BAD TASTE!

She could be killed at any second, and yet Bedelia isn’t afraid.

She supposes it’s Hannibal’s doing. Years spent near him, with him—it changes you. Had they never met, she imagines she would be scared. Imagines that the press of a sharp knife to the dip of her throat would send fear coursing through her, not arousal. Not want.

She looks at Chiyoh, at the pretty face. It’s hard to tell what she’s thinking, but there’s surprise.

Interest.

Her hand reaches for Chiyoh’s, her fingers curling around the wrist, and when Chiyoh presses the blade down harsher, Bedelia smiles.