Christ. It's like she's an especially stupid toddler. Her hands are everywhere, touching everything. She'd even opened his chest and rifled through his shirts before moving to the bookcase. "Well done, you can read. So can millions of other people. Now...do you mind?" She's an invader, in his space. Destroying the order of things that he so carefully maintains.

Joss's fingers are itchy. It would be so easy to just slide a stake between her ribs and be done with it. Why is he even bothering?

But he doesn't do that. Instead he shepherds her to the kitchen and pulls out a blood bag. Most of it gets emptied into a mug--he hates microwaved blood, personally, but he doubts she'll be too picky--and the rest goes into a rocks glass with a couple of fingers of whiskey from the bar cart near the entry. He doesn't offer her any. She hasn't earned it.