Dr. Lyra Quinn's POV
The lab was unusually warm. Not because the heaters were on, but because Vincent Monreau was shirtless in the observation chamber — and someone, specifically me, had requested this test. In the name of science, of course.
"Thermal Tolerance," I reminded myself aloud, pretending to double-check the data streaming into my tablet. "Tracking the reaction of vampiric physiology under gradual heat exposure."
But mostly I was tracking the way a single bead of sweat slid down his chest, dipping between those annoyingly sculpted abs and disappearing into his waistband like a damn cliffhanger.
I cleared my throat. "How's the temperature, Mr. Monreau?"
His voice crackled through the intercom, amused. "Toasty. You sure this isn't a very creative form of flirtation, Doc?"
My stylus clattered to the floor.
"You're radiating heat from inside the chamber," I snapped, reaching for the stylus and trying not to think about the view from the two-way mirror. "You're not supposed to talk."
"That's not what you said during the laxative experiment," he muttered with a smirk.
I closed my eyes and counted to five. "One. That was controlled. Two. You volunteered. Three—"
"I was on the toilet for three hours."
"That's not a record," I muttered. "Not even close."
He chuckled, the sound low and wicked and warm, like it belonged in bed. I ignored the way my stomach flipped.
---
Vincent Monreau was a volunteer subject — part of a new wave of genetically-unique individuals whose vampiric traits were the result of DNA mutations, not curses or ancient rituals. No coffins. No turning into bats. But rapid cell regeneration, heightened senses, and yes, the need for specially formulated synthetic blood.
He wasn't dangerous. Legally, he was cleared. But there was something about him… an edge. Like he enjoyed being studied.
Or maybe just enjoyed being looked at.
I checked his vitals. Slight elevation in heart rate. Slight smirk growing with each passing second.
"Temperature up by two degrees," I said into the mic. "Hold steady."
"Still not hot enough to sweat me out of here," he replied.
"Really?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because you look… glossy."
Vincent turned slowly toward the mirror. He knew I was behind it. His eyes locked on the glass, unblinking. "If I didn't know better, Doc, I'd think you enjoy watching me sweat."
I rolled my eyes and made a note.
Subject demonstrates elevated levels of smugness at 102°F.
Also — a new detail worth noting.
The tattoos.
I hadn't noticed before — probably because he wore long sleeves, or maybe because I hadn't been brave enough to look too closely. But now, as he shifted slightly, I could see them clearly. Black ink lined his ribs and shoulder, curling in sharp geometric designs down one arm. And on his back—was that a wolf skull with vines?
Not vampires, then. Not just. There was something else in him. Something wild.
"You're staring again," he said, almost sing-song.
I slammed the clipboard down. "That's it. You're done. Cooling chamber in three minutes. Get dressed."
He laughed — deep, low, and infuriatingly satisfied. "Whatever you say, Doc."
---
Later that evening, I stayed behind to analyze the data. Alone. Or so I thought.
"You know," came his voice from the doorway, "you could just ask if you want to touch the tattoos."
I jumped. "How long have you been standing there?"
He leaned against the frame, dressed now — fitted black shirt, jeans that shouldn't have looked as good as they did, and that annoyingly cocky smile.
"Long enough to see you scribbling my bicep circumference into your notes."
"I was calculating hydration loss through surface area!"
He raised a brow. "Sure. Let's go with that."
I crossed my arms. "You're really not like the others."
He tilted his head. "What others?"
"Subjects. Volunteers. You don't act like someone here to help science. You act like someone here to mess with the scientist."
He stepped in, just close enough that I had to crane my neck to look up. "Maybe I like scientists who get flustered."
I took a breath. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"
"Nope. Part of the trial contract says I have to stay on site."
"Then go to your room."
He smiled, slow and lazy. "Only if you walk me there."
---
Vincent Monreau's POV
I liked her.
Not just the way she smelled like coffee and citrus and a little hint of lab-grade anxiety. But the way she acted like she hated this — and couldn't stop herself from looking anyway.
She hadn't asked about the tattoos. She would. Eventually. They always did.
But Lyra Quinn wasn't like the others, either.
She didn't ask why I volunteered. Why a genetically altered vampire would want to lock himself in a lab with endless pokes, prods, and heat tests. Why I signed the paperwork that said "indefinite stay" in the fine print.
Because I saw her name.
I read her work. Her research.
Because no one else saw people like me as human.
But she did. She just didn't know it yet.
So I smiled and let her think she had the upper hand. Let her run her tests and pretend like she didn't enjoy every second of it. Let her wonder about the wolf skull and the vines and the date carved near my shoulder blade.
Eventually, she'd ask.
And maybe then, I'd tell her the truth.
But for now?
Let her sweat a little too.
—