"Ser Rock should know better than to think he gets to make the calls." Buffy spoke low, only for Podrick's ears. "And I don't like the smell of what he's cooking."

It was a vain sort of joke. Hardly a joke at all, when the circumstances were considered. Kind of a cruel jape used to cope with the impending horror of the moment. Torture. Even if the men on the floor had moved to attack first, she wouldn't see them hurt for this. Like this. Retaliation was one thing; sadism was another.

She didn't turn away. She didn't leave. But she didn't spring into action -- she would give Rock a full ten seconds to get a blurted confession on just the pain of a threat. She would intercede only when blood was certain to pour. After all, she could be -- at times -- just a little bit pragmatic.