It takes a couple seconds to make himself slowly unclench his fingers. Couple hundred years of instinct and history shouting Kill the Slayer Bitch in his ear are almost as loud as Andrew's bloody heartbeat.

Fortunately Spike was always shite at listening.

He half-shoves the bint free of his grip and stands, dusting a couple strands of hair free to fall to the floor. There will be bruises on her jaw in the shape of his fingers. For a few minutes, anyway.