POV: Dr. Lyra Quinn
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"Please tell me that's not liver."
Vincent eyed the tray I set down in front of him, his expression somewhere between deeply offended and borderline theatrical. The man had fangs, superior night vision, and supposedly once bench-pressed a vending machine for fun. But serve him a bit of pâté and suddenly he was a toddler refusing vegetables.
"It's not liver," I said, carefully adjusting my clipboard. "It's chicken liver mousse. There's a difference."
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the tray like it might personally betray him. "It smells like regret and poor decisions."
I pressed my lips together to stifle a laugh. "You're being dramatic."
"You're feeding me liver paste, Doctor. Dramatic is the bare minimum response."
Vincent was shirtless again—per the biometric sensor requirements, obviously—and every time I tried to stay strictly professional, the tattoos across his chest and arms made it extremely difficult. They weren't just inked; they were intricate, tribal patterns interwoven with ancient script, some of it in languages I couldn't even place. The stark contrast against his pale skin made them mesmerizing.
And distracting.
Very, very distracting.
I cleared my throat and looked away. "Today's test is on taste perception, especially how your palate handles complex or unfamiliar flavors. It's not a culinary adventure, it's science."
He raised a brow. "Science tastes suspiciously like offal today."
"Stop stalling," I said, handing him a small spoon. "We've got ten samples to go through."
Vincent sighed with the exaggerated weight of a condemned man and scooped up a bit of the mousse, muttering, "If I die, avenge me."
He took a bite, chewed, then paused.
"Well?" I asked, jotting notes.
He blinked. "Okay… not bad."
I blinked. "Really?"
"Still smells like betrayal, but it's creamy. Savory. Earthy. Like… mushroom butter made a deal with the devil."
I smiled. "That's oddly poetic."
"Add 'food critic' to my long list of vampire talents."
"Genetic anomaly," I corrected, automatically. "Not vampire. That word's outdated and inaccurate."
He leaned forward slightly, grinning. "And yet here I am, tasting chicken liver mousse under the scrutiny of a brilliant, annoyingly persistent scientist in a white coat. Feels very vampire romance novel, no?"
"No biting allowed in this one," I replied, smirking. "Chapter One: 'The Researcher With a Clipboard and a Dream.'"
Vincent chuckled, low and warm. "You forgot the part where she denies her growing attraction to the charming, half-naked specimen."
"Specimen has a high opinion of himself today."
"Specimen knows he looks good."
I tried to keep my gaze on my clipboard, but his smirk was maddening. Unapologetic and a little smug. It didn't help that the next food sample was dark chocolate truffle infused with chili—something I was fairly certain would do absolutely nothing for a palate that survived centuries on synthetic blood.
He popped the entire thing into his mouth and raised a brow at the flavor burst.
"Spicy," he mumbled with a mouth full of truffle. "That a challenge?"
"Maybe. I wanted to test how capsaicin interacts with your taste receptors."
Vincent licked a bit of melted chocolate from the corner of his mouth—slowly—and I swear he did it on purpose.
"You're blushing, Doctor."
"I'm jotting down data."
He leaned forward again, his voice a low murmur. "Is there a test for how attractive you find your subject under certain lighting?"
"No, but there might be one for ego inflation under controlled conditions."
"Add it to tomorrow's list."
I shook my head and reached for the next dish. "Focus, Vincent."
"I'm focused. Completely. On you. And the mousse."
He gave me a wink that should've been illegal under lab protocol.
Sample after sample, the banter continued. My professional mask cracked around the edges, especially when we got to the pickled herring and he dramatically flopped back in his chair like he'd been poisoned.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he groaned.
"Because we're mapping your gustatory reactions."
"I'd rather you mapped my back with your—"
"Vincent."
"Fine, fine," he said, waving a hand and obediently swallowing a small piece of the cursed fish. "But know this: if this kills me, you have to raise my synthetic blood rations in the afterlife."
By the time we got to dessert—a tart passionfruit sorbet—he was visibly more relaxed, leaning on one elbow with a lazy grin and an almost childlike curiosity.
"This one's bright," he said after a taste. "Tangy. Reminds me of a beach I once saw in Brazil."
"Did you go there on vacation?"
He shook his head, something flickering in his eyes. "No. Hiding."
The moment sobered me a little.
But before I could ask, he looked up and smiled again, softer this time.
"Anyway. This was fun."
"Fun wasn't the goal," I said, although I couldn't help but return his smile.
"Maybe not for you, but I got to eat dessert and flirt with a pretty doctor."
I rolled my eyes but couldn't hide my grin. "Flattery won't get you out of tomorrow's test."
"Worth a shot."
As I gathered the dishes, Vincent stood up and stretched, his body casting a long shadow across the lab's pale floor. The tattoos shifted with him, some of the symbols seeming to ripple like living ink.
"Hey, Doc?"
I glanced up.
"Next time," he said, his voice low and genuine, "can we do an experiment outside?"
I raised a brow. "Like where?"
"Anywhere. Just… somewhere with less stainless steel and more sky."
There was something in the way he asked—hopeful, not pushy. Vulnerable.
"Maybe," I said softly. "We'll see."
He smiled and nodded. Then, as he walked back to the containment room, he called over his shoulder, "Only if there's no liver."
I snorted. "No promises!"
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