"Not a lot," he says quietly, the tone and the sad smile quirking his lips implying an apology he can't quite make outright, because the more she struggles with this the worse he feels about other things, and somehow it seems unfair. If he feels like shit it ought to be because of this girl-- she's younger than he'd thought at first, he realizes, and taking it better than he'd expect. All things considered. He half-folds his arms, resting one hand on the somewhat sore spot he's been cutting to fix the others. Whether it makes a difference to explain it or not, he can't be sure; how well she can process it, whether it will afford any comfort or any aid in remaining rational is anyone's guess.

"You been in the sun since it happened? It burns. This, too." He lets loose a breath, taking out the knife with what's becoming a practiced gesture, though he doesn't open the blade or roll his sleeve. "I can't measure it without something to put it in, but... once you've had enough you'll know. Like a kick in the chest, and then your heart beat pulls the rest of you to pieces. But after that you'll be fine."

He does roll his sleeve now, though he pauses before folding it up over the half-healed divot in the skin, giving her a last moment to get used to the idea before spilling the fresh scent of blood. "You'll want to bite down. I won't blame you if you do," he says softly, because losing control scared the shit out of him and Frankie was a vampire for a good long time before it happened; for someone new, someone who didn't want to feed to begin with, it's got to be a thousand times worse. Eden won't like it if he comes home with bite marks. He won't much like it either, for that matter; but really. Whatever it takes, as long as he cleans up all this mess.

"When you're ready."