"Or else. I'll make your life miserable. More. Than. Usual." He tells her this, breathless and honestly more excited than he should be, yanking her up by her hair. He always likes to thrash people, and he grins wide now.

His claws hook through and he yanks her needles out of the tight bun she's got it all wrapped up in. He thinks the blood suits her: castes mean nothing to him, but the knowledge that she is dirt there is satisfying. "Wear your hair down more. It's nicer. And we all know. You're only. As good as your looks."

And then he releases her, pushing her off in one direction and tossing the needles off to the next. He is then picking up his chair. He'd knocked it over in his haste standing up.