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There's nowhere left to run.
So: "Blood of my blood," Dracula says, looming close, tilting in, taking Jonathan's face in his long hand and kissing him once, "kin of my kin," twice, nearer now, deeper, parting Jonathan's parched lips with the questing point of his tongue, delving, staking claim, "my bountiful wine-press for a while," a third time, the too-sharp teeth long hidden behind his too-red lips at last daring to sink down, down, down...
The taste of him horrible. His mouth stained red as he ends: "My companion and my helper."
And while Jonathan swoons, bids him to drink.