Lyra's POV
I shouldn't be nervous. It was just another test.
Except it wasn't.
Today's experiment was designed to measure "emotional response triggers." And someone — not naming names, definitely not me — had cleverly curated a set of emotionally provocative visual stimuli to monitor how a vampire's brainwaves, heart rate, and… pheromonal output… responded.
Totally clinical.
I fidgeted in my lab coat while Vincent sat reclined in the sleek, sensor-padded chair, shirt unbuttoned — again — because chest electrodes were, unfortunately, a thing. A very necessary thing, apparently. His tattoos moved with every slow breath, the inky script along his collarbone catching my eye.
"'Don't tempt the beast,'" I muttered under my breath, reading the tattoo like an idiot. Aloud.
Vincent smirked. "Too late, Doc."
I cleared my throat, face heating. "Let's begin."
On screen, the first image flashed: a serene forest scene.
His pulse: steady. Expression: bored.
Next: a crying child.
His jaw clenched. A flicker in the EEG. Interesting.
Then came the puppy. The goddamn puppy.
Vincent's eyes actually softened. "Well, that's unfair."
"Noted," I said, trying to pretend I wasn't melting at the look he gave that fluffy Labrador.
But then came the curveball.
A series of progressively more… romantic images.
Couples holding hands. Kissing in the rain. Bedroom scenes with just enough tasteful shadow to make them PG-13. I didn't look up at him. Couldn't.
"Trying to tell me something, Doctor Quinn?" Vincent's voice was velvet. Dangerous velvet.
"It's called an emotional response baseline. Science," I squeaked.
His chuckle made my stomach do backflips. "Oh, I'm responding."
I risked a glance. His gaze was on me, not the screen. The heart monitor beeped faster. Mine, not his. Obviously.
I turned back to the console, desperate for a distraction. "Alright. Last stimulus. This one's audio."
He leaned back. "Hit me."
I clicked play. A slow, sensual song spilled into the room. Deep bass. Whispered lyrics. I instantly regretted everything.
Vincent's eyes darkened. The corner of his mouth twitched like he knew. "What's this track called? 'Scientist Self-Sabotage, Volume One'?"
I shut the audio off mid-chorus, mortified.
"Test complete!" I announced too brightly. "Great data. Emotional response officially… monitored."
Vincent stood with deliberate slowness, the electrodes peeling off his skin with faint snaps. He towered over me, amusement dancing in those annoyingly perfect eyes.
"Same time tomorrow, Doctor?"
I nodded stiffly. "Of course."
As he walked out, he added over his shoulder, "You might want to screen the playlist next time. Or don't."
And just like that, he was gone — leaving behind a cloud of cologne, a heart monitor still beeping, and one emotionally compromised scientist gripping the edge of her desk like it owed her money.