Bruce huffed as he leaned on the arm of his grand throne, an empty gesture as he took another swig from his glass of whiskey. His icy blue eyes gazed over the few concubines he had. He wasn’t immortal. He needed an heir, a legitimate one. Soon. Unfortunately for him, he had no interest in copulating with any of these women, no matter how attractive they were.

Everything in the king’s life had led to him becoming a stone-faced statue. A fist in a field of open palms. A sharp dagger in a pile of butter knives. In short, life had sharpened him. To the point where almost no one was willing to try and get through to him. Save for the potential gold diggers and desperate women who wanted to bed him.

He set down his glass as his eyes landed on one of the concubines that stood out to him. He narrowed his eyes and scrutinised them both up, down and left to right.