There's a good girl. [Like speaking to the family dog. One hand gently wraps around her forearm while the other places his thumb at her palm, stroking downward.]
Try not to scream. [He takes his time, lowers his head to her wrist, and for a moment he does nothing but brush his lips against across the unmarred stretch of pale skin. What comes next is so quick that in her muddled state she may not even feel the teeth as they first find their mark, four pinpricks that sink deeper into her flesh. The warm streams of blood catch and pool in his mouth. There's no sharp, contaminated burn, only the taste of copper and a steady beat against his tongue and in his ears (not lifeless and silent, not sanitized in cold, smooth plastic).]