And that burgeon of pink that touches his face is far more pronounced, irritatingly so. Because there is something, given everything he is doing a poor job of keeping under the surface, that leaves him angry with himself, how the feel of that hand on his wrist, then pushing him a little more firmly against the wall behind him -- how it leaves him a little breathless. Because how dare you react to this when you've already decided to take issue with it.

At least there was some assurance of no bloodshed here. It makes him dig in less out of principle to know he isn't facing down a possible altercation (that he could lose) for showing his own teeth a little.

In an outburst. There is no other way to see it. He lost his temper. He is still in the throes of losing his temper. Enough that he's not really considering himself as he pushes back a little against that hand on his chest.

"Then consider me surprised. A mob of the city's most elite throwing themselves at you. Take your pick. After all, it could be anyone, yes?"