Page 33 of The Queen’s Bodyguard

“Any juicy gossip this past week?” he asked. “Come now, tell me everything. I’m so bored being so far from the action.”

“Well, I—”

No. She couldn’t possibly tell her friend that she was married to a Warrior, even if it would be done with after next week. If rumors surfaced, there was proof enough that Argos had only accompanied her as Boada’s proxy. Still, she and Apollo had always been best friends, closest confidants. If Apollo found out from anyone but herself, he may feel betrayed.

The truth of the matter was that Venita was right, even if Theora didn’t have much time to think about it now. A marriage between her and Apollo could do nothing but good for the colony—not to mention for her reputation. They weren’t in love, but she did love him as a dear friend. He was admirable, stable, and compassionate. They liked each other, enjoyed each other’s company immensely. She knew he wanted children someday, which complicated things, as she had no interest in that sort of stress in her life. In that way, she felt a little sorry that she’d be depriving him of that particular joy.

But then, political marriages were built on more important things than love and personal desire. They were built on sacrifice, on what was best for the colony. Besides, how many royals got to say they had married their best friend? Their situation could be far worse.

If she told him, he would probably laugh. He’d understand why she had to do it. If he were there, he’d even help her sell them as a real couple, that’s how much they supported each other. He’d always understood her in a way no one else did.

But she couldn’t very well spill her plan over the phone, where operators could possibly hear. It wasn’t secure for sharing secrets.

She’d much prefer to get through the week and pretend it hadn’t happened.

“Nothing but peace talk preparations,” she said instead. She glanced at the clock. The end of the hour was drawing closer. “It’s getting late. I’ll let you go get your beauty rest.”

“I hope you get rest, as well. Though you hardly need it to look beautiful.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“Stopping.” She could imagine his smile just then, full of warmth as well as mischief. The way he’d teased his sisters while treating Theora like a queen, before there was ever a thought that she would rule. “I just called to wish you luck, angel. You’re going to be just fine, I promise.”

She wanted so badly to believe him…but she couldn’t help feeling that she was about to walk into a war zone all over again.

The presence of a large shadow broke the moonlight through the open window, making her heart race…the only warning of her Warrior’s return. It still astounded—and disturbed—her how quickly and quietly he could move despite his size.

“It’s all going to be over soon,” Apollo continued. “Just one more week.”

“One more week,” she repeated, as if that was some sort of reassurance. She wanted to stay on the phone forever, forget tomorrow had to happen. But she supposed the faster she hung up, the faster it would all be over. “Good night, dear Apollo.”

“Sleep well, Theora.”

She hung up her phone with a heavy sigh, shifting her attention to the current situation.

Argos stood beside the bed, a woven sack in his hand. No. He had not brought her a trophy. Not after she deliberately told him not to. Not after he expressed such derision at doing so.

She glanced at the clock again, and he saw her do it and looked, too. She was almost embarrassed that he saw her look, but he didn’t do anything to rub in the fact that he’d made it back with a minute to spare.

Argos placed the sack on his big open palm and held it out to her.

Theora moved toward the end of the bed, touching the knot of the bag hesitantly. Looking at a dead animal before bed wasn’t her idea of sweet-dream material, but maybe it was just the pelt. That would be manageable.

Either way, she was going to reject it. She’d at least do him the courtesy of looking.

“I thought we agreed no trophies,” she said.

“It’s not a trophy.”

“A peace offering, then?”

For a moment he didn’t reply—maybe he didn’t understand the question. And then he touched his fingers to his bottom lip, then reached down to touch hers. “Yes,” he said, and held the bag closer.

“Yield,” Theora said, and when he did, she repeated the trust sign from her lips to his. She untied the knot and let the sides of the sack drop.

And stared into the eyes of the severed head sitting there.

Her hands were suspended, trembling where the knot had been. Perhaps her hands processed the dead eyes looking back at her before her mind did, because it was another couple seconds before a helplessly horrified noise slipped out of her.