Angela cleared her throat, the sound sharp and deliberate, cutting through the charged silence between us. "Ok... enough with this talk," she said, her voice firm, professional, but I didn't miss the way her fingers tightened around her tablet, the way her breath had hitched just a second before.

She was trying to regain control, to push the tension aside, but the heat still lingered in her eyes, betraying her.

I nodded, leaning back in my chair, my gaze locked onto her as she stood up, her movements fluid, confident. "Let's go," she said, her voice cool, authoritative. "I need to check on those experimental subjects."

She turned, her lab coat swishing around her curves as she headed toward the door, her tablet clutched in her hand. I followed, my eyes dropping to her ass, the way it swung with every step, hypnotic, taunting.

The fabric of her lab coat clung to her hips, outlining the curve of her body, and my hands itched with the urge to reach out, to grip her, to slap that perfect ass hard enough to leave my mark.

Fuck.

I imagined it—the sound of my hand connecting with her flesh, the sharp gasps she'd let out, the way she'd stumble forward before turning to glare at me, her eyes burning with outrage and something far more primitive. Lust. Need. The desire to be taken, ruined, fucked right there in the hallway, regardless of who might see.

I clenched my fists, forcing myself to keep my distance, but my cock throbbed, aching with the need to act on the fantasy. Angela glanced back at me, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if she sensed the heat of my gaze, the hunger radiating off me.

But she didn't say anything. Didn't call me out. She just turned away, her hips swaying just a little more, as if she knew exactly what she was doing to me.

We walked down the sterile white corridor, the sound of our footsteps echoing off the walls. The air was charged, thick with tension, the unspoken promise of what could happen if I let myself lose control.

I imagined pushing her against the wall, my body pressing against hers, my hands roaming over her curves, my mouth crashing down on hers. I imagined the way she'd moan into my kiss, the way her body would arch into mine, begging for more.

Fuck.

I shifted, adjusting myself discreetly, my cock straining against my pants. Angela glanced at me again, her eyes flicking down to my crotch for just a second before snapping back up to my face.

A small, knowing smirk played on her lips, but she didn't say a word. She just kept walking, her ass swaying, her perfume lingering in the air between us, driving me fucking wild.

We reached a heavy steel door at the end of the corridor, and Angela paused, scanning her ID card before pushing it open. The room beyond was dimly lit, filled with rows of glass enclosures, each containing an experimental subject. The air was cooler here, sterile, clinical, but the tension between us only intensified.

Angela stepped inside, her voice shifting back to professional mode as she began checking the monitors, her fingers flying over the tablet.

Angela stepped inside, her voice shifting back to that cool, clinical tone as she began checking the monitors, her fingers dancing over the tablet screen. The lab technicians—pale, wide-eyed geeks in white coats—hurried forward, mumbling updates, their voices low and nervous.

But I wasn't listening to them.

My gaze swept over the room, and my stomach twisted.

Mitt. Tusk. Ryan and others.

All of them—strapped to beds, restrained by leather cuffs, their bodies riddled with needles and electrodes. Machines drew blood from their arms, others extracted bone marrow from their hips, the sight of the thick, red fluid collecting in vials making my skin crawl. Their faces were pale, sweat glistening on their foreheads, their chests rising and falling in shallow, pained breaths.

Fuck they were lab rats. I didn't feel any sympathy or anything, but was surprised to meet familiar faces.

Angela's voice cut through the hum of the machines, sharp and unemotional. "Test Subject A, B, C—" she began, her fingers tapping on the screen, "—inject them with the virus from the future."

She paused, her eyes scanning the data before glancing up at the technicians. "We need to see how their bodies react—if there are any changes, any adaptations that could help us fight such a virus."

Virus from the future? Is she talking about that infertility virus?

Then her gaze shifted to the last bed.

"And Test Subject D—" she started, her voice dropping just enough to send a chill down my spine.

I followed her line of sight.

Fucking hell.

It was another man, tubes snaking into his arms, his face twisted in pain. His eyes flickered open, meeting mine for a split second before glazing over again.

Angela stepped closer to his bed, her expression unreadable. "Subject D is special," she murmured, almost to herself. "His genetics are unique—resistant to most pathogens we've tested." She glanced at me, her eyes cold, calculating. "We'll see if that holds true for this."

I stared at her, my mind racing.

Angela—ruthless, brilliant, untouchable—was running the show. She is really cold-blooded...

Angela stood at the center of it all, her posture unyielding, her presence a force field of authority. Ruthless. Brilliant. Untouchable. She didn't just command the room—she owned it, her sharp features carved from ice, her dark eyes missing nothing.

I had seen her dismantle men twice my size with a single glance, reduce scientists to stammering fools with a question. She was the storm you couldn't outrun, the blade you didn't see coming. And right now, that blade was pointed at me.

"Are you scared?" Her voice was low, almost conversational, but the weight of it pressed down like a hand on my chest.

I met her gaze, refusing to flinch. "Scared? No." A pause. A breath. "Just… caught off guard. I was the one who tracked them down, dragged them here. I didn't expect them to still be breathing, let alone useful."

A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of her head—Angela's version of a nod. "Useful is an understatement." She stepped closer, the heels of her boots clicking against the floor like a metronome counting down to something inevitable.

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