Barrow Fields Sometimes the unknown is good

The blood calms the strigoi's body, and he slacks, his brain fogged by the sweet taste of the woman's blood, the ruby liquid like a intoxicant, a drug that could not be matched by anything else.

That intoxication nearly robbed him of his meal. His relaxed body gave the woman the perfect opportunity to wriggled free. He is not surprised when she frees herself and lunges at him. A giddy smile, normally uncharacteristic of the man, slides across his face. He jumps back as best he can, feeling fangs meet his neck. He laughs, his tongue moving downwards to lick at the wound. Go ahead, my dear, He drawls, chuckling. Feast from me. Make my blood your own.