leaving the marital bed early, only to return later. This gave him a little freedom.
"Good. I'll join you in five minutes."
Breakfast was waiting on the dining table when Hannibal closed the trap to the basement. If most of the food was his doing, he had to admit that Frances knew how to lay a table. Her arrangements looked so elegant; she had now appropriated his silverware, adding a few coloured touches of her own. The slight changes, be it the colour of curtains or a few appliances here and there –brought warmth to his house. Warmth to his life.
And so, satisfied that the dough would be excellent, he bestowed a kiss on his wife's lips and sat to pour warm Jasmine tea into a china cup.
"Bon appétit, darling."
And he watched how her lovely lips curled in pleasure when the omelette touched her tongue; it reminded him of her first morning in his house. Silence settled for a moment, a comfortable type of quietness enhanced by the snow that muffled the sounds from the street. When her plate was thoroughly polished, Frances' chocolate eyes settled on him.
"I want plenty of Rhum in my frangipane."
Hannibal's lips curled in a smile; it wasn't often that his wife made demands on recipes.
"Indeed?"
"Yes. And bitter almond extract."
This time, the psychiatrist allowed his sharp canines to show in a full smile. She was like a kid in a candy store; the possibilities of home made flaky pastry calling for ideas. And so, given the lazy morning they could indulge in, he saw no reason not to enjoy her presence in the kitchen.
"Why don't we do it together?", he suggested.
The full smile that bloomed upon her face was reward enough for his efforts. And so, the Lecter couple was found, an hour later, grinding almonds and bickering on the proportion of sugar – brown or blond – to be had in the receipe. In the end, though, Hannibal won and his wife watched his precise hands as he carved the galette with patterns that formed leaves. He drew the surface as efficiently as a landscape, and not a line was out of place.
Frances, though, couldn't refrain from stealing the fork from his hand to draw a heart in the middle, interrupting his carefully lined pattern. Then, she carefully retreated to the door.
The cheek of the lady!
The psychiatrist considered her transgression with both amusement and annoyance. What punishment should be dealt for ruining his perfectly symmetrical sketch? As he considered his options, Hannibal's quick wit told him she was testing him, just like he'd been testing her. Was it payback for his little stunt in the basement?
That heart, carved in the middle of his beautiful galette screamed the words she kept inside. How much can I disturb your perfectly arranged life, Hannibal? How much will you endure before you break? How much before I do?
For it was a heart; not a flower, nor a sun, nor a fish. A heart. Her heart, that she had offered in full, and that kept him on his toes. It was for the love of her that his habits were disturbed, that he refrained from killing and playing with the FBI. And the beast demanded retribution, for it was tightly strung within his person suit. It yelled, night and day, to be let loose. To kill once again, and manipulate. To master and dominate.
The psychiatrist closed his eyes a short instant; if Frances wanted to play, he was quite up for the game. His eyes opened once more, and lifted to his wife. It took just one look for Frances to realise she was in trouble; the young woman froze in her tracks, eyes wide open. His next attack was so quick – the movement of a snake – that she didn't even move. Or perhaps, she didn't want to?
The kitchen knife embedded itself in the doorframe, barely three inches from her face. To her credit, the young woman didn't even start. Either she accepted death at his hands, either she knew he wouldn't do it. Still, she watched him, waiting, her breath short. And he relished in the smell of adrenalin and fear, for even if she refused to show it, her animal instincts were taking over at the sense of danger he exuded.
Hannibal was on the hunt.
He watched the blushing upon her cheeks, and the panting of her chest in the sweater he had offered her for Christmas. It just barely covered the tight leggings she wore beneath, the form-fitting garment giving her the allure of a panther about to pounce … but he was the predator. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Hannibal jumped over the kitchen counter with more ease than could be expected from a fifty year-old psychiatrist. Frances darted off at once, and despite his prowess, Hannibal's fingers only met empty air.
He grunted.
She was already in the middle of the stairs when he skidded in the corridor, her step light but not discreet enough to mislead him. Hannibal gave chase with all his might, the wolf asking for submission, for reparation to the challenge. To the second floor he ran, pausing in the corridor. Silence greeted him, the convenient squeaking of the wood absent, for once. But he could discern a faint ray of light below the sewing atelier's door. Had she disturbed the curtains while trying to hide?
"I'll find you, wife. And you'll be sorry."
So he approached with careful, threatening steps, ready to extract his prey from her sanctuary. His nostrils flared with anticipation; he could smell her. Close. The door cringed slightly when he pushed it – mmm, it needed some grease. Hannibal realised his mistake too late. Frances darted from the guest room behind him and jumped down the stairs. A chuckle followed her steps as she darted below. Like a fairy playing with a lost traveller in the deepest forest, she mocked him !
Enraged, Hannibal pounced. He was quick on her heels, taking the steps three by three. Twice, he nearly grabbed the sweater, only to be thwarted. Failing to overtake her, his ire only grew. If she reached the front door … she might very well escape him. No! The idea caused his heart to leap, and a groan to rumble in his chest.
Feral, Hannibal jumped the last set and extended his arm. Bless his long limbs; he managed to catch her ankle. The carpet barely cushioned his landing, but the loud thud and subsequent cry of pain from his wife told him her momentum had caused a harsher fall. Adrenalin flowing through his veins, Hannibal grabbed her arms and circled her frame at once. She was slightly dazed, and he spared no effort when she squirmed and kicked. Despite her struggles, Frances found herself subdued by his greater strength.
For a moment, he thought she would fight him like the enraged wildcat she was. He knew his touch to be harsh, her wrists and forearms would bruise for sure. But he couldn't control it; the beast was unleashed. How he wished to beat her into submission. A feral grin lifted the corner of his mouth, and he realised that there were other ways to keep a woman in check. Hannibal turned her around, squishing her to the floor with his weight.
The subsequent round of mating was the wildest they had ever partaken in. Never had never felt such need to control her; he barely managed to refrain from biting and choking her as he rammed his manhood inside her welcoming hips. Over and over again, he relished in the cries that arose in the corridor. Wild, unleashed, knees bruising on the wooden floor. He'd never look at those planks the same way again. The memory would stick to it like tar to a tree bark.
The Samuraï's armour watched him in disapproval; Hannibal didn't care. He had overtaken Lady Murasaki and her teachings a long time ago, she couldn't reach him here. And so, he didn't close his eyes when the mighty peak engulfed his lower belly, running up his spine like a mighty wave. No, instead, he watched Frances writhe beneath him. Hannibal cried out, more vocal than he had ever been, bruising her hips as he released his seed inside of her. Claiming her. She trembled in his grasp, her head bowed, dark red ringlets spilling over her still clothed back.
Exhausted, he eventually fell over Frances. She lay like a rag doll on the floor, panting; the result of his weight upon her slender frame. The sweater exposed her shoulder, he buried his nose against her skin. Far from a repellent, the layer of sweat coating it called to him. The animal surged forth and he took a bite, sinking his sharp fangs in her soft flesh.
Frances reared with such force that he landed sideways against the wall, stunned. Her glare was feral, shining with the promise of retribution when she rolled away. Hair in disarray, cheeks flushed and leggings pushed down her legs, she still looked like an angry panther about to bite his head off.
"You will not draw blood," she ground out.
And Hannibal knew he'd taken a step too far. Just as much as he knew that, if he had won this round, it was only because she had allowed it. The psychiatrist sat awkwardly, his own pants bundled around his knees, and nodded grimly. Then, just as she was about to leave, he pointed to the kitchen door.
"The frame will have to be replaced," he stated, his voice rough.
"Your choice, your mess".
He watched her as she climbed the steps; she favoured her right leg. He'd have to look into that later, once his feline wife had retracted her claws. Hannibal smirked; for the moment, there was a Galette to put in the oven.
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