Vincent's POV
"I'm not into restraints," I said flatly, staring at the heavy-duty cuffs bolted to the testing chair.
Dr. Lyra Quinn raised an unimpressed brow. "You've survived blood deprivation, a three-hour treadmill run, and a cheese tasting with a lactose-intolerant werewolf in the same room. You'll live."
"I didn't enjoy any of those things either."
"You enjoyed the cheese."
Damn her and her accurate memory.
I leaned back, crossing my arms as I tried not to visibly sulk. I didn't like this setup. It looked like something out of a sci-fi interrogation room. Harsh lighting. Cold metal. And Lyra in a lab coat looking unreasonably hot for someone who just told me she was about to strap me to a chair.
"This is unnecessary," I said, eyeing the straps. "I'm more than capable of following verbal instructions."
"Vincent," she said in that sweet, terrifying tone of hers, "this isn't about obedience. It's about measuring physical resistance under emotional stimulation."
"Translation?"
"Translation: We play a video, I ask you questions, your body tries to break out of the restraints. I monitor your reaction time and—" she leaned in, whispering against my ear, "—self-control."
Sweet synthetic blood, she was doing this on purpose.
I bit down a groan and adjusted in my seat. My jeans weren't exactly accommodating my growing… discomfort. Not when she said things like self-control while staring at my mouth.
"Are you ready?" she asked, already moving to her console.
"No safe word?"
"This isn't a bedroom, Mr. Moreau."
"Maybe not, but you're awfully comfortable giving orders with cuffs involved."
She didn't respond—but I saw the twitch at the corner of her mouth. A barely-suppressed smile.
God, she liked this.
I let out a low laugh. "If I survive this, you owe me a dinner."
"Oh, do I?"
"You can't deny patient satisfaction metrics are important."
She ignored me again, flipping a switch that locked the restraints snugly around my wrists and ankles.
With a low hiss, the chair tilted back. Monitors blinked to life. Somewhere above, a soft, almost sensual violin track began to play.
"You're playing classical music?"
"Helps regulate the subject's stress levels."
"Or heightens the romantic tension."
"Vincent."
"Yes, Doctor?"
"Shut up."
I grinned wide, even as the first scene played across the screen.
It wasn't technically erotic. But it was suggestive enough—shadowy figures, breathy dialogue, slow hands, warm gazes.
Lyra was watching my vitals. I was watching her watch me. Every time her lips twitched, every time her nostrils flared or her fingers tapped against the console, it was like a second video was playing—one I was way more invested in.
And the problem was... so was my body.
My pulse spiked. My arms flexed. The restraints strained.
"Subject showing increased muscle tension," she said coolly into her recorder. "Verbal stimuli appear unnecessary. Visual alone is triggering accelerated biological response."
"You say that like I'm not sitting right here getting aroused by proxy."
She glanced over at me. "Professional detachment is critical during data collection."
"Then why are you blushing?"
She paused.
Caught.
I smirked, even as my body jerked against the cuffs again. "Yeah. You like this too, Doc."
"I do not—"
"Please. You're practically flushed from the collar down."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" I shifted my hips slightly. The movement strained the ankle restraints and made the chair creak.
The sound was intimate in the silence.
Lyra's jaw clenched.
Then, she stood.
I thought she was going to walk away—or worse, end the test early.
But instead, she walked toward me.
And bent down.
And whispered, "Let's test how long you can keep talking once I turn up the stimuli."
She pressed a button on the console, and the screen cut to black—replaced by a live feed of her.
From yesterday.
She'd left the cam on when she was testing her own scent samples. She didn't realize I'd been watching from behind the two-way glass.
She'd been laughing. Hair messy. A drop of synthetic blood on her cheek.
And I'd wanted her then too.
The cuffs groaned under my grip.
"Still want that dinner?" she murmured.
"I want the main course, Quinn."
Her lips twitched again.
But this time she didn't hide it.
"Is that a testicle?"
Lyra jumped back from the monitor as I tilted my head at the second video accidentally playing in split screen.
"No, that's the protein globule from yesterday's blood culture," she said quickly, grabbing the remote.
I squinted. "It wiggled."
"It is not a testicle, Vincent."
"I don't know... that's testicle behavior."
"I swear to god—"
"Science is weird."
She groaned, slamming the button to turn the feed off. "Remind me never to run two files at once."
"Hey," I shrugged, "at least now I'm very distracted."
She gave me a look.
A dark, delicious one.
Then walked away without another word, leaving me restrained, annoyed, and far too aroused to think straight.
God help me—I was falling for this terrifying woman.
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