Page 89 of The Queen’s Bodyguard

Theora planted her hands on her hips, looking him over. “Oh, I see all right. You’re jealous again.”

Argos scoffed. “I think it’s toxic that you seem to get enjoyment out of the idea that I might be jealous.”

“Toxic?” Theora stormed up to him. “If I’m toxic, you’re…you’re—”

“I’m what?” he growled, looming over her.

Theora glared up at him, but her eyes were slightly wide, the scent of her sweat shifting. He felt guilt twist his gut. He’d frightened her, moving as he had.

She’s not a Warrior. Don’t treat her like a Warrior.

But why won’t she use the command word?

He pressed back his magic without her aid, taking a breath. But he didn’t back down, sensing as Theora’s initial fear shifted again, to an edge of anticipation. Of…excitement.

“I’m what?” he prompted again without so much malice.

Theora swallowed. “You are a churlish, mannerless, brutish man, and you have no right to tell me what I can or can’t do.”

“Aww, I’m sorry,” he said sarcastically. “Does my doing my job hurt your feelings?”

She shook her head. “And you’re supposed to be my husband? Apollo would never speak to me that way.”

“You should’ve married him, then.”

“I didn’t want to marry during the war.”

“Okay, that’s a year of your life. And before that? You didn’t have to wait to become queen to marry.”

Theora fumbled for words a moment, her face radiating angry heat. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“Yes, Your Grace; no, Your Grace,” he mocked. “Bowing and scraping. Never disagreeing with you. Speaks six languages, knows foreign customs, is politically savvy, always knows what to say—”

“You say that as if those were flaws,” she snapped. “He’s a good person. He’s committed to charity. He’s funny, and gentlehearted, and beloved by all who know him.”

Argos scoffed. “Forget that he’s a traitor.”

“You can’t stand it, can you?” She shook her head as she looked him up and down. “What did you think, that I would change my mind, decide to keep you after this was all over? That I would ever choose you over the perfect consort?”

His desire to be petty suddenly spiked. “I agree, he’s the perfect consort. That doesn’t mean you’ll marry him.”

He leaned closer, feeling her move toward him like a magnet as his lips nearly captured hers.

“And why not?” she breathed. He could hear a tinge of desire in her voice, smell her body, wet and ready for him.

He smirked. “Because you like it rough.”

Argos shoved her makeup out of the way, and Theora barely opened her mouth to yell at him before he grabbed her upper arms and sat her on the counter.

“You’re not leaving this room,” he growled. “That’s an order.”

“Take your hands off me,” Theora snapped.

Argos countered her with a warning growl. “Cease is the command, Theora. Or are you just pretending you forgot how to handle me because you get wet when I handle you?”

“How dare you,” she bit out, bringing her face closer to his. “You insubordinate, absolute abhorrent—”

His growl peaked, and he grabbed the hair at the back of her head all the way to her scalp, gripping it in his fist, tipping her head back to look at him. She let out a startled yelp, but it turned to a helpless whimper that belied her glare.