Standing here facing him, my heart starts to race as I realise what would soon be coming. The danger was very, very real, yet I couldn't will myself to stop. Why on earth would I want to stop?

  I thought it was a good idea to come here. Looking around the dark and dusty room of the abandoned house, I had only the damaged furniture for company; a worn arm chair in a corner at the back, a wonky stall, by the window, to the left of it, and a stained coffee table in the centre. The house was out of the blistering heat of the sun, which was no longer something I welcomed, and away from everyone I knew and their constant drivel about nothing. People didn't know how to shut up these days, they were too wrapped up in their own insignificant little lives to see the bigger picture. We were not alone.
No-one had lived in this house for years; the amount of work needed to make it habitable again would cost far more than the house was worth. The front door was in such disrepair that it was easily opened. It saddened me to know people cared so little about anything important, to let a once pretty house like this get into such a state. This house could have been a home, but no, why waste the effort? It was here, in a room at the back of the house, overlooking the untended garden, I chose to wait out the day. But, as darkness fell, he arrived.
I was standing at the window on the other side of the room, thinking how beautiful the garden could be if someone just bothered to give it some TLC, when I heard the creak of the door. I turned round, and there he was.
He was quite a big guy; powerfully built, looking like he could handle himself against several people at once if the situation called for it, with short, dark brown hair. He was quite young, early twenties maybe, but his eyes were those of someone much older. At first glance, he could be thought quite good looking, but there was something funny about his eyes, about the colour. They were black, perfect bullet holes. And he was so pale; his skin a brilliant white, almost reflecting the light from the window coming from the street lamps. He was one of them.
His eyes took in our surroundings, then honed in on me. A slow grin spread across his face as he appraised me. There was something about the way he held himself that spoke of confidence.
"Have you been waiting long?" He asked in a deep voice that set the hair on the back of my neck on end. I noticed as he spoke that he appeared to have fangs and my heart rate increased.
"W-waiting?" I stuttered, eyes darting around the room. There was nothing to see but the old furniture, nothing to help make a plan. He was standing right by the door, and I was practically backed up against the wall. I unwillingly looked back to his black eyes, and found it difficult to breath.
"You know better than to play games with me," he said. The amused smile that he flashed, at odds with his words, reached his eyes. "You know that wouldn't be a good idea."
"W-why not?" I stuttered again. My voice sounded weak, but I was intent on keeping him talking.
"Because I might just play along," he sighed. "I could pretend that I came across you unawares. I could pretend that lady luck is on my side tonight. I could pretend it's a delightful coincidence that I just happened to come across a girl. On her own. In a run-down abandoned house, at night." For a quick second his eyes brightened. "It's deliciously tempting."
I swallowed, my eyes futilely darting around the room to no avail. There was just the stool near by. "I don't know what you're talking about," I breathed, knowing exactly what he was saying. Hadn't I been blaming people for not knowing all along?
He pursed his lips disapprovingly. "All right, have it your way."
Abruptly, his stance completely changed. He crouched low; a low growl erupted through his bared teeth. There was no mistaking it, he definitely had fangs. His eyes bored into me with hunger, as he took a step forward, full of purpose.
With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I grabbed the stool and threw it at him, hoping to stall him long enough to make a dash for the door. I inwardly cursed my clammy palms as my grip slipped and it merely hit his shoulder. It fell to pieces.
He stopped for a brief second, annoyed, looking down at the splinters. "There was no need to break the furniture," he said, and continued to mutter to himself. "Now where am I supposed to sit?"
I ran for the door, but I only made the few feet to the arm chair, when he launched himself into the air. He landed, perched on the back of the chair, smiling dangerously. There was no way he should have been able to balance; his weight should have tipped the chair over, but it hadn't moved an inch.
I backed away to the wall with my heart beating erratically, my eyes never leaving his face. I reached the behind me in seconds, but it seemed to take forever. He watched me, amused by my behaviour, his eyes hungry.
He leapt lithely to the floor, and walked slowly, almost casually towards me, triumph evident on his face. There was no way I could escape now, he knew he had won. He paused a few feet in front of me. I just wanted it to be over. The anticipation was agony. He knew this; took enjoyment from it.
Then suddenly, he was inches away, a hand on each wall either side of me. I was feeling dizzy; at some point I'd stopped breathing and I couldn't remember how. What was the point in breathing now, anyway? I closed my eyes and waited for it to come.
I heard his breathing grow louder as he leaned close.
Any.
Second.
Now.
And then it came. His lips were against mine, and my hands flew to his hair. I pulled him closer to me, so I was snug between him and the walls. Adrenaline surged through me as the anticipation ended. It was a pattern I was familiar with; this is how every night began.
After a few seconds, he broke off, and sighed. "You know, one of these days my self-control will go right out the window."
"I trust you," I said breathlessly, smiling up at him. "Besides, you know how I thrive on the danger." I looked around the room. "And talking of windows, are you going to help me with the house, or were you planning on standing there all night?"
"Sorry, but who was the one who initiated that little episode?" He demanded, jokingly, gesturing to the splinters of the former stool.
I laughed. "I suppose that was a little over the top."