Chapter 6

"You consistently manage to surprise me, Miss Bloom.."

Delilah dared to lean nearer, fully intent on being the one to make the first move – at least then it would give him the option of plausible deniability, should he choose to deny it – but evidently it was his turn to surprise her.

Propriety launched itself out the window, as Hannibal suddenly lunged forward, out of his seat, and pinned her against the edge of his desk. The fingers in her hair tightened their grip, his thumb skirting down her cheek to tuck under her chin as he angled her face just the way he wanted. The wood of the desk bit into her backside, as his other hand held her firm about the hip, and she vaguely thought it should hurt – but then his mouth crashed into hers and she could feel or think of nothing else but him.

Hannibal sought access to her mouth at once and she complied without fuss; his tongue was cool against hers as she allowed him to explore her mouth, and the tart sweetness of the pomegranate tea was fast replaced with spicy citrus as her head began to swim. She snaked her arms around his neck and dug her nails into the fabric of his vest, pawing at him and desperately attempting to draw him nearer. But his hands stayed cemented against her hip and neck as he struggled to keep the hairsbreadth of space between them, his entire body tense with a clear resolve not to go too far.

As the possibility of fainting danced across her mind, he suddenly caught her bottom lip and pulled back slowly, nipping at the swollen flesh before releasing her lips. A whimper escaped her and he chuckled as he rested his chin upon her head, his hand on her neck disentangling itself from her hair and slipping down to rest loosely around her throat, as they both struggled to catch their breath.

"This is... highly inappropriate," he eventually murmured, even as the hand on her hip slid up under her shirt to press firmly into the dip at her lower back, tugging her forward in one fluid motion and finally molding her body to his. The heat of him was nearly overwhelming as she melted against his chest and inhaled deeply, taking in the deliciously masculine cedar, sage, and spices of his cologne. "Should anyone – "

"No one has to know," Delilah countered hastily, leaning up on her toes to lave at the skin of his throat with her tongue; he groaned softly and dipped down to catch her earlobe between his teeth. "Doctor-patient... confidentiality, and such," she muttered, her breath hitching and words dissolving into an obscene moan as he bit down. Gripping her throat, he dragged his mouth across her cheek and captured her lips in another dizzying kiss.

Just as he was maneuvering her up onto his desk for a second time that afternoon, a frantic knocking sounded at the main door.

Hannibal's hold on her suddenly tightened painfully, as if he were guarding a precious belonging from being snatched away; she let out a squeak against his lips and he loosened his grip at once, careful to then ease her back down to her feet. He held her steady before gingerly plucking her arms from around his neck and taking a wide step backward – immediately bumping his legs into the forgotten chair behind him. Scowling, he nudged it back out of his way with his foot and motioned silently for her to reclaim her proper seat.

Delilah quickly skittered around the desk and stuffed her feet back into her shoes before dropping onto the gray leather, chest heaving as she took several deep breaths to calm her frayed nerves.

While Hannibal smoothed out his clothing and Delilah tried to cool the heat in her cheeks with the backs of her slightly numb fingers, the knocking suddenly ceased. They both froze again, staring at the door with a distinct, shared hope that whomever it was had decided to leave. She could hardly be so lucky, however, and she stifled a groan as the knocking started back up again.

The clearly perturbed psychiatrist shoved his chair back to his desk and adjusted his tie, his mouth a thin line as he stalked across the room and wrenched the door open without ceremony. Delilah peeked around him to find a pudgy man with a beard just outside, wringing his hands and capering about.

"Doctor Lecter, I'm sorry but – " the man exploded at once, stumbling forward with clear intent to rush into the office; Hannibal sidestepped quickly, effectively blocking his entry and halting his explanation.

For all the quiet rage she had seen glittering in his eyes, Hannibal did an impeccable job of keeping his tone courteous as he replied calmly, "Franklyn, I am currently in session with another patient."

"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry. I thought you said you didn't make appointments on Fridays... Y'know, 'cause, wh-when I asked..."

Delilah blinked at that and curiously studied Hannibal's back as he bristled.

"I make exceptions for certain cases."

"O-Oh, right, sure. Of course," Franklyn grumbled, his feelings evidently hurt. "I just-... Well, I was reading this article online about impostor syndrome a-and I started panicking. What if I'm not really who I think I am? What if I'm subconsciously taking over someone else's identity and –"

"Enough," Hannibal interjected, his composure slipping. Whatever article the man claimed to have read, it was obvious even to Delilah that he hadn't finished it, or simply didn't understand it – both seemed equally likely. "You would do well to respect your own privacy as much as I do – as I've said, we are not alone. Your next appointment isn't for another week and a half, but if you're that concerned I can find time for you on Monday."

In the awkward silence that followed, Delilah peeked at the clock behind her to find it was six minutes past four-thirty – her hour was already up. Slowly rising to her feet, she cautiously began to inch toward the coat rack.

"But- but maybe after... I can just – Oh, hi there!" Delilah froze mid-step and looked wide-eyed to her right, to find both Hannibal and Franklyn staring at her. Ignoring Dr. Lecter's narrowed gaze, she tossed an uncomfortable smile to the other male and quickly snagged her apron without comment.

"Miss Bloom, we are not quite through," Hannibal said quietly, sending a shiver down her spine.

"I just noticed the time," she explained, gesturing toward the clock. "This seems... urgent. So –"

"Kindly sit back down."

Delilah stared at him for a long moment, then paced back to her chair. Once she was seated, he quickly turned back to Franklyn. "Please give us a few minutes and I'll be right with you."

"Oh, sure! Okay! I'll be here!"

Hannibal snapped the door shut as the man scrambled off to a seat. He stood staring down at the doorknob in his hand, evidently contemplating something, before he suddenly breezed right past her and began rifling through an oak credenza resting against the red painted wall. Crossing her legs, she leaned both forearms on the arm of the chair to watch him curiously. Before she could figure out what he was doing, he was advancing toward her with several white packets in one hand.

"What are those?"

Ignoring her, he stuffed all but one of the packets into her purse and quickly ripped the remaining one open to reveal a thin rectangle of gauze lined in surgical tape. Grabbing her injured hand, he crouched down and carefully laid the gauze over her stitches, taking his time to ensure the tape was flush against her skin.

"When you get home," he finally spoke, his tone professorial and his eyes focused solely on his task, "I want you to remove this, clean it – just around the sutures – and apply a thin layer of petroleum jelly to the sutures themselves. Then a fresh bandage. Do this every twenty-four hours."

Clearing her throat, she nodded and stared at his face, silently willing him to look at her. After a moment, his eyes darted upward and she whispered tentatively, "...Can't you just tell that man to leave?"

Hannibal raked his teeth over his bottom lip, then shook his head. "That would seem rather suspicious now, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose so." She shrugged, brushing two slightly trembling fingers across her lips in a poor attempt to hide her disappointment. She couldn't be sure whether he was upset with himself, or her, for what they'd nearly done; or perhaps, she hoped, he was simply irritated with Franklyn for interrupting, just as she was. "Well, thank you..."

He inclined his head in response, but said nothing more, and she took his silence as her cue to leave.

As she rose from her seat, Hannibal stayed rooted to the spot and she peered curiously down at him, a hand moving of its own volition to run her fingers through his golden brown hair; she watched the light catch a few graying strands as she gently scratched her nails against his scalp, and smiled as a low groan rumbled in his chest.

"You are making it exceedingly difficult for me to let you go," he said quietly, ghosting his hands over her curves as he stood to loom over her.

Fingers slipped from his hair and she rested her hands on his shoulders. "Then don't," she challenged, leaning up to kiss him once more. He suddenly gripped her sides hard, halting her advance, and she pouted.

Smirking, he brought a hand to her chin and scrubbed the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. "Patience," he clipped, pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead before releasing her and taking a step back. Her hands slid down his chest and dropped to her sides.

With nothing more to say, she gathered her belongings and crossed the room, feeling his eyes follow as she exited the office.

"Hey again!" Franklyn called, jumping to his feet the second she set foot in the waiting room. The man reminded her of a puppy – an overexcited golden retriever, perhaps, starved for attention.

Delilah simply forced a smile that felt more like a grimace, offering him a polite wave before rushing down the stairs.

Hannibal watched her curls bounce about her shoulders as she disappeared through the door, and he tried in vain to hold on to her scent as long as possible; sweetness and spice were at once replaced with a putrid mixture of cheap aftershave and nervous sweat, as Franklyn then barged into his office right after and shut the door behind himself. He fought to keep a scowl off his face as he regarded the much shorter man, indulging him in a handshake and waiting until he turned away to wipe his hand on his pant leg.

"Gee, I can't imagine why a woman like that would need therapy. Probably an eating disorder or something, huh? Girls always seem to think they're too fat, no matter how much they weigh. It's so sad."

"... I would rather not discuss my other patients, if that's alright with you."

"Oh, yeah, sure," he mumbled, and Hannibal's eye twitched involuntarily as the man flopped himself down on the teal settee. "So anyway, about that article –"

"Franklyn, you do not have impostor syndrome," he interjected exasperatedly. "As that would suggest that you were worth anything more than the sum of your parts – and with you it is abundantly clear that the mere sum is all that you are, and ever shall be."

The incredibly thinly-veiled insult seemed to go completely over Franklyn's head, not that Hannibal could say he was surprised; he smoothed a hand over his brow as the man squinted off into the distance, trying to work it out.

"So... what you're saying is... I-I'm just me?" He finally, and entirely inaccurately, surmised. "That I'm not taking anyone's identity at all, but that everything I think I am, is just... me?"

"...Yes, Franklyn, that is exactly what I'm saying."

Hannibal shut his eyes to hide an eye roll, then moved to the coat rack to grab his jacket and overcoat. "Now that that's settled," he continued, pulling his jacket on and quickly buttoning it before folding the coat over his arm. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to bid you a good afternoon, as I have somewhere to be."

"Oh gosh, of course!" Franklyn jumped from the settee and scrambled for the door, fumbling with the knob for a moment before yanking it open and holding it for him. "I know you're a busy man; sorry for just showing up like this."

"It's fine. After you," he clipped, gesturing with his keys for him to step out first, before exiting the room and locking the door. "In the future, I would prefer for you to call."

"Right, yeah... sorry about that."

Without reply, Hannibal quickly retreated to the safety of his car and unabashedly sped out of the parking lot.

Alana and Delilah Bloom's Residence,

103 W. Cross St, #44, Baltimore, MD

– 5:32 PM

When Delilah finally arrived at Alana's apartment, she found her sister curled up on the couch, snoring. Keeping her eyes cast downward, away from the photos she knew were on the wall just above, she dropped her purse and slammed the door as hard as possible, smirking as the woman abruptly jerked awake.

"Mornin' sleepyhead."

Alana's eyes widened at once and she leapt to her feet. "Morning?!"

"Whoa there, turbo, it's not really morning." She laughed as the brunette scowled and rubbed at her eyes. "Sheesh, long day?"

"Every day is too damn long," she grumbled, yawning loudly as she pulled her fingers through her hair to tame the sleep-induced frizz. "How was Dr. Lecter?"

Delilah's heart skipped a beat. "Wha-?" Her sister's bewildered squint served as a fast reminder that there was no way she could possibly know what had happened in Dr. Lecter's office today. Taking a deep breath, she cleared her throat and shrugged as she stepped out of her shoes and left them by the door. "He-... He's well, I guess."

"...I mean your appointment. How did it go?"

"You mean am I fully sane and no longer a massive thorn in your side yet? Dr. Lecter is a good psychiatrist, but I don't know if he's that good..."

Alana scoffed and rolled her eyes, padding into the kitchen. "You know what I mean."

Delilah lingered in the entryway, watching her sister retrieve milk and butter from the fridge, along with a box of macaroni and cheese from the cupboard. "Kraft tonight, huh? It's like we're kids again and mom burnt the roast."

"Yeah, but I didn't burn anything. I'm just feeling lazy."

"Lazy?" She gasped exaggeratedly. "So unlike you, Miss I have a Master's and a PHD- and I consult for the FBI- and I lecture at Quantico."

Though she rolled her eyes again, it was clear by the grin plastered on her face that Alana was feeling a bit smug. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," she muttered, pulling her hair up in a loose bun as she tore into the box of macaroni and set to filling a pot with water.

Delilah snickered and began absently scratching around the palm of her right hand. Her fingers brushed the bandage and she realized she'd forgotten to change it. "Whoops. Be right back."

Ducking out to snag the bandages from her purse, she then locked herself in the bathroom to tend to her wound as Hannibal had instructed. As she laid the gauze over the freshly petroleum-coated stitches, she debated whether she should tell Alana what had happened between them today. It wasn't as though she would report him and have his license revoked... Would she?

When she thought hard about it, Delilah honestly couldn't be sure. What they'd done had been, as Hannibal said, highly inappropriate, and unprofessional – on his part. The situation could easily be misconstrued as him, a well-known and highly respected psychiatrist, taking advantage of her, a seemingly unwitting patient; and with how Alana was treating her, especially lately, she couldn't say she expected her to assume otherwise.

"That won't do," she muttered aloud, deciding it would be in everyone's best interest just to keep her mouth shut. Delilah was good at keeping things to herself.

After taking a few minutes to wash and moisturize her face, she popped a Zoloft and swallowed it with a handful of water from the tap before wandering into her room to change. As she was slipping into a pair of comfortable sweats and an oversized sweater, it suddenly occurred to her that a certain nuisance hadn't come up to check her pupils, or pat her down for sharp objects.

Suspiciously peeking around, as if the woman would pounce at any moment, Delilah cautiously made her way back to the kitchen and hopped up onto the counter to watch Alana. "So... where's Nurse Ratched?"

Alana snorted at the 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' reference, as she poured pasta into the now boiling water. "I fired Rebecca."

"Wait, what?" Delilah blinked rapidly and dropped down to stand next to her. "Why?"

"Hannibal was right." She sighed, flinging the Kraft box into the trashcan as Delilah picked up a wooden spoon to stir the macaroni. "I'm putting all this pressure on myself to do everything right by you, the way I think things should be done and... And I'm just failing miserably. Maybe my women's intuition is broken."

"Nothing about you is broken, 'Lana." She sat the spoon down and gave her sister a gentle shove. "I appreciate what you've been trying to do – honestly. I wouldn't have signed the papers otherwise."

She watched Alana's brow crease as she gnawed on the inside of her cheek. "I never-… I never wanted to make you feel like I'm trying to control you, or something. After all this started, I just-... It seemed like the best option, you know? Especially since mom is off... wherever."

Delilah cringed at the venom in her tone. For the better part of the past year, their mother had been off and away, visiting every country she'd ever had even the slightest inclination to see. While Delilah was proud of her for having adventures and finally trying to find herself, Alana made it quite clear she thought it was all in poor taste. They hadn't spoken to one another in months, though she and Delilah talked at least once every other week.

"Sh-She's in Barcelona right now," she mumbled, poking at the chilly linoleum floor with her toe. "If you wanted to know."

"Ugh."

"But, uh-... Anyway, I know, and I agreed, hence why I signed my life away," she teased. Rather than laugh as expected, Alana's face suddenly crumpled and tears flooded her eyes. "Oh! No, don't do that; you know I hate when people cry. Oh god –"

"I just feel so stupid!" Her sister wailed, throwing her arms in the air before burying her face in her hands. "I keep fucking everything up! With you, and W-Will, and –"

"What did you fuck up with-... Wait, you big liar, were you two dating?"

"No!" She snapped, her voice muffled against her palms. She sniffed loudly and swatted the tears from her cheeks before shoving past Delilah to get to the fridge. Alana procured a bottle of white wine from the door, cursing under her breath about not having any beer, and proceeded to grumpily scour the kitchen for a way to open it. "I told you before, we're just friends," she grumbled, yanking a fourth drawer open and letting out a triumphant 'Aha!' as she discovered the corkscrew.

Delilah watched her struggle with the device for a moment before carefully taking it and the bottle out of her hands. "I'll do this, you get glasses," she instructed, watching Alana out the corner of her eye as she carefully uncorked the wine.

While her sister poured two generous glasses and swiftly began chugging one, Delilah tended to their dinner. "So, uh, I'm guessing you wish you weren't... just friends... with Will Graham?" She asked tentatively, dumping the strained macaroni back into the pot and stirring in a healthy pat of butter. She emptied the cheese packet into a small bowl and poured in a bit of milk, quickly combining it with a miniature whisk as Alana finally came up from her glass for air.

"No, I-... Yes, alright?" She pouted down at her glass before polishing off her drink and immediately pouring herself some more pinot grigio. "He's a mess, but... I like him. A lot."

Adding the cheese mixture, Delilah gave the macaroni one last good stir before grabbing a set of bowls and portioning it out between them. "You want him to be your mess."

"Maybe... Little more," Alana insisted. "Hell, just split all of it between us. Who cares."

"Alrighty then." She scooped the rest into the bowls and gave Alana a fair bit more, figuring she'd need it if she planned on drinking so much tonight, then sat the pot in the sink and let it fill with hot water. "You know I can't have more than a glass tonight, right? Alcohol and meds..."

"Yeeep."

Moving back to the living room with their sad dinners in hand, and Alana clutching the wine bottle under her arm, the pair sank into the couch and stared at the blank TV screen. They ate and drank in silence for a time, with Delilah only sipping her wine sparingly and Alana knocking it back like water, before Delilah finally decided to speak.

"So, why are you so torn up about this guy? I mean, can't you just tell him you wanna have puppies with him, or something?"

Alana snorted into her glass and sat it down, taking a few more bites of macaroni as she pondered. "I'm pretty sure he doesn't want anything to do with me now, after what happened with you."

Frowning, Delilah stared down at her neon yellow pasta and pushed it around with her spoon. "Sorry..."

"Nuh-uhm," she quickly protested around a mouthful of food, choking it down and taking a swig of wine. "It's not your fault. I had a stupid idea, tryin' to make shit easier on myself – like I always do – and I caused you to have a thing... and then I alienated him, 'cause I blamed him, thinking he caused it or something and... God, what a mess."

"Alana, it's not your fault I... 'had a thing.' It's not his fault, either." The only response she got from her sister was a loud 'pffff,' and at that point she knew Alana was more than tipsy. "Oh boy, maybe you should slow down."

"I am fine," she replied grouchily, sloppily setting her empty bowl on the coffee table and taking up the near-empty bottle of wine. She stared at the label before turning it completely upside down and emptying the rest into her glass. "And THAT is another thing Hannibal was right about, y'know," she suddenly added, and Delilah looked to her in confusion.

"Uh, and what was that?"

"You and me, we have real shitty communication skills."

"Well, that's not really much of a surprise, is it? I mean, look at how we grew up," she grumbled, and Alana snapped her mouth shut.

Delilah finished her meal as well and took a small sip of her wine as she watched Alana glower at the carpet. Absently fiddling with her right earlobe, she sighed and set the half empty glass on the coffee table, nudging at the stem to slide it toward her sister. "You can finish that. I'll hold your hair when you barf."

"Pff, I'm not that much of a lightweight, thanks you very much."

"Uh-huh... Listen, today, I told Dr. Lecter about what happened at the studio."

Alana paused mid-swig, then swallowed heavily and smacked her lips. "And...?"

"And, I just wanted you to know, I... I think I'm gonna be okay, okay?"

"Okay," she repeated, eyeing her warily.

"I'm still not telling you about it," Delilah muttered flatly.

"Then why the hell did you bring it up?"

Delilah sighed heavily and grabbed a pillow to fiddle with on her lap. "I brought it up because it was a really good session today. What happened-... I-It's a touchy subject, you know, but I was able to talk about it with him. I didn't have any sort of episode, and I think that's a really good thing. It's progress, isn't it?"

Nodding pensively, Alana grabbed Delilah's glass and began nursing it with small sips. "Yeah, that's definitely progress..."

"In the spirit of being more communicative... I forgot to mention, Dr. Lecter said he can draw up some paperwork in the future, to get me out of your hair. I think that would be good for both of us."

There was a long moment of silence before Alana whispered, "I'm just losin' everybody, aren't I?"

"Ohh no, drunky, nope. Stop that." She sat up straight and shook her head firmly. "We're not throwing a pity party here. I just mean I think we'll get along better if we're not up each other's asses all the time." They shared a snort of laughter and Delilah hastily added, "We've always been better at catch-up lunches and once-in-a-blue-moon type outings, y'know? This mushy living together nonsense just doesn't suit us."

Alana tittered lightly and nodded in agreement before getting lost again and staring off into space.

Turning the TV to some mindless sitcom, Delilah gathered up the empty dishes and bottle, and ventured into the kitchen. Her mind wandered as she threw the bottle in the trash and began rinsing the bowls to put them in the dishwasher. Part of her wondered if Alana would even be okay living on her own again; though she knew she was likely her biggest source of stress at the moment, Delilah feared coming home to an empty apartment might not be any better.

As she finished up cleaning the kitchen, she decided that she would find a way to contact Will Graham, in the hopes that she could at least get him and Alana on speaking terms again. She returned to the living room to find Alana fading fast, so she carefully helped the woman to her feet and ushered her to her bedroom.

"G'night, lush," she teased, pulling the comforter up over her and making sure her phone was nearby, so she would hear her alarm in the morning.

"Eh, shaddap," Alana grumbled into her pillow. She had only taken two steps away from the bed before obnoxious snoring filled the room. Delilah chuckled to herself and started for the door, but paused mid-step as an idea occurred to her.

Tiptoeing back over to her sister's bedside, she flipped Alana's phone face-up and observed the lock screen to find she had fingerprint identification enabled. Gnawing on her bottom lip, she cautiously peeled back the comforter and quickly pressed Alana's thumb to the little circle at the bottom of the screen. The phone unlocked at once and she ducked down to sit on the floor, sliding her own phone out of her pocket. She thumbed through Alana's contacts to find Will Graham's number and quickly keyed it into her phone, saving it as an unnamed contact before re-locking her sister's phone and gingerly placing it back on the table.

Stuffing her phone back into her pocket, she exited the room and shut the door behind herself, pacing back to the living room to turn off the television. As the screen faded to black, she had the overwhelming urge to turn and face the wall behind her. Slowly, she pivoted on her toes and stopped, glaring at the couch for what felt like ages and trying to will her eyes to move up.

'He deserved it.' Hannibal's low voice sounded in her head, but he wasn't talking about Matt's head being cracked open. No, in this strange little fantasy of sorts, he was talking about someone else entirely. 'Pathetic excuse for a man...' Her eyes abruptly jumped upward, to the photos on the wall; she found a picture of her younger self and her mother first, and her lips twitched into an approximation of a smile. Scanning left, slowly, she found 18 year old Alana in a graduation cap and gown, her beaming smile bright enough to blind – and beside her, she found him, Alana's father. Her stomach somersaulted and she quickly cast her eyes back down, hands twitching involuntarily.

In a haze, she suddenly scrambled up onto the couch and blindly began ripping every single photo off the wall. She tossed them all onto the cushions before dropping to the floor and cramming them all under the couch. With the wall completely bare, she then finally retreated to her room and collapsed onto her bed, quickly drifting off to sleep.

...

Delilah found herself wandering away from a modest white farmhouse, dressed in nothing but a long, gray nightdress made of fine silk; though she felt the autumn leaves crumble under each step she took, her bare feet made no din.

As she moved toward the thicket of trees that begged her near, a cold wind whipped at her back and she rounded to find the house filled to capacity with people – dozens upon dozens of people, all she knew or had known once – all screaming wordlessly and slamming their hands against the windows. Alana, Maggie, her mother, and Will Graham were the only ones that stood out; the three women clinging to each other and weeping, while Will simply shook his head and mouthed for her to come back as his fist repeatedly pounded against the glass.

'But the woods are lovely, dark and deep,' she thought, turning away without further hesitation and continuing her path.

The nearer she got to the woods, the warmer and thicker the air became – but she found it comforting rather than stifling.

She looked down as she walked to find there were no leaves or ground anymore. A sea of what appeared to be red water was rushing just beneath her, and rising rapidly. It covered her feet up to her ankles and leeched into the ends of her nightdress, causing the fabric to stick to her legs.

Not water...

Pausing just a foot from the entrance to the woods, she knelt down and dipped the tips of her fingers into the liquid, watching curiously as it coated her milky skin and slowly slithered down over her hand. Parting her lips, she placed a single fingertip on her tongue.

Warm and sweet, with the slightest tang, it tasted of pomegranates and... something more.

She rose and watched with fascination as the liquid stained her nightdress a deep ruby. It was beautiful, but suddenly quite cumbersome, and she peeled the straps off her shoulders to let it drop into the still rising liquid. The pomegranate sea was at her knees now, but it was bizarrely easy to wade through as she finally crossed over, into the woods.

The red liquid washed away at once and her feet lay flat against a cool, dark hard wood floor. Puzzled, she looked around to find herself surrounded, not by trees, but an instantly familiar and elegantly decorated office.

His breath was hot on her neck as a familiar set of strong arms suddenly wrapped around her naked body, yanking her back against his broad chest. Searing hands on skin, pushing and pulling, maneuvering her to his liking; his teeth bit into the flesh of her earlobe, but this time they didn't stop, and blood flowed freely over her neck and shoulder. More blood than one would expect from such a small wound, but there was no pain – only warmth. A warmth that understood and accepted.

She leaned her head back against his shoulder as she felt his hands begin to roam her body, and she glanced down to find her porcelain skin littered with bloody smears and hand prints. He pulled away and she turned to find his face shrouded in darkness, his outstretched palms holding a single pomegranate that was split down the center.

'A month per seed...' she heard herself whisper, her voice tinny and strange to her ears as she reached out to take it from his hands. 'What if I eat it all?'

A wicked chuckle filled the room and she looked down to find a mountain of bodies beneath them now – some in pieces and others whole – and though some distant part of her knew she was supposed to be afraid or disgusted, she found their entangled limbs and wide, glassy eyes rather mesmerizing.

'Do you understand?' Hannibal asked, suddenly locking her in a tight embrace and stroking her hair as he purred in her ear. 'Just close your eyes, Delilah, and look...'

…

Delilah woke abruptly with a strangled gasp, her eyes snapping open to find her room pitch black. She kicked the blanket off her legs and fished her phone out of her pocket to set it on the nightstand, glancing at the time to find she'd been asleep for barely thirty minutes – it seemed like hours had passed.

Wiping sweat-soaked hair out of her face, she opened up a note-taking app and began frantically thumbing every detail she could recall, while it was still fresh in her mind. When she finished, she tossed her phone onto the nightstand and touched gingerly at her earlobe; she of course found it still intact, and laughed at herself. "Just a dream, you idiot," she whispered, pulling the covers up to her neck and snuggling back down into her pillows. Within moments, she was fast asleep again.