“We get information about you before you arrive,” The king answered, waving away his question, and instead looked at Cord’s body and thighs.
The king moved his hand to Cord’s thigh, causing Cord to move away.
“I am a king. Your job is to make me desire you. You aren’t doing a good job,” King Damian insulted.
Cord had no idea how to respond. He moved the king’s hand off his thigh and stood, trying to hide his anger.
“I think I should return to the stage,” Cord declared, running from the king, knowing he had made a mistake.
King Damian would decide who would draw first. Cord had guaranteed that it would not be him. He didn’t want this life of politics, of surviving off people’s desire for him.
Cord stood on the stage, fuming. People were whispering. He knew it was about him. The human
