Arlecchino’s reaction is immediate. No. Not something gentle or reassuring, no, my love, never; nor is it something ambiguous or coy, such as is this an invitation? No, no such thing was the case this time. She hadn’t even spared you a sidelong glance from the rim of her glass as she denied you, shot you down the moment you posed the question. 

You hadn’t anticipated such a strong reaction, or such a firm tone of voice. No? You’d asked. Pushing the issue was toeing a line you know would create friction, and irritating a vampire wasn’t of interest to you, to put it mildly. If you pushed, you were sure you’d find out what her fangs feel like, all without a tender kiss to chase it like the novels sung of. 

That's where this initial intrigue came from, in essence; novels spoke of vampiric lovers, and how intimate of a union it could be, to be bitten for the first time. Many authors thought it to be like an act of deflowering. The shedding of virgin blood occurs one way or another.

No, Arlecchino reiterates, just as firm, softening her bite. She realized she startled you, and a light sigh bleeds the tension from her shoulders. You unconsciously follow suit. 

You swallow. If I may, you broach, is there… A particular reason?

You’re not my food, Arlecchino deadpans. It’s so sincere and simple that it jars you a tad. I wouldn’t debase you in such a way. It’s unbecoming and barbaric. 

Oh, is all you can bring yourself to say. How… gentlemanly. 

Arlecchino sips her blood-wine and hums noncommittally. Stop reading those novels. They’re fiction, and that’s all they will be.