“Should I expect the authorities at your door?” Hannibal asked, breaking the silence.

“No. I’m not entirely convinced it would make a difference. But I want you to leave, Hannibal. I don’t care where you go. What choices you make, who you become. But I do not want to be a part of it.”

“If that is what you wish,” Hannibal replied evenly, the smallest tilt of his head drawing her attention. “But tell me, Bedelia, have you felt a longing in my absence? Certainly our arrangement was unorthodox, but you were my wife. By name, if not by law.”

Again, her mouth ran dry. Had she loved him? It was hard to say. To admit. She had loved him the way an animal loves to kill; not out of passion but out of survival. As though it was a natural law, and to do anything otherwise would be unheard of. She had no choice but to love him.

She hated him. Despised him for how he had warped her, unleashed something she could not consciously control.

“I would like you to leave, Hannibal.”

He paused for a breath, and lowered his head briefly. He was many things, but never impolite.

“As you wish,” said he, before taking several steps towards her. “Before I leave, allow me this.”

With that, he took her face in his palm and pressed a kiss to her lips. She felt as though she was drowning on dry land, her lungs failing her for the briefest moment. It was not romantic. She did not melt into him, nor did her knees grow weak. Yet she did not draw back. How could she? No amount of self flagellation could pull her from him. No repentance could cleanse her. No amount of cuts to her skin would bleed him out. She would, as ever, fall back to him.