The king would laugh if he hadn’t forgotten how to. “And what makes you think I want your bastard?” Oliver swallows, his breath shallow. Myla narrows those gray eyes. The king swings open the door with a stipulation sliding from his tongue. “If I am to call another child mine, he can be nothing less than powerful.” “He is,” Myla blurts, ever the protective mother. “No one in Ilya is like him.” This equally intrigues and amuses the king. “We will see about that.”
YOU STFU
