Page 72 of Violet

Heath pushes to his feet. “Like hell you are. Chaperones aren’t supposed to be single or young. I’ll do it.”

She meets his stare head on and crosses her arms over her chest. “Like you’re neither of those things, too? Or is it allowed because, what? Because you’re an Alpha? I don’t think so.I’llbe chaperoning.”

“Are you sure, Iris?” Violet whispers. “You hate this stuff.”

She shrugs. “I got nothing else to do. And besides, I’m starving.” She shares a look with Quinn and something secret passes between them. “See you later, Quinn.”

The Beta waves, her smile pleasant. “Until next time, Gardeners.” She turns to Heath. “Heather.” Then she’s gone.

Heath grunts. “Betas.”

I’ll take Iris over Heath chaperoning us any day, so I stand, take Violet by the hand, and walk with her to the door before Heath tries to fight harder against it.

Petit Fleur is one of the best restaurants in Sabine, with a top culinary chef and world-renowned pâtissiers. It’s romantic, hard as hell to get a reservation for, and full of the well-to-do. Even the Monarch is known to visit once in a blue moon.

I’ve never taken any of my flings here—too public for the high-end of society—but that’s just the reason I picked it. It’s my attempt to put some of the hurtful rumors on Stitch to rest.

Why?

Why do I care what people are whispering behind my back? I don’t. Not for myself, anyway. But for Violet? That’s a different story. I know she cares, and since I’m partly to blame for the mess she’s in, I feel obligated to offer her some peace.

I’m still trying to figure out how to get around the Monarch’s mating ultimatum.

One thing at a time.

When we arrive at Petit Fleur, every single eye is on the three of us as the maître d’ takes us to the table I requested, nestled in the back corner for privacy. But before we sit, Iris pretends to shiver and makes a show of it.

“Hey, Mr. Fancy-pants,” she says. “It’s a bit chilly back here under the vent. Do you think you have another spot for me where I won’t turn into a solid block of ice?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want me to find you a different table for the evening?” the maître d’ asks, holding the menus to his chest.

“No, no. Not them. Just me. I’m the one with the cold blood.”

It’s obvious what she’s doing—trying to give us the space and privacy we need right now while still following the chaperoning rules. Loosely following them, that is.

“Absolutely.” After setting down our two menus, the maître d’ gestures for her to follow him, but before she goes, she glances at us.

Violet mouths “thank you” and Iris winks before walking off to a table across the room.

We take our seats.

Eyes and a few heads shift our way, and I notice a tremor that passes through Violet.

“We need to talk,” I start in a soft tone. “And thanks to your sister, we can. Make sure you tell her I owe her one.”

“She’ll hold you to that,” Violet says, “but she knows I’ve been…struggling, so…”

“Did you tell her about?—”

“No. She thinks it’s just normal Season drama. And I’d like to keep it that way, but she’s very perceptive. She knows when things are getting too much for me.”

“Sheisyour sister,” I say.

“Yeah, but I’ve always been really good at hiding things. Especially about myself.” She looks down at the menu in front of her. “I guess I’m not as good at it as I thought. Things are slipping through now. First the near panic attack at the ball, then the fainting. The nights without sleep.”

“It’s a lot, I know. And now the Monarch is trying to force us to mate.”

“Your aunt, you mean.”

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