Fyodor was your best chance. A man of his stature, not quite of the masc frame boasted by the majority of men, poised an ideal prey. Thus he fell victim to you, on a street amid the night.

Your fangs sank deep into the skin of his neck, just piercing precariously above a major artery.

Fyodor certainly didn’t make it easy. Thrashing in your grip, yet occasionally stilling. His body struggling to adapt to the non-lethal blood loss, the occasional whine escaping his lips.