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Liam watched his new teammate closely. They weren’t strangers exactly—both were part of the Red Bull system—but they had never truly known each other. Their paths had crossed at team events, at the Milton Keynes headquarters, or amid the bustle of the paddock, yet until this offseason they had been little more than familiar faces.
There was a five-year gap between them—a chasm, especially at the start of a career. While Arvid was fighting his way through the karting ranks, Liam was already part of Formula 1, albeit as a reserve driver, and winning races in Formula 2. They had never shared a track.
During the short time they’d spent at the team base in Faenza, Arvid had struck him as kind and upbeat—perhaps even overly ambitious. He was easy to talk to, quick to connect with engineers and mechanics alike. There was a visible hunger in him, an impatience to get on track and start racing.
Liam studied him intently, almost obsessively, poring over simulator data and comparing it to his own. He had to be better than the rookie, to establish himself as the team’s number one. And yet what he saw suggested otherwise: Arvid was a strong rival. But one with a fatal flaw—blind aggression and a lack of restraint. Liam himself had lost control and clarity behind the wheel more than once, but with Lindblad it was different: uncontained, reckless, chaotic.
If Liam could fully rein in his own impulsiveness, he would have every chance of winning their duel and securing VCARB a larger share of points in the fight for the top spot among the midfield teams in the Constructors’ Championship.
They had never been alone together before. There were always engineers, mechanics, media staff, or their trainers nearby. But that evening, things were different. They stayed behind to review telemetry from the day’s simulator runs, hoping to get into the car quicker and shave time in the morning.
Arvid sat in a chair while Liam stood beside him, leaning over the table in the half-light of an empty briefing room, their shoulders almost touching. Numbers and graphs glowed on the laptop screen. Liam broke the silence first.
“You’re too aggressive on turn-in at the apex of Turn Four,” he said, pointing at the graph where Arvid’s red line failed to reach the optimal peak. “See? You’re losing a few hundredths because of that sharp lift. You need to brake more smoothly there.”
A brief pause followed, filled only by the rustle of fabric as Arvid leaned closer to the screen.
“Aggressive?” One of Arvid’s eyebrows twitched, a skeptical smirk dancing at the corner of his mouth.
“Yes. Your driving style in general is… hot-headed. Like you’re constantly trying to prove something.”
Arvid leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. His gaze grew heavier, more appraising.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he said—and for the first time there was a faint, almost imperceptible rasp in his voice.
For a split second, Liam thought he saw a red flash flicker in his teammate’s eyes—brief, but vivid. Probably just a trick of the light, a reflection from the laptop screen.
“That’s what everyone thinks. Look at your crashes last season. You either hit other drivers or overestimate yourself and force moves that were never on. That’s not bravery. That’s wasteful.”
The air in the room thickened. Arvid didn’t respond, watching Liam with something like a crooked smile.
“Really?” he finally said. His voice was quieter now, more muted—but there was steel in it, cold and supple.
Liam realized he had crossed an invisible line. But it was too late to retreat. He met Arvid’s gaze directly, keeping his tone even and professional.
“You should keep this in mind. There’s no room for leniency in this team. A few wrecked cars, results below expectations—and by mid-season, Tsolov from Formula 2 will be sitting in your seat.”
That was when Liam knew he’d said exactly what he shouldn’t have. It wasn’t his place—those were the kinds of things team management hinted at, carefully and diplomatically. Not him.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Arvid replied softly—and unnaturally calm.
Liam lifted his gaze—and froze. What could once have been dismissed as a trick of the light now left no room for doubt. Arvid’s eyes were glowing a vivid, blood-red, and dark veins surfaced and spread around them, deepening to near black, as if something tar-like flowed through them instead of blood.
Lindblad bared his teeth slowly. His teeth… his fangs. Sharp. Dangerous. Unnaturally large, they shattered every notion of what a human face was supposed to be.
What the hell
Liam’s thoughts locked up, crashing against the sheer impossibility of what he was seeing. He stumbled backward, instinctively retreating from the nightmare that, only a second ago, had been his teammate.
Arvid didn’t let him take even three steps.
He rose from the chair in a blur, and a heartbeat later he was standing far too close. His right hand clamped around Liam’s neck, holding him firmly in place, while his left roughly tugged down the collar of his T-shirt.
Liam felt hot, heavy breath against his skin—and icy shivers raced down his spine at the realization of that foreign, inhuman strength.
A moment.
Then he felt the tip of Arvid’s nose trail slowly from his collarbone up to his ear, testing his scent. Lindblad inhaled deeply, unhurriedly, filling his lungs to the very limit.
“You smell good,” Arvid said. His voice was surprisingly low and thick. Gone was any trace of defiance or familiar mockery—there was only cold certainty, absolute control.
The words, that tone, made Liam shudder from head to toe. Fine tremors seized him—primal, all-consuming fear.
This was pure terror.
“I’m going to bite you. Don’t be afraid,” Arvid whispered softly, right into his ear.
And then his fangs sank into the curve of Liam’s neck near the collarbone, the spot that would later be hidden beneath a fireproof balaclava. It hurt. It hurt like hell. Four sharp blades tearing into flesh. But the scream caught in Liam’s throat—his mouth fell open soundlessly, his eyes went wide with shock, and then… A wave rolled over him. Not pain. Not fear.
Pleasure.
He lost control of his body entirely, becoming pliant, boneless, a yielding thing in Arvid’s hands. And it felt… good. Unbearably, absurdly good. The sensation spread slowly from the bite, flooding every cell, down to the tips of his toes. It was serenity. It was profound calm. It was euphoria, eclipsing everything he had ever felt before.
He had never felt so… complete.
His vision blurred, washed over with white. His body went slack, utterly relaxed, helpless. His mind refused to think, to piece anything together. There was only one thing he wanted—Arvid not to stop. For those fangs never to leave his neck, for that iron grip never to loosen.
A sharp, unpleasant pain dragged him back to reality as Arvid slowly withdrew his fangs. A broken groan slipped from Liam’s lips. He was still weak, and only Lindblad’s firm grip on his shoulders kept him from collapsing bonelessly to the floor.
His tongue felt heavy, numb; sounds wouldn’t form into words. His eyes struggled to focus on his teammate’s face. He saw the fangs—stained dark red. His blood. He saw Arvid’s lips, red as well, and watched as a pink tongue slid over his upper teeth and lip, deftly, almost casually, licking away the remnants.
“You’re delicious,” Arvid said. His eyes were still glowing red, but the dark veins around them had vanished, as if they had never been there. “Your blood tastes like cherries.”
And in that moment, the full, monstrous truth hit Liam.
He was done for.
He understood now that he knew the most terrible secret of all. Vampires were real. Not a myth. Not a fairy tale. Not some stupid teenage movie trope.
Reality.
And the man he would be spending the next year side by side with—sharing a team, sitting through endless briefings, discussing strategy for hours— That man was a damn vampire. A vampire who liked his taste. His blood. Blood that tasted like cherries.
And the worst part — If Arvid wanted to do it again, if he craved his blood once more… Liam wouldn’t be able to resist. He would let him. Because he had liked it.