Page 29 of The Rejected King
The next woman in line stepped forward, and he vowed to give her his full attention. From the corner of his eye, he saw a few newswriters watching his every move, taking notes. Davin turned to the woman, putting on another warm smile.
“Your Majesty, I’m so pleased to meet you.” The woman—except this one seemed more girl than woman—curtsied in front of him.
He tried to make his voice sound cheery. “What’s your name?”
“Sheena. Sheena Umbreit.”
“Where are you from, Miss Umbreit?” he asked, even though he was sure he knew of her father. Davin was sick of asking the same questions over and over, but by the fifty-seventh exchange, he had thrown originality out the window.
“I’m from the province of Carrington.”
She looked young. Too young. Age must not be a concern when selecting women to be a part of the Promenade.
“How old are you, Miss Umbreit?”
Next to him, Emree coughed, intentionally. He turned to look at her, giving her a questioning look.
Oh, was that insensitive to ask?
She shook her head like his question wasn’t allowed.
Davin turned his attention back to Sheena, and she answered with a shy smile. “Sixteen.”
Yep, too young. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Umbreit.”
The next woman, number fifty-eight, smelled like a dead fish.
The one after that, number fifty-nine, had long eyelashes that looked like spider legs clawing at her cheekbones.
And the last, woman number sixty, talked so quietly that Davin couldn’t even hear her. If he chose her, it would be a life full of leaning in and asking ‘what’s that’ or ‘excuse me’ a hundred times a day.
He let out a heavy breath. He had met all sixty women. A rush of relief spilled through him until he realized...he’d met all sixty of them. Everyone expected one of those sixty women to become his queen. His stomach churned with anxiety.
Now that the procession of women was over, he wanted to talk to Emree and discuss her reaction to the ending of the last novel he’d loaned her. And also maybe discuss her mood for romance.
That is, romancenovels.Notromance with him.
Ever since Davin had found out about Officer Ricks, it was like there was an invisible sign on Emree Dutson, a sign that said ‘not available’ and ‘proceed with caution.’ The problem with warning signs was they made a person want to disobey them. In Emree’s case, Davin was tempted to ignore the signs altogether. But he couldn’t.
The herald boomed again. “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats for the Promenade dinner, hosted by King Davin.”
Every eye in the room shot to him.
His talk with Emree would have to wait. It was probably for the best.
Emree
Emree’s feet achedfrom standing in heels all night long. She glanced longingly at a chair against the wall a few feet away, wishing she could sit. She looked at Millar next to her. He stood tall and robust like a statue. His eyes never left the king, who was fifteen feet away at the head table. How did Millar do that? He didn’t even look tired.
The grand hall was full of conversation and clanging utensils on glass plates. Emree turned her head, staring down the head waiter across the room, silently willing him to serve dessert so this night could end, and she could get off of her sore feet, but he didn’t notice her or her pleas.
At first, everything about the Promenade opening night had been thrilling, but as the night dragged on, Emree’s excitement had faded. It might have had something to do withPat Riceand the way her left hand always seemed to rest on the king’s forearm. Who did that? Who ate one-handed? People who didn’t cut their meat with a fork and knife, that was who. Because you couldn’t cut your meat if you were down one hand.
Emree regretted her decision to put Patrice right next to the king at dinner. It had nothing to do with Emree. It was more about how unfair it was to the other girls. Nobody stood a chance withPat Ricearound.
Nobody.
First of all, Patrice’s dress was one of the prettiest dresses Emree had ever seen; it glistened in the lights with her every movement like somebody had sewn a pre-Desolation disco ball into the fabric. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was how perfectly Pat’s dress hugged all her curves. ALL OF THEM. The dress’s front was cut low into a deep V that plunged to her ribcage—lower than any dress Emree had ever seen. Typically, women were expected to follow the Council of Essential’s modesty guidelines, ensuring their shoulders, back, and chests were covered. Patrice had clearly pushed the modesty rules tonight, and Emree could tell by the other girls’ whispers and stares that everyone was talking about it.
