Chapter 10
Argos
“No,” Theora said with harsh frustration. She threw her hands up before planting them on her hips as she looked Argos over. “I don’t know what Boada was thinking. All these sport coats make you look big.”
“Okay…”
Argos had been rudely awakened an hour earlier than he’d expected by a high-strung queen attempting to drag him up off the floor by the arm. Apparently, the five-hour train ride wasn’t going to be enough time—he had to try on every piece of clothing in his suitcase immediately.
But he could sense her anxiety about the coming events, and so felt marginally forgiving.
Still, he didn’t bother to look down at the jacket. They were all the same, save for the colors—made of fabric that lacked functional mobility and was sure to make him overheat. He couldn’t tell the difference, at least—after the fourth one, they all started to meld together.
He raised a brow at her. “But I am big?”
“Too big. Menacing.”
“Oh no,” he mumbled sarcastically. “Your bodyguard looks menacing.”
She leveled a glare at him, though that wasn’t new.
Sleep hadn’t improved her attitude toward him, and she’d been barking at him all morning.
He wanted to respond in kind but, in the end, couldn’t manage it.
It was all so stupid. Holding on to emotions for the sake of them.
It wasn’t as if being pissed at each other would change the fact that they had to pretend to be madly in love in only a few hours.
Besides, it was more than obvious that she was anxious about today.
“You’re supposed to look like my husband,” Theora said, biting the word out as if it were a curse. “Not a natural-born killer.”
“You should’ve picked a smaller Warrior, then.”
That immediately shut her up, though her lips were tight, undoubtedly with the pent-up urge to yell at him. He let slip a small laugh, causing even more heat to radiate from her face.
“I can’t wait for this week to be over,” she muttered, snatching up a black tunic instead and holding it out to him. “Put this on.”
He hated even the idea of taking it from her but obliged quickly—anything to put an end to these unnecessary outfit swaps.
In Warrior culture, traditional tunics of this sort were reserved for special events, but he’d seen Dociles wear them for casual purposes.
Still, he felt inordinately overdressed for travel.
“Still too big?” he asked, rolling up the long sleeves.
“Can you stop with the tone?” She looked him over. “It’s an improvement. The airy fabric and darker dye help to hide your size. And,” she added reluctantly, “you look alluring enough to be a queen’s husband. Even if viciously so.”
He raised a brow. “ ‘Vicious’ doesn’t sound any better than ‘menacing.’ ”
Perhaps not, but to look at Theora as she examined him…
it seemed as if she’d forgotten she was angry with him.
He could see the way her eyes dilated, taking him in.
The way her gaze lingered on his forearms, his chest. And he could smell her, in a way he knew threatened to dampen the lining of her neat, queenly panties.
He had a sudden desire to compare that scent to how he was certain she would taste.
As if sensing his illicit thought, she broke her gaze away from him, clearing her throat. “Well, you don’t look like a killer, at the very least. Think you can go a few days without scaring everyone?”
The default rumble of his growl made no promises.
It was still firmly night when they arrived on the train platform. Argos had thought nothing of seeing trains while out on hunts, but the moment he saw the gray smoke pluming from the stack as the train screamed to a halt was the moment he decided he didn’t trust them.
Venita was waiting on the platform, directing the porters moving their bags. But when she turned and saw them together, she looked as if she were going to fall over.
“Sovereign,” she swore, hand against her chest. “That is Boada’s proxy? That—that—?”
“That what?” Argos said, leveling a look at Venita. Barely a growl, and yet the advisor stumbled back, a look of terror etched on her face.
She looked to her queen for help, eyes wide. “Your Grace…that’s a Warrior.”
“Clearly,” said Theora, unbothered.
Venita took a moment to compose herself. “As your advisor, I have to insist we leave him here and make do with the two of us for negotiations. I guarantee you they won’t allow a Warrior, especially one without a proper handler, past security—”
“No armor,” Theora said. “No weapons. No sharp objects. People, I believe, were encouraged.”
Argos barely held in a laugh. Boada’s advice to keep this woman out of the loop was sound, but he had a feeling she wasn’t going to take their lie very well.
He wasn’t so sure Theora was going to be able to stick with it, either—he could smell her nervous sweat and saw her hesitation to even bring up the topic.
So, he took the lead, lacing his hand through hers without a word, and Venita looked as if she might have a heart attack.
But the gesture prompted Theora to finally say, “Venita, I need you to not make an ordeal of this. I’m going to introduce you, and then I don’t want to hear another word about it.
Yes, this is Argos, Boada’s proxy. And also”—her breath seemed to catch a bit before she finished—“my husband.”
Venita indeed didn’t say another word about it, she was in such a state of horror.
Argos could feel Theora’s hand trembling, but her voice was cool when she said, “Shall we go?” and walked forward.
“Your Grace,” Venita said, her voice on edge. She tried to catch up as she held her belly. “May I speak with you alone?”
“I don’t see how that’s necessary.” Despite the edge in her voice, Theora did slow down so Venita didn’t have to rush. “The detail the judge will be aware of is that he’s here for the peace talks. That’s all.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Venita said sternly, “but remember last week when we discussed the importance of whom you marry—”
“I told you not to make this an ordeal, Venita. Besides, what does it matter whom I love?”
The last word seemed to shock the advisor, confusion and anger flashing over her face before she hid them behind a proper Aranean mask. “You are the queen. Love has nothing to do with it.”
“We have more important things to take care of right now,” Theora said, and Argos felt a spark of admiration for her offended tone. “My only concern this week is securing peace. I suggest you shelve any discussions of my personal life for a future date and focus on what’s important.”
And she led Argos onto the train without another word.
The halls were narrow, the spaces small and locked away enough to feel more like a luxurious prison than a mode of transportation. The carpet smelled of baking soda, the air of roses, but smoke and metal were the most dominant scents.
It was going to be hard to pinpoint explosives, he thought, when the entire environment smelled like them—
A loud whistle blew, and the train shifted with a sharp screech. Argos felt his nerves jolt, as he pressed Theora against him with his hand on her rib cage.
“What are you doing?” she said quickly, her heart sprinting. “There’s no sense in starting our deception before we’ve reached Lasius. There’s no danger here.”
The train had begun moving, slowly gaining speed, and Argos watched the station shift out of view through the window.
“No, of course not,” he muttered. “We’re only at the whims of a giant moving machine.”
“It’s just a train,” she said, looking up at him, her brows slightly lowered. “You’ve never ridden a train?”
He shook his head.
But he refused to own up to his nerves, not when Theora’s body against him was growing warmer by the second. She was nervous enough without him worrying her.
Or angry. More likely angry.
It’s not an explosive, Argos. Just a vehicle.
Venita entered the next train car then, giving Argos a scrutinizing glare before shutting the door of her suite. Only then did Theora squirm out of his grasp.
“I thought we discussed keeping space between us,” she whispered harshly, and pressed forward down the hall.
Theirs was appropriately called the Royal Suite, and it looked like a small, well-furnished apartment.
There was only one bed, which just showed how late Argos had been added to the guest list. Thankfully, there was a couch, which was a better option than the floor, even if it was a little small for him.
He probably wouldn’t sleep anyway. They were headed out of the colony, which meant his job had truly begun.
He checked the small room quickly for any signs of danger, then took his weaving project from his pocket and sat on the couch.
He had to finish it before they arrived, although he wasn’t sure he could convince Theora to wear it for the talks—she had already, very deliberately, selected both of their outfits for each day.
He glanced up to see her watching him work. He raised a brow—people weren’t usually interested in watching each other weave. It was so…normal.
“You’re not weaving armor, are you?” she asked.
“It’s a tunic,” he replied.
“Because we’re not allowed to have armor there.”
“Oh, okay.”
His tone was level, no obvious sarcasm. But then, he loved taking advantage of the fact that Theora really couldn’t tell the difference.
To ease her doubt, he allowed his creation to unfold to show her.
He took it as a compliment that Theora let out a subtle breath of awe—he could agree it was quickly becoming one of his favorite weaves to date.
It was iridescent, like moonlight captured in dew.
Something shiny to distract from the slight armor weave.
“Well, I suppose it’s too thin to be armor,” she said. She was still skeptical, but it was nice to see that his technique had served its purpose.
He shrugged. “I told you.”
“It’s not another attempt at a trophy, is it?” she asked, and there was something in her tone that sounded…curious? Hopeful? No, he’d mistranslated. A woman like Theora would never be so foolish as to lock herself into a marriage over a singular pretty dress.