Page 17 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)
"You’re not going anywhere, you little Graystonian bitch!
" He shouted, spit and blood flying with the words. One hand pinned her as the other tore at her nightgown. She screamed and shoved against him, clawing and crying, but it was no use. He was stronger and fueled by rage. Tears blurred her vision as he struck her across the face and the world went sideways. No. Not like this. Please not like this. Layla’s head lulled as she squeezed her eyes shut.
Then, the weight vanished. His grip. His breath.
His body—gone. She collapsed to the ground in a heap, sobs racking her as confusion and fear collided.
Blinking through the tears, she saw them—two bodies, one atop the other.
A blur of fists. A roar of pain. Then silence.
Her attacker crumpled, and the other man stepped into view.
Massive. Unrelenting. A silhouette carved from night.
Her captor … Theron. He had come for her.
Layla’s breath hitched violently. She scrambled back across the floor, instinct overriding reason.
Her limbs quivered, her palms slick with cold sweat.
What now? The last time she’d seen him, he had brought her food.
Sat silently nearby while she ate. Taken her to be mended with strange, unspoken gentleness, and then let her sleep while he stood guard.
And now, he stood above her —Antonin, like the others.
A man of war. A man of this place. Her heart thrashed wildly in her chest. She didn’t know what he was going to do.
After what she had just endured, how could she trust any of them?
She stared up at him, half-expecting violence, betrayal, anything but what came next…
He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Didn’t offer false comfort.
He simply bent down and lifted her into his arms and Layla reluctantly sagged against him, too dazed and broken to resist. Her tears streamed freely now, soaking into his leathers.
Her bruised body shuddered in his grip. She expected harsh hands.
Cold indifference. But instead… he held her gently like before.
As if she were made of something delicate. As if she mattered .
She dared to glance up at his face. His jaw was clenched tight, his brow drawn in unspoken torment.
His grip was strong—but careful. Protective.
And despite everything, despite the pain, the terror, the betrayal of her body and dignity—something inside her sparked with desperate relief.
He had come for her. He had saved her. And behind them, the man who had tried to break her whimpered on the ground, broken and bleeding.
Theron didn’t look back. And Layla, shattered but breathing, let him carry her into the night.
Back in the safety of the hut, if such a word still held meaning.
Theron dipped through the hide flap and gently set her down on the cot like she might shatter.
He dropped to one knee before her, eye-level with her once more.
Layla’s breath caught in her throat at the intensity of his expression.
Fury still swam in his piercing blue eyes.
But now, something else had overtaken it. Concern ?
He stared at her bleeding arm, his brows furrowed so tightly they nearly touched.
Then his eyes slowly drifted upward, and for the first time, he seemed to register the new damage to her face.
His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked. Without a word, he reached up and brushed his calloused fingers to her swollen cheek.
Layla winced, a quiet hiss escaping her lips from the contact, but she didn’t pull away.
His hands were rough. Worn. Lined with the kind of strength that came from war and wood and weather, but they were warm.
So warm. That warmth curled into her skin, melting past the bruises and bone and straight to something far more fragile.
She absentmindedly closed her eyes. A breath she didn’t know she was holding slipped free, shaky and exhausted.
It made no sense, but for the first time in days, she felt safe.
When she opened her eyes, she found his gaze still fixed on hers- softened now, no longer hard or unreadable.
Something almost reverent lingered there.
And then, like a gust of wind slamming shut a door, he pulled his hand away and stood, turning his back on her.
Her stomach instantly dropped. Utterly confused, she looked down and understood.
Her shift was barely hanging on, the last remnants of fabric bloodied, torn, and twisted around her waist. Her chest was entirely bare.
She sucked in a sharp breath and grabbed at what was left, clutching it to herself as humiliation surged like a tidal wave.
He glanced back over his shoulder just as she managed to pull the fabric up high enough to cover herself.
“Wait here,” he said gruffly, disappearing through the hide flap.
Layla huddled on the cot, heart racing. She stared at the empty space he’d just filled, fear slowly crawling back into her lungs.
What if someone else came in? What if the other man found her again?
But barely a minute passed before the hide flap lifted, and Theron stepped back inside.
He held a bundle of folded leather garments under his arm.
“Dress.” His command was short and clipped.
He placed the clothes beside her and didn’t move.
Layla blinked. Was he... going to just stand there and watch?
She looked from the pile of clothes to him, and back again.
When she stood, clutching her tattered shift to her front, he still didn’t budge and her pulse spiked.
But then, thankfully, understanding seemed to dawn in his eyes.
With a low grunt, he turned his back and Layla exhaled in relief.
She unwrapped the last of her ruined shift and let it fall in a heap on the floor.
Her skin prickled in the cool air, goosebumps rising.
She worked quickly, rifling through the clothes.
The skirt was simple, fitted around her waist and layered in strips of hide.
The top—some kind of leather corset—was more of a challenge.
It strapped over one shoulder and laced at the back.
Layla tried and failed to secure it herself.
Her bleeding arm made the task nearly impossible.
“Um…” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“Can you… please help me?” Theron turned at the sound of her voice.
His eyes moved from her to the corset she clutched helplessly to her chest. Without hesitation, he stepped toward her, his massive form consuming the space between them.
She tilted her chin up as he looked down at her, those impossible blue eyes holding her captive.
Gently, he took the strap from her shoulder and tied it into place, his fingers grazing her collarbone.
“Turn,” he murmured. She obeyed. His hands were sure and steady as he laced the back, pulling the cords tight.
The top cinched around her ribs and lifted her breasts higher, more than she was used to.
When he finished, his hands lingered for just a breath, then fell away.
Layla turned back to face him, cheeks flushed with heat.
He didn’t look away, not this time. Instead he reached down, tore a strip from what was left of her shift, and wound it tightly around her bleeding arm.
His touch was efficient, focused, but careful.
“Eir will re-stitch you in the morning,” he said roughly. “This will work ‘til then.” Layla swallowed, her throat dry.
“Thank you,” she whispered. He didn’t move.
Didn’t blink. Just stared at her so fiercely it was as if he were trying to memorize her.
Brand her into his vision. Her breath caught as her body reacted, tight, tense, and wanting.
Wanting something she didn’t understand.
What is happening to me? She broke the gaze and turned away, trying to suppress the flutter in her chest, the ache under her skin.
Theron stepped back, retreating to his usual place against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw hard.
Her shoulders sagged slightly in ... disappointment? No. No, that was insane.
She dropped onto the cot, confusion clouding her mind.
Then she remembered the other warrior. The hands.
The weight. The helplessness. Her head jerked toward the entrance of the hut.
Fear slammed back into her like a slap. She must have made a sound, or maybe he sensed it, but Theron stood straighter.
“No one will come in here,” he said darkly, voice full of gravel and heat. “This is mine. No one touches what’s mine.” Layla's heart stopped at the admission. She stared at him, breath lodged in her throat. Did he mean the hut? Or... her? She couldn’t ask. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.