Page 8 of The Queen’s Bodyguard

And I, he thought, smirking as soon as the door was shut behind her, will make sure you wait a long time.

If the ruse of appearing as a loving couple was going to hold up, Argos couldn’t be seen in the barracks for the duration of this deception, not even to use the showers. Warrior ritual was law, and the shame of breaking what might seem to be a small thing to an outsider could end with uncomfortable consequences. Being shunned by the entire barracks was the least of it, and honestly the most welcome bit of backlash he could ask for. Being ignored by a fellow Warrior was far better than being noticed by one for the wrong reason. Besides, he hadn’t been very…social since the start of the war. Not since Izzi was killed.

Still, he was beginning to regret ever accepting this mission. It had seemed so enticing when Boada had first presented it to him, when she’d mentioned that he would accompany the queen to the peace talks in his handler’s stead. That he wouldn’t need to do much talking, as the queen and her advisor would take care of everything, other than if the judge asked about Warrior mission assignments during the period when the trading posts were taken. That he was really just there to protect Theora if need be, but more so to give her peace of mind in facing the enemy.

And, most importantly, he’d finally get close enough to get rid of the queen who’d ordered the attack that killed his wife.

He’d added the last aspect of the plan in his own head, of course. If Boada had suspected him of harboring any unhealed resentment, she would probably have sent Reva in his place—older and more responsible, far less hotheaded, with tighter control of her magic. But Reva wasn’t available to claim, and apparently having some arrogant queen disrespect his Warrior traditions so she could have a bodyguard Honor bound to do her bidding was also part of the plan.

Don’t think ill of Boada. She would never do anything to dishonor you.

He did, in fact, recognize that this was the only guaranteed way to gain access to the enemy, which was the sole reason he’d put aside his pride and yielded. He could admit that Pyre was far too protected in her own colony for him to ever get close enough to breathe her air, let alone kill her. Not on his own…not without Izzi.

Besides, he was, admittedly, a bit…curious.

He hadn’t been able to study Theora the way she had him, not in a way that was useful for the situation, at least. He didn’t know much about her personally, only the few approved details she revealed in public interviews. She’d been visiting the barracks twice a week for an entire year to observe all the Warriors, whereas he…well, he had mostly only studied her movements, her mannerisms…her voice.

It was a hobby he’d tried his best to keep to himself, which he could do only because his room was separate and secluded from the others. But ever since Theora had become queen, Argos had taken to listening to recordings of her speeches and interviews. Her voice was just so…alluring. Sultry. Mesmerizing. Damn sexy.

It was honestly the only reason he’d had interest at all in Theora’s regular visits to the barracks—to match the face to the voice that had comforted him in those first few months of uncertainty at the beginning of the war. When Izzi was gone, and he had nowhere to direct all his rage but at his fellow Warriors, Theora had been his one solace. Her voice. Her movements. Her scent. It was odd when he actually admitted it, how much irrational interest he had in this woman he had spent an entire year incorporating into his life without ever meeting face-to-face.

And yet, he wished he’d never met her, never agreed to this. It was offensive, really, to expect a Warrior to take a ritual that was so personal and use it as a ploy. He had been in an honorable marriage before, one with mutual respect and understanding. But to be claimed by a woman for two weeks—a Docile, at that—and then what? Be dropped, as if it were all meaningless. Her voice might have been compelling, comforting even, but the personality certainly didn’t match.

He felt ashamed just thinking about it.

Take a breath, Argos.

He rubbed his skin with cleansing oil, scraping off the grime of the day with his strigil, not bothering to rush the process for Theora’s sake. He couldn’t shame himself in the sight of the Sovereign just to be petty. He would do everything properly, no matter how skeptical he was of this entire arrangement. Play his part as he should. Be such a good husband he’d ruin this arrogant queen for any man who came after.

But Theora deserved to be challenged, have her ego knocked down a peg.

So…he would do so respectfully—yes, Argos, respectfully—and within the confines of the claiming ritual.

He would make her wait.

By the time he exited his room, Theora looked mildly humiliated and thoroughly annoyed.

Well, at least they had something in common.

Theora led him back through the barracks, into the dim hall that housed Boada’s office. Argos looked into the doorway as they passed, and his handler gave him an encouraging nod. It was strange, stepping from stone to hard metal flooring, but the brightness was worse—unnatural electric light flooded the hall like it was trying to keep demons away from every corner and crack.

Theora opened a door, hurrying him through, before quietly shutting it and locking it behind them. Argos looked around, trying not to show the tiny bit of shock he felt. It was a bedroom, but he only knew that because there was a canopied bed with a large headboard against the wall. It was massive—fifteen Warriors could have shared the place and still had an excessive amount of personal space. A vanity covered in neatly organized jars and bottles, a full bookcase the entire length of one wall, and a large sofa. The rest of the room seemed unused other than the large rug on the open floor. The space was completely underutilized.

Theora sat on the bed, lifting her foot as if to remove her shoe, but she suddenly changed her mind, quickly standing to face him. He could smell her uncertainty, even if her face was a mask of stoicism. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“I am clean,” he replied, his voice tight from holding back a smart response—though, judging by her expression, he’d clearly failed.

“You’re an oily mess,” she countered, looking him over.

The oil would soak in—someone with that many moisturizers on her vanity must have been aware of that. But he had to pick his battles. He would never get through this week without killing her if he didn’t.

Besides, he had a feeling her distaste for the oil was concealing a different issue. Her gaze didn’t linger on his bare chest more than a few seconds and yet she looked disoriented, blushing. Argos forced himself not to smirk at how flustered she clearly was at something as simple as shirtlessness. Perhaps noblemen kept their clothes on for all occasions, baths included.

She turned away and stormed toward an adjoining room, and he followed her without a word. He could tell it was a bathroom before she flicked on an obnoxiously bright electric light. The tile was too white and clean. It looked unused, almost, as everything else in the room did.

He felt the rope on his neck tug and looked down at Theora.

“Yield, Argos,” she said, and tugged again. As if the symbolism of the rope weren’t sacred. As if she were leading him like some dog. Argos took a calming breath, but he refused to budge on principle.