If it was crazy he wanted to see, then Emilie would gladly show him.
When he patted her head, it spurred something deep and violent in the Ghoul and she actually snarled so hard that she spat. Then, without so much as a moment of hesitation, the snarl turned into a sharp string of pained laughs. "You're holding back," she gasped, fingers tense behind her. She needed to get away, and she wasn't going to lose her brass knuckles in the process. They were hers.
So, she did something that any sane person would consider, well, insane. She finished the job for him and yanked her hand downward, breaking three of her own fingers in the process with wet, sickening snaps and a howl of agony, but it gave her enough of a chance to use her free hand - her good one, now - to yank out the bowie knife she kept holstered at her thigh. She swung it back hard, aiming right for his gut.
He had two choices. One, keep his hold on her hand and find himself eviscerated or two, let her go and avoid having his insides spilled onto the concrete below.