my head, and I’ve managed to dab on lipstick and mascara. None of Mack’s dresses will fit me, so I run barefoot to Evelyn’s room, praying she has a dress I can wear and maybe some shoes.
Not that I won’t rock my Salvation Army combat boots if I have to.
Buried deep in a pile of clothes on the floor is a slinky coral mini-dress that barely covers my butt. I glance at the clock, a frustrated breath rushing out.
Tiny stripper dress it is.
I shimmy into the dress, nearly break my arm trying to zip it, then slip into some black three-inch heels a half size too small. Right before I run outside, I check my reflection in the mirror.
The dress might be short, but it hugs my curves in all the right places.
My gaze travels down and snags on something inside Evelyn’s small metal trash can. I drop to a knee and peer into the pile of tissues, sifting through a few cans of Diet Coke her parents must send her.
There’s a box with a pregnant woman on the front . . .
Oh, no. No. No. No. I dig deeper into the tissues and my fingers catch on something long and hard. I hold up the pregnancy test, my heart in my throat.
I stare at the results. Then I grab the box to see which mark means pregnant, even though I’m already pretty sure. Once I’ve confirmed what the two lines mean, I drop the box back into the trash and let out a deep breath.
No. She can’t be . . . she can’t be.
My brain whirls with questions like who and how far along, but I’m already late to the ceremony, and I want to make a good impression on the prince’s father.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I’m torn between finding Evelyn and going to the banquet, but she should be there. If not, I’ll make up some excuse and go find her. The prince and his father will just have to deal with it.
As I rush from Evelyn’s room and take the stairs two at a time, I pray Evelyn is there tonight. I can only imagine how scared and alone she feels.
49
The commons have been transformed for the Winter Formal. Blue and silver streamers hang from the walls along with stringed lights. Giant crystalized snowflakes descend from the high cathedral ceilings, and what looks like real snow covers the ground, paths carved through the pristine white.
I’m rushing so I don’t have time to appreciate all the decorations, but Evelyn must be proud.
My heart sinks a little at that, but it’s hard to focus on her when my nerves have now twisted into a giant knot in my stomach. The idea of talking to the Unseelie King is terrifying. And a tiny part of me wonders why the prince didn’t tell me about tonight.
What if . . . what if he doesn’t want me here.
Swallowing, I place a clammy hand on the curved door handle to the great hall, and pause. My hand is surprisingly slick. Through the pounding of my heart, I hear muffled noises from the other side.
The door opens easier than I expected, meaning I practically slam it open. Awesome.
As soon as the heavy oak door slides shut behind me, I freeze. The room is full of Fae dressed in gorgeous attire. The long banquet tables are grouped by court. Before I can flee—which is exactly what I plan to do—an attendant appears and takes my elbow, guiding me through the rows of tables.
I can feel every eye following me, the weight pressing down on my shoulders. I fight the urge to stare at my feet, or to cross my arms over my chest. When we near the prince’s table, I see an empty spot by the prince. His father, the king, sits with what must be his new wife, a petite, pretty girl with thick black hair and empty eyes.
But she’s a mere shadow in the Winter King’s presence. Unlike the silvers and blues his son prefers, this king wears all white. From his armored breastplate to his tunic embellished in silver to the cape flowing from his wide, imposing shoulders. Even his hair is white, falling well past his shoulders. Deep-set pale eyes blanched of color watch me above thin, cruel lips.
I lock eyes with the prince, and a shock goes through me. He’s annoyed. His mouth pressed into a grim line. Eyes tight. The muscles of his neck are corded with anger.