She’d stalked him for months.
Fantasized about the intimacy of his bite.
About eternal life.
She imagined the momentary pain, and the rapture of desire.

She followed him to his lair and awaited nightfall.
He emerged.
His teeth grazed her compliant neck.
Backing away, he muttered, “Sorry, not my type.”

Alison does not like vampires. They are not her type.