Mithias knew Hank was thirsty. His momentary weakness and motion toward the door with a blade in his hand made that obvious. Yet, Mithias didn't miss the disturbing alacrity in his voice. He hesitated. Perhaps he shouldn't be too quick to judge, as Hank had just been though something very intense and wasn't at his strongest beforehand. "Hold on, Hank." 

Mithias took a glass of blood from the waiter, because apparently there was a waiter there, sampled it, then brought it to Hank. "Here. Father in his foresight had made preparations for us specifically as guests. The blood is as he said, given willingly." He handed it to Hank. He didn't know how much detail Hank could appreciate, but he went on, "It tastes of pleading, self-sacrifice, bravery, desperation, love... A gift in exchange for mercy. It is exquisite. It is like worship. Although I may disagree with his methods to procure this type of blood, there is no need to kill when sacrifice has already been made." 

Who knew Mithias had the capacity for such discernment. So, the boy did have an appreciation for what he drank. That was probably another reason he despised orphan blood. The bitter taste of tears, hopeless despair, and ingrained, profound sorrow was enough to make him starve himself. 

"And to decline would be quite rude."

Mithias tried to relax. "Ah, and so we are here together at last. How have you been, dear father? Providing solace for beautiful vampire lords from the Purge?"