Page 3 of The Queen’s Bodyguard

Theora turned to see the handler’s dark monolid eyes scrutinizing her teal silk dress. It was floor-length, but there was no train. Of course, there was intricate beadwork, but only along the neckline. And yes, there was detail done in fourteen-karat gold thread, but again it was minimal and not anywhere that could be easily damaged. The dress lacked drapery, a cape, or elongated flowing sleeves, and the armholes cut in a bit to expose her arms, shoulders, and a bit of her back. She wasn’t even wearing jewelry. A rather casual ensemble for a queen. Practically sportswear.

But Theora rarely second-guessed her outfit choices, and today wouldn’t be one of those times. “Odd that you think I own anything that isn’t expensive.”

“All I mean is, you should prepare yourself for the possibility of it being ruined.” Boada had finally stood, rounding the desk to sit on it. Her cream trousers were dirty, and, though the lack of lighting made things uncertain, Theora hoped those were not blood splatters at the bottom of the right leg. “He’s not exactly thrilled by your plan.”

“There are worse ways he could spend his time than pretending to be my husband.” Theora casually removed her spectacles to clean them. Nerves crept into her stomach, but she kept them from reaching her facial expression. Showing too much emotion now, even with Boada, would just make her nerves worse. “Aranean couples don’t display affection in public, so he doesn’t even have to put on a show. All he has to do is accompany me for the week. Easiest mission he’s ever been on.”

And easiest romantic relationship she’d ever been in. No love required, no real need to spend time together besides the peace talks, no emotional labor. She preferred it this way, to be honest. Far easier than real life, the circus of sorting through the dozen or so nobles vying for her attention. All for a royal proposal.

Yes, she much preferred the fun of a fake relationship, without the traumas of war still clinging to it.

Boada let out a sound of doubt but left the comment unchallenged, picking up an envelope from the desk. “His travel papers.”

Theora took them from her and skimmed them, focusing most on the photo. He was one Warrior she hadn’t seen much of, though he’d been impossible to ignore whenever he did make an appearance—towering over all his peers, going about his business with a no-nonsense energy that instantly made him more relatable to Theora than any of the others. But then, when she and Boada had decided he was the right choice and had coordinated their schedules so she could observe him further, she still hadn’t been allowed to get very close to him. For safety reasons, of course, but still.

Looking at his photo now felt like reconnecting with a schoolmate—someone she’d seen every day in the halls but had never shared a class with.

The Warrior’s expression was no different from any other adult ID: a blank stare. Well, nearly. His eyes were dark. Vengeful. Not outright, as if he hated the photographer, but deep-seated. Like anger was a constant.

Well, at least they had one thing in common.

“He looked older than this photo suggests during my observation of him,” Theora said, bringing it closer to her face, as if that would make him instantly age a few years. Finally she skimmed the bio-data included with the photo and felt herself internally slump. “Sovereign. He’s only twenty-five?”

Boada raised a brow. “Very much an adult, Your Grace.”

Theora huffed. Adult, yes, but six years younger than her? She’d expected a Warrior with a few more years of experience under his belt, but she supposed under the tight circumstances this was as good as she was going to get. “How are his ratings on recent field missions?”

“Beyond excellent,” Boada said, like a proud mother. “Trust me, Your Grace, he’s the perfect candidate. He hunts alone—successfully, which is just astonishing. Best sense of smell I’ve ever witnessed in a Warrior, not to mention that his peers haven’t been able to kill him yet. All that experience added up, he’s practically a veteran.”

Theora swallowed. Haven’t been able to kill him. As if they’d been trying. As if he was that much of a threat. If the handler was trying to reassure her, she’d only managed to make Theora fear for her life more. “Are you sure he’ll obey me?”

Boada was shorter than Theora by a few inches, grayer than her by at least three decades, but she always managed to look just as fierce as any of her Warriors. “That’s not even a question. But are you ready for this?”

“Emotionally?” She raised her brows dubiously, nerves abandoning her Aranean stoicism for a moment. “Otherwise, yes.”

“Sit a moment, kiddo. We’ll wait for the nerves to pass.” Boada went to a shelf carved into the wall, full of romance novels and animal teeth, and selected a record, pulling it from its sleeve to look at it. “Let’s go over your command words.”

Theora sighed and sat in one of the ornate wooden chairs in front of the desk. Some casual crooning began to play from the gramophone.

“Cease means stop. Yield means kneel,” Theora recited.

“That’s a little oversimplified,” said Boada. “I can’t very well let you walk into a horde of Warriors if you’re not clear on what you’re saying.”

“Cease is the charmed word you use,” Theora said, a little impatiently. “If they’re acting out of line, they obey. If their Warrior magic makes them attack, the command forces them to obey.”

The handler nodded. “Good.”

The music’s sleek harmonies and soul-pulling progressions had been soothing her, but Theora felt nerves creeping in all over again. “If he doesn’t use his magic for the entire trip, will I still need the charm to control him?”

“Perhaps less often. But magic is present whether or not it’s actively being used.”

“So I’ve read.”

The women of Aranea were born with the same magic…in theory. The ability to weave magical silk, which, to a degree, came naturally. All Araneans had venom-filled fangs, which were not so much magic as part of their biology—for most, they were simply slightly sharper canines, unless extensive study and practice were put in to utilize the venom. Then there were those few born with amplification magic—if boys were born with magic, and they rarely were, it was always this mutated version. With it, they were stronger, faster, and their senses were magnified tenfold. Like beasts of prey.

Unfortunately, like beasts of prey, this type of Aranean magic also came with the unseemly side effect of animalistic prey drive—children testing positive for the trait were sent straight to the barracks to become Warriors, under the care of a handler who wielded commanding magic to control them.

Theora, on the other hand, had no magic to speak of. It was a closely protected secret, held only by her advisors, tutors, and closest friends. All through her tutoring years, she’d failed every single one of her weaving lessons. Try as she might, silk would not obey her fingers, to the point that her tutors had resorted to importing balls of ordinary yarn and some knitting needles from a neighboring colony, so she could at least earn credit for her pattern and construction work.