Dangerous Trio

Untied

It had been nearly two weeks since the last time I had left Hannibal's house. My left hand was often tied delicately to the bedpost, a soft silk binding that felt more symbolic than restraining. Most days passed in a haze of routine—Hannibal bringing me breakfast in bed, his movements careful and practiced, as though this was his way of caring for me. He would sit next to me and brush out my hair.

It was a strange, dynamic, one I couldn't untangle in my own mind. Guilt and comfort stirred inside me, creating an ache that refuses to subside. I hated the captivity, the feeling of being tethered like a bird in a cage. But I couldn't deny the parts of it that felt... safe.

Hidden from the world, I had access to everything I could ever need—a private psychologist, a doctor on call at all hours, and don't forget, a chef. Though fear prickled at the edges of my thoughts, Hannibal's presence evoked a kind of security I'd never known. His attentiveness was maddeningly disarming, and I found myself hating him for it as much as I longed to sink deeper into the illusion of safety he created.

"You plan on keeping me here forever?" I asked softly, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Hannibal glanced up, where he sat leisurely in his pastel blue silk pajama pants with a matching cream v-neck adding an air of understated elegance. He looked at ease, as though this moment were nothing more than a quiet morning between old friends.

"Of course not," Hannibal replied, his tone gentle but deliberate.

His gaze lingered on me, unreadable and steady, as though he were studying a masterpiece only he could fully comprehend. "I told you, you are a gift. I am simply preparing you."

His hand moved with meticulous care, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. The touch was almost tender, but it carried an undercurrent of control that sent a shiver down my spine

"You are going to Florence tomorrow," Hannibal said, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather.

"Excuse me? Florence—Italy?!" I blurted, my voice rising in disbelief.

I stared at him, wide-eyed, my shock rendering me momentarily speechless.

Hannibal met my gaze with a calm that only deepened my unease. "Yes," he confirmed smoothly, as though my reaction were entirely unnecessary.

"Are you coming with me?" I asked, my voice wavering slightly as I tried to mask the mix of apprehension and hope bubbling beneath the surface.

"I will meet you in the coming days," Hannibal replied, his tone steady and composed. "There are a few arrangements I need to finalize first."

Arrangements? What could that possibly mean? The word echoed in my mind, heavy with implications I wasn't sure I wanted to unpack. My lips parted, ready to unleash a barrage of questions, but I held back. I knew better by now. Hannibal's answers were always crafted to reveal just enough to keep me guessing, never more.

The thought of Florence stirred something unexpected within me. I'd been there once before, years ago. Memories of wandering through narrow cobblestone streets, the scent of espresso and aged stone filling the air, came rushing back. Against my better judgment, a flicker of excitement bloomed in my chest. The thought of returning to such beauty, despite the circumstances eased me.

Unbeknownst to me, Hannibal had already packed my bags. They waited by the door, perfectly arranged, as if this had all been planned down to the last detail.

When morning came, he was there, untying my hand with practiced care. His touch was deliberate, almost reverent, as though waking me was a ritual, not a routine. I stirred groggily, the remnants of sleep clouding my thoughts. Hannibal's expression remained serene, his focus unwavering.

"You'll need to eat before you leave," he said softly.

He was impeccably dressed, as always. A blue silk undershirt clung to him like a second skin, its sheen catching the soft morning light. Over it, he wore a tailored tweed vest that hugged his frame, paired with matching trousers that fell perfectly against the polished Italian leather shoes adorning his feet.

I ate quickly, and then showered, the steam doing little to clear the fog of uncertainty clouding my thoughts. When I returned to the room, a neatly arranged set of clothes lay waiting on the bed, unmistakably chosen by Hannibal.

I stood there, wrapped in a towel, motionless and in shock over what was about to happen. I soon began to get dressed. As I slipped the soft turtleneck over my head, I heard the door creak open. Hannibal entered without a word, his sudden presence startling me.

I froze, my arms halfway through the sleeves, my pulse quickening at the sight of him standing there, poised and unflappable. His gaze swept over me, calm and calculating, as though assessing the fit of his chosen attire.

A pair of black stockings laid in front of me. Hannibal gently sat me down on the bed and began to put on the stockings. He took my leg and with his hands he slowly unraveled the hosiery up to my thighs. His hands were warm and soft making it feel like he was pouring wax on me, solidifying every detail.

"Are you ready?" Hannibal's voice was soft, but there was an edge to it, as though he already knew the answer.

I nodded, my heart racing. But as I stepped forward, a single thought echoed in my mind: What was waiting for me in Florence?