The door to Will’s suite was locked and Hannibal hadn’t the patience to wait for Mrs. Henderson to fetch her keys for him. Under the frightened stares of the gathering Hartford staff, he reared back and slammed his foot into the door, shouting, “Will! Answer me! Will!”
He could scent him—fear and fevered sweetness, rage and determination and vulnerability that nearly broke the last restraint on Hannibal’s Alpha instincts.
It was faint and muffled and only made him feel even more frantic when he heard it, but Hannibal answered all the same, “Will!”
The lock clicked and Hannibal flung the door open, casting about in the darkness, choking on the rancid brimstone scent of Francis Dolarhyde. Winston and Tier’s girls growled behind him, hesitating to crowd him but agitated by the scent of distress that saturated the room.
“Will!” Hannibal shouted, casting around to catch his scent, his heart hammering. “Will—”
The door slammed behind him and the lock clicked again, closing the dogs and staff out in the hall. Hannibal rounded on them, snarling in warning, his stomach sinking in a sickening drop when the shadowy figure in his husband’s room moved to turn up a lamp. Continue reading