Vincent POV
If someone had told me three weeks ago I'd be voluntarily participating in a "Bonding Threshold Assessment" — wearing only joggers and a biometric collar while a gorgeous, flustered scientist yelled at me to stop "smirking with my fangs out" — I would've laughed and walked away.
Now? I was bracing myself against the sterile metal wall, very aware of how close Dr. Lyra Quinn was to my chest… and how her scent was practically wrapping around my brain like warm syrup on a pancake.
Focus, Vincent. You're here for science. And maybe a little flirting. For science.
She cleared her throat and looked up from her clipboard, trying to keep her expression neutral — failing, adorably.
"Okay, Subject 047," she said, adjusting her glasses. "Today's objective is to monitor your emotional response and physiological changes during increasing proximity-based bonding exercises."
I raised a brow. "So… cuddling?"
Her ears turned pink.
"It's not just cuddling," she snapped. "It's... regulated physical contact to track oxytocin spikes, temperature changes, and emotional triggers."
"Still sounds like cuddling with extra steps."
I stepped forward. She stepped back. Clipboard smacked against her chest like a shield.
"Boundary one," she muttered, pressing a button on her remote. "One meter proximity for two minutes."
I moved into the invisible circle like a cat who just spotted an unattended fish.
"So," I said, voice low. "Is it just me, or do you enjoy flustering yourself?"
"You're imagining things."
"Hmm. Must be the side effect of synthetic blood. Hallucinations of a very attractive doctor wanting to see how I bond."
Her pulse ticked faster. I could hear it.
Be professional, Lyra, I thought, watching her swallow nervously.
We stood there — a meter apart, the air between us thick with unspoken things and entirely too much static. Two minutes passed, but she didn't press the button.
"Doctor," I murmured. "We're past the timer."
"Oh. Right."
The next button. Half a meter. Her breath caught.
"Vincent, don't—"
I took a step forward.
She didn't move.
My voice dropped an octave. "You smell like ginger tea today."
Her eyes widened. "That's... oddly specific."
"I don't say things unless I mean them."
There was a beat of silence.
Then she bumped into the table behind her, nearly dropping the clipboard. I caught it with one hand and set it aside.
"No distractions," I teased. "This is science, remember?"
"Oh, I'm remembering a lot of things right now," she muttered under her breath. "Like why we were supposed to install plexiglass barriers last week."
"Too late."
She jabbed another button. Zero distance.
Contact.
Her hand brushed mine.
A zing — no, a pulse — ran through me like I'd just chugged plasma-laced espresso. She jolted too.
Our eyes met. My fangs ached, not from hunger — from restraint.
Her lips parted. "Do you feel that?"
"Yeah," I breathed. "Is that on your little chart?"
She gave a strangled laugh. "No. No, it is not."
My fingers trailed her wrist, slow and deliberate.
"You're warm," I said. "That synthetic blood warms me from the inside, but you... you're something else."
"I thought this was about bonding thresholds," she said, her voice wobbling between logic and want.
"It is," I said, leaning closer. "And I think we're about to break the scale."
---
Lyra POV
Mistakes were made. One of them was letting Vincent Moreau talk.
Another was programming Phase Four of the Bonding Assessment to require... sustained physical contact for five minutes.
Who does that?
Right. Me. I did that.
"Remember," I said, trying to ignore the fact that my knees were melting, "this is purely physiological."
He nodded solemnly. "Of course. I'm a man of science."
Then he touched my waist.
Oh no.
Oh no.
"Vincent—"
"It's part of the test."
"It says shoulder-to-shoulder contact!"
"I'm adapting."
"You're adapting too well!"
He was looking at me like I was edible. And honestly? My dignity had already clocked out. I wasn't even sure where my clipboard was anymore.
I let out a breath and pressed my palm to his chest — partially to create distance. Mostly to feel it. Because science.
His heart wasn't pounding fast — but mine was trying to win the Olympics.
"You're messing up my data," I whispered.
"Better your data than your clothes," he said, winking.
My entire brain short-circuited. I may have stopped breathing. Then he laughed — low, rumbling, and ridiculously sexy.
I hated that I liked it.
Okay, maybe not hated.
He leaned close. "I think you passed your own test, Dr. Quinn."
"This wasn't for me."
"Then why are you the one blushing?"
Oh god.
I really need to rewrite the bonding parameters.
---
Later…
I collapsed into my office chair, heart still racing, Vincent's scent still lingering on my coat. The biometric data was a mess. My notes were half doodles, half exclamation marks. I'd accidentally recorded a 25% increase in… subjective arousal levels.
"Ugh," I groaned, dragging a hand over my face.
And to top it off, I just realized…
The clause about not dating subjects?
It wasn't in the contract.
How did I miss that?
I opened the document. Searched for "romantic" and "relationship" and "inappropriate conduct."
Nothing.
I blinked.
That smug bastard signed it without blinking. Probably knew the whole time.
Oh, I was going to kill him.
Right after I kissed him.
---