POV: Dr. Lyra Quinn
The containment doors hissed open, the sound so familiar now that I barely flinched. Vincent Monreau sat exactly where I left him: perched on the stool, shirt unbuttoned just enough to expose the swoop of that cursed tattoo curling along his clavicle. Black ink. Archaic script. A mystery I hadn't dared ask about yet.
Not because I wasn't curious. But because I was a coward.
"You're late, Dr. Quinn," he purred, arching a brow and inhaling slowly. "Is that… chamomile?"
I froze mid-step. "No. It's jasmine." I cleared my throat and pretended to busy myself with the monitor. "Let's get started."
He gave a lazy smile. "Mm. Jasmine. Makes sense. Calming. But not enough to mask… nerves."
I didn't dignify that with a response.
This week's study was basic sensory testing—well, basic in theory. But throw in a genetically advanced predator species with scent detection rivaling bloodhounds on steroids, and suddenly I was playing with the olfactory equivalent of landmines.
I pulled out a tray of sealed vials. "You'll be exposed to eight scents today. Natural, artificial, pheromonal blends. I'll be recording your physiological responses: heart rate, ocular dilation, vocal modulation."
Vincent tilted his head. "And if I react viscerally? Will you be recording that too, Dr. Quinn?"
There it was again—that lazy amusement. Like he knew exactly how much my lab coat was hiding.
"I'll make a note," I said curtly, popping the first vial open and setting it under the extractor fan. "Sample one: orange zest."
He sniffed, blinked. "Citrus. Mild stimulation. Childhood memory: stolen slices during summer."
My hand paused mid-note. "You're not supposed to—"
"Comment? Or tell you I wasn't always a vampire?" He gave a faint smile. "Relax, Lyra. I'm cooperating."
"Dr. Quinn," I corrected automatically, but it came out weak.
The next vial: cinnamon and vanilla. I should've known better.
His eyes darkened. He leaned forward slightly, shoulders tensing like something primal was stirring. "That one…"
"Yes?"
"That one smells like sex."
I choked on air. "Excuse me?"
He smirked. "Comfort. Heat. Skin. Movement. It's the scent you wear when you don't realize you're trying to be touched."
My jaw dropped. "This is a controlled experiment—"
"Your pulse says otherwise."
Damn him. And damn my smartwatch.
I shoved the next vial under the extractor. "Synthetic rose."
His nose twitched. "Too sterile. Like cheap perfume. Or heartbreak."
Now that was interesting. "Why heartbreak?"
"Because it smells like someone trying too hard to be loved." His gaze flicked to me. "You ever wear a scent just to feel noticed, Lyra?"
I swallowed. "Focus, Vincent."
He obeyed—for once. But as we moved through sandalwood, peppermint, and a pheromone-enhanced sample that made him groan under his breath and lean against the table, I realized this test was backfiring. Spectacularly.
When we reached the final vial, I hesitated.
"Why the delay?" he asked.
I didn't answer. I was too busy regretting everything.
The final sample wasn't a standard chemical blend.
It was me.
Well—not me me. But a compound sample I'd made based on my own scent profile. It was for data comparison, purely clinical. But now I was about to feed a vampire a whiff of my literal body chemistry.
This was a mistake.
I cracked the vial open.
Vincent didn't speak.
He froze.
Then—slowly, with devastating control—he inhaled. Deep. Languid. As if the air itself was suddenly made of silk and sin.
His fingers curled around the table edge. His jaw clenched. The veins on his forearms pulsed.
Then—softly—"Lyra."
God help me, I shivered.
"I know this scent," he murmured, eyes now a liquid gold. "It's the one you leave behind when you pass me. The one in your hair when you tilt your head. The one on your fingers when you hand me a pen."
"You've been tracking me?" I tried to sound appalled.
"I've been trying not to," he said, gaze locking with mine.
Silence thickened between us. Data forgotten. Protocols in ash.
Then, as if the universe couldn't resist the tension any longer, the containment door hissed again—too early.
A young intern poked her head in. "Dr. Quinn? Sorry—I forgot to—oh!"
Her eyes darted to Vincent, who still looked like he was one breath away from tackling the table. Then to me, flushed and gripping a clipboard like it was a holy relic.
She blinked. "I'll… come back later."
Door. Shut.
Vincent slowly exhaled. "Well," he said hoarsely, voice like gravel dipped in honey, "what did my chart say for that one?"
I cleared my throat, grabbed a pen, and wrote three words:
Inconclusive. Highly reactive. Dangerous.