For a good solid moment, he considers putting a hand around her throat. He never would, of course. He couldn't. But for a moment he considers what it would be like to watch that pale throat tense up, to flush red and mottled white, and that's what keeps him from getting up and walking away. That fantasy of a world very different than this one, where no one could sink their fingers under his flesh like that and walk away protected by the trappings of society or decency.

Because she may be right, on some level, and it's not like he walked into this conversation hoping for her to psychoanalyze him. Hoping for her to ghost her fingers over his brain until the static electricity made some of the sinewy little nerves perk up.

"Seltzer, bartender." His hand is steady too, but artificially so, almost stiff and rigid. Then he finally looks back at Swann, and her neck is still pale, her lashes low. "I must have hit a nerve to get you to retaliate like that."