Chapter 2
Argos
This damned woman.
If she had been a Warrior, if this had been a genuine attempt to claim him, if Boada hadn’t ordered him to be gentle, their encounter would have ended with this little arrogant queen writhing in pain on the floor.
Okay, well, he wouldn’t have truly hurt her—he was a Warrior, not a monster. Dislocated a shoulder, maybe. Something that could be easily mended while also causing incurable humiliation.
As it stood, this Docile had never stood so close to a Warrior, and it showed.
No one was going to believe he’d actually been claimed.
No Warrior would ever be stupid enough to claim someone they couldn’t confidently dominate, and it was clear that this queen’s bark was worse than her bite.
It was going to be far too obvious this was all a ruse, which was nothing if not insulting.
Marriage was a sacred bond, not some political gimmick.
Her words had pissed him off a bit, but there was nothing she could say or do to truly intimidate him into siding with her or give her the upper hand. He’d only yielded because Boada had told him to, because it honored the Sovereign to obey his handler.
Still, what a show he’d just put on—viewing party of one.
He’d meant to show his distaste for her plan, to make her regret ever including him, and she’d managed to maintain her courage better than he’d anticipated.
For a moment when he touched her, he thought he might’ve even smelled a tinge of excitement in her sweat…
though, if he had, it was short-lived. That was his fault for being petty—he knew Dociles weren’t used to being touched, even if he’d forced himself to be as gentle as possible.
Theora looked a bit disheveled and smelled of the sharp sweat that only stress could produce, but she still managed to look annoyingly haughty. As if she had just conquered him by her own strength of will. As if he hadn’t just allowed her to win.
It would’ve been adorable if Argos had been in the mood to admit it.
“Well, that’s done,” Theora said as she looked him over. Her gaze wasn’t particularly friendly or interested—putting on a show, same as him. She paused, then gestured vaguely to his person. “I don’t want all of this messing up my bathroom, so let’s hose you off first, shall we?”
He felt himself growling and didn’t bother to check himself, his new wife’s worried pulse the only entertaining detail of this situation.
He’d given his word to Boada that he would be patient, but this woman was already testing him.
She deserved to be given a hard time, even if it wouldn’t help the situation.
Perhaps her visits to the barracks over the past year had been nothing but a fun diversion to her, because she’d clearly learned nothing of Warrior rituals.
She spoke several languages, for Sovereign’s sake—all her public speeches, no matter how short, were kept on record, and there were quite a few he’d listened to in which she addressed an entirely different colony in their own tongue with a perfect accent.
Warriors were just as much Aranean citizens as Dociles were—at the bare minimum she should’ve understood the entirety of the claiming ritual, not just her part in it.
Also…“hose”? Must be a Docile thing. Thankfully, he’d never have to find out. “There’s a cleansing ritual after being claimed,” he said, not trying to sound agreeable in the slightest. “No ‘hose’ required.”
She cleared her throat. “Yes. Right.” As if she’d known all along.
He took hold of the drawstring of his pants, pausing as Theora’s pulse elevated further. For having just survived claiming a Warrior, this woman certainly was high-strung when it came to the mundane.
“Oh, you’re doing it here,” she said quickly. Perhaps she thought she appeared calm, but her blushing cheeks and subtle fumble for the doorknob told him she wasn’t half as confident in the situation as she pretended to be. “I’ll wait in the hall.”
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.
“Yield,” she commanded.
Not a bit of magic in that command, not that his magic needed her help at the moment—an entitled queen alone wasn’t enough to make his prey drive flare.
So, instead of obeying, he took the rope off over his head and let it slap dully on the tile, breaking their eye contact to look at the sink.
She was supposed to have taken the rope off, but the way she’d treated him so far gave him no desire to make this easy for her.
He could feel her anger, her trembling muscles. From the corner of his eye he saw her rub her forehead wearily before taking a deep breath and clapping her hands, as if he were a child with no attention span. Sovereign, this woman was beyond irritating.
“Eyes here,” she ordered.
His gaze snapped to hers, but his growl was active. A warning. He could sense her pulse spike as she twitched, as if forcing herself at the last minute not to take a step back. She was still afraid, despite her best efforts. Good. Let her feel what a mistake it was to disrespect him.
“Take a shower,” she said, pointing behind her at the large glass box. “And be sure you wash everywhere, or I’ll make you do it again.”
“Alone?” he asked.
He hadn’t intended for that to be taken seriously—he knew Dociles had these weird solo washrooms, as if they loathed community—but her flesh bloomed hot with humiliation, and Argos had to fight back the urge to laugh in her face.
“Yes, alone. You’re not in the barracks anymore. There’s no group showering here.”
He crinkled his nose slightly, picking up the scent of someone headed toward them. He waited to see if they would pass by, but they didn’t. Female. Middle-aged. Pregnant? Meh. Probably fine.
But Theora must have taken his pause as hesitation, because she huffed and went to the giant shower, shoving the glass door to the side and turning it on for him.
“There,” she almost shouted over the thunderous drumming of water.
And then she pulled a towel out of the warmer and put it in his hand. “Now do as you’re told.”
“Someone’s at the door,” said Argos, a few seconds before the knock on wood even sounded.
Theora frowned, clearly not hearing it. “Stop stalling.”
“No, really.” He nodded his head toward the door. “They just knocked again.”
She still looked skeptical as she stepped out of the bathroom and demanded, “Who is it?”
“Venita, Your Grace,” said the woman on the other side.
“Shit.” The queen slapped a hand over her mouth, glaring at Argos, as if he could have done something to prevent this surprise visitor. “Do as you’re told. And, for Sovereign’s sake, do it quietly.”
She pulled the door shut, leaving him alone in the loud, sterile-looking bathroom.
He sighed. This was all so stupid. He was already clean—by ritual, he might add, in the sight of the Sovereign.
Two weeks, he reminded himself. In the next two weeks he would avenge his wife’s death, kill the woman who threw his life into disarray. And if all he had to do was put up with a bit of Docile nonsense to do it, well, then…
He sighed and stepped into the shower to clean himself again.