He could laugh. Even in the state he was in. He never let little things like almost dying get the best of him. But she was right, and he knew it. If he kept it up, he'd be dead before even getting a chance to escape. "We should get some rest, if it's even possible, squirt," he said, smirking and nudging her shoulder.
If Gwen was sleeping any time soon, it would not be restful, Quinlan would make sure of it. She may have wiped her hand, or tried to, but Quinlan did not need much. He could feel her pulse, as if it were ringing in his ears. While she and the others slept, captors and slaves, he concentrated those droplets of blood that she'd discarded and moved them, small quiet dribbles.
And where they perched at the lip of her ear, slowly drifting in until he could feel himself within her mind. Quinlan whispered words of ritual, soft, barely a breath, as he turned her dreams to pleasures of the flesh, and joined with her and that heated endeavor. Sure, they were dreams, but they could feel real, couldn't they?
[Just trying something with the dream thing, not sure what the aim is. If you need me to fix this, no biggie.]