Page 63 of Violet

“Get out,” Sophine barks. I do, and the moment I step onto the sidewalk, the door closes and the window lowers again. “This is Club Yin. She’s in there right now. Go get her.”

“Who?”

She grins, as if she knows some deep, dark secret. “Why, your princess, of course.”

Then the limo speeds away.

The place is dark, the music moody, and there are bodies dancing close together on the floor. I look for the beautiful flower in the iridescent gauzy dress of greens, blues, gold, purples.

She’s there, hair still pinned up, mask pushed up. She’s in the same pretty forest or garden ballerina look, the filmy skirt long to mid-calf. She sticks out in a grungy place like this, a shining beacon in the darkness, but I like it. Especially since she’s dancing like no one is watching, head tossed back, and finally enjoying herself without strict rules or expectations.

She’s so pretty, so lithe, so… It’s that intangible something that makes her magic, though.

In that, Sophine is right.

Violet’s sister is in black punk-chick clothes that she wasn’t wearing at the garden party. The redhead friend’sdressed similarly, and I don’t remember her wearing anything as hard core, either. They must have changed in the car.

The redhead is dancing with a young Delta, and the little prick’s getting a bit too hands-y with the Beta girl. She smacks the guy’s wandering hand away, but he grabs her face and brings it close to his and snarls.

Pushing through the crowd, I start toward him, just as Iris shoves the guy a step back. He may not be an Alpha, but he’s stronger than an Omega, and from the ugly look on his face, he’s not going to let that slide.

The Omegas try to get away by weaving through the crowd and heading toward the stage where the DJ plays, but the Delta follows.

That’s when I move.

I hook a hand in the collar of his shirt and yank him back. He whirls on me, eyes wild with fury, but before he can swing, I drag him out of the club and onto the street. A stream of people follow after us, filling the sidewalk with onlookers.

“You think you can fuckin’ roughhouse me? Do you know who I am?” the guy slurs as he shrugs out of my grip and stumbles to the ground.

“Do I look like I care?” As he goes to get up, I put a foot on his back and hold him there. “You need to learn how to keep your hands to yourself.”

“What’s it to you?”

I press harder.

“Let me up!” he growls.

“That’s Asher St. James!” someone yells. When I lookup, I see everyone’s phones are up, snapping pictures or taking videos, and my stomach sinks.

Shit. Guaranteed this will be all over Stitch for days.

“He helped that girl! I saw it all,” another person says. “He’s a hero.”

“Did he beat him up?”

A young woman steps forward. “Is he bleeding?”

The Delta isn’t, but it doesn’t matter. This is how rumors get started. The best thing for me to do right now is walk away.

Removing my foot from the asshole’s back, I bend down so that he can hear. “I wouldn’t do that again if I were you. Consider this a warning.”

With one more glance at the crowd, I turn and stroll across the road to a modest park that ends at the long boardwalk. When I’m far enough away, I pick a bench and sit in the dark, watching the water.

It really is the one thing I like about Sabine, the abundance of parks.

My phone buzzes, and with a sigh I pull it out. “Hey, Clea. You’re calling fucking late.”

She laughs, and the sounds of Emporia in the background make me a little homesick. The pace never stops, and when the noise dims suddenly, I know she has walked into her apartment lobby. That and the echo. “Normally you’re out partying at this hour.”

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