[The remark on her dress is temporarily distracting, a glance down at the white now stained red with her own blood, mixed with the boy's. If anything, though, the sight serves as a stronger distraction, mind focusing on the scent and raw thirst that has only built in the back of her throat. Intoxicating, a draw that burns painfully with want and need, echoing the ache in her arm where the spell had struck her.
Looking back at her prey, bleeding a short distance away, her crimson eyes narrow and she stares at him hard. Disobedience from any one of her dolls is unacceptable, and she's thirsty, now. Voice firm, a clear demand that won't tolerate disobedience on any level, she meets his eyes.]