Page 24 of The Queen’s Bodyguard

Argos awoke well before Theora’s alarm, so as not to startle her—an olive branch, of a sort—but when he exited the bathroom he found her sitting up in bed.

“Good morning,” he said, but she didn’t seem to know quite what to do with that greeting, her gaze shifting awkwardly. She looked pretty like this, he could admit, her silk scarf still wrapped around her hair and wearing a nightgown the color of moonlight. And the fact that she didn’t care if he saw her this way, looking not so strict and regal, could only be a good thing…unless she simply saw him as a servant of no consequence.

She can’t possibly be stupid enough to make that mistake again.

“Are you usually up at…” She squinted at the small clock on her side table. “Four a.m.?”

“Depends on how long I spent hunting the night before.”

“Well, don’t start prowling about my room.”

He grinned as she did a whole drowsy routine of yawns, stretches, and rubbing her eyes, before reaching for her glasses. Despite her words, she seemed to be feeling a bit more comfortable. Or, at least, she wasn’t thinking about how unfamiliar it was anymore.

Argos leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You don’t have to get up. I’ll be quieter next time.”

“It wasn’t you.” She put on her glasses, finally looking at him. Really looking at him, as if finally accepting that this living arrangement was as much part of the plan as the following week, when he would protect her. “I’m a light sleeper. Since the war.”

He nodded, with more understanding than he ever thought he could have with a Docile. “I haven’t slept too well since the start of the war, either.”

“Never pictured a Warrior with nightmares.”

Theora took out some lotion from her side table drawer and began rubbing it on her arms. Just that simple act made Argos smirk—there was something adorable about the need to have the stuff accessible to her while in bed, as if she might forget to use one of the dozen bottles on her vanity before she was safely under the covers.

He shrugged. “Just can’t get to sleep by myself.”

Theora paused. “Why do you sleep in a room alone, then? The other Warriors room together.”

Now, that was…a question. One with an answer that would either chase her off or prompt her to dig deeper. He wasn’t really in the mood for either at the moment. “There was a while where I wasn’t…playing well with others.”

That was the truth, just not all of it. All of it would’ve been…not quite raw, but definitely far too personal. Not to mention it would have given away his hand—Theora was bound to choose a different Warrior if she knew the one she’d selected meant to commit murder during the peace talks. But it was clear that “all of it,” perhaps, would’ve made this truth more palatable, because Argos sensed the slight elevation of Theora’s pulse as she cleared her throat. “I have no trouble believing that,” she said, her voice on edge, before kicking off the blanket and heading toward the bathroom.

“I’ll be finished with my meetings by one,” she added sternly. “Be here when I get back. I have things to teach you before next week.”

“Ominous,” he teased.

As usual, his humor went unappreciated, Theora glaring at him as she shut herself in the bathroom.

As requested, he was waiting in their room at one. Five minutes later, they headed down a back elevator to the ground floor, stepping into the broad, marble-inlaid room. “Please remain with your tour group at all times,” read a sign posted at the beginning of the hall, and it made Argos smirk as he watched Theora walk briskly down the hall, as if they were tourists trying to avoid being caught. He followed casually, his long legs easily keeping up with her.

“This hall is closed to tours,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “for the next hour. That will give us plenty of time to get you up to speed.”

Argos raised a brow. “On what, exactly? Aranean art?”

“There are a few dignitaries you should know before we arrive. Just so it doesn’t look like I’ve married someone too far outside of my station. Their portraits are toward the end.”

Argos replied with a simple grunt.

As if she were annoyed by his lack of enthusiasm, Theora’s tone was biting when she said, “Don’t touch anything.”

It was a strange wonder tourists would ever bother with this hall. Low, backless benches sat at intervals along its center, large paintings in embellished frames lining the walls—these were what they paid to see, he supposed, though he recognized most of these paintings from books of legends and folktales. To him, the space seemed vast and cold, the ceilings unnecessarily high, the floor exceedingly loud—and when hundreds of tourists occupied it at a time? He couldn’t think of a worse sort of racket.

“Is that you?” he asked, but he wasn’t sure whether or not Theora had fallen for his sarcasm as she halted and looked at the painting in question.

“The Discovery of Silk” read the plaque. It was a beautiful painting, in muted greens, grays, and blues. The depicted trees wept their fine, glowing strands of silk in a breeze while an awed girl watched. This was one he’d seen before, painted hundreds of years ago. Clearly not Theora.

“That’s the first ancient queen,” she replied, not processing his teasing. “Who founded Aranea.”

“A little girl?”