"I'd prefer if you didn't," he answers her flatly, not letting her go when she stills simply because he doesn't trust her to relax just yet. To be honest, the blood never bothered him; when he'd turned vampirism was still a novelty, and plenty of people were willing to share out of fascination, or for cash. The taste had put him off but it could just as easily be slipped into something else; and by the time he should have been morally outraged by the industry that developed around the human resource, he was too accustomed to his state to question it. Nearly everyone was; and though in retrospect it makes him a little sick to think about, the substance doesn't hold much terror.

"If there's a cup or a bowl or something..." he trails off, finally letting her go though he remains braced to pin her again if needed. She's not very large; and already showing that strange hollow boniness that comes of the virus going unchecked, though he's relieved to see her fingers don't seem too long, her joints don't have that knobby stretch around them, sagging the skin. The last thing Frankie needs-- for any number of reasons-- is subsiders in the City. Which is why this is so important. More than the sense that he owes them something, he needs to keep things from getting any worse.

"If not you'll have to suck it out, but I'll cut."