Pain is nothing, for someone like Wash. He's been through a lot worse than anyone can do to him. He barely even reacts except to lock his arm tighter around him, and a moment later his other hand is unsheathing the knife he keeps hidden at his side, flipping it into his palm and lifting it. He doesn't press it under his jaw against his throat, he goes for the side of the neck, where there's a much more vulnerable artery that's easier to reach, he isn't playing around with the threat, here. Not that Tarn needs to know that.

"I don't think you're in the position to make that demand," he answers, his voice calm and even.