Page 18 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

Chapter nine

Theron.

T heron hadn’t slept. Not truly. Not since the moment he found her.

He sat in silence, his eyes flicking over to her again.

She lay still, almost too still, her chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths.

But her eyes were wide open, unfocused, fixed on the ceiling above her as if she were trying to find some escape in the wood and shadows.

He knew she wasn’t resting. No, she was likely trapped in the prison of her own mind, reliving every gut-wrenching moment of the night before.

And he—he was the one who had failed to stop it.

The knot in his stomach hadn’t eased. If anything, it had festered and grown, wrapping tight around his insides like a serpent.

Seething anger, guilt, loathing, all of it boiled just beneath the surface of his skin.

How could I have let this happen ? He hadn’t just failed his duty as a warrior. He had failed her.

The memory struck with brutal clarity—the empty cot, the cold imprint of where she should have been.

Panic had slammed into him like a hammer to the chest. He’d shot upright, already reaching for his sword, heart pounding with the certainty that something was wrong.

He had torn out of the hut without hesitation, instincts clawing their way to the surface, feral and blinding.

The moment the scream had sliced through the darkness— her scream—something inside him had snapped clean in half.

He had run like a man possessed, trees whipping past in a blur, branches clawing at his skin as if the forest itself tried to hold him back. But all he could see, burned behind his eyes, was her. And then he’d reached the clearing.

He’d seen Visen— that bastard —hovering over her, ripping away what little remained of her dignity, his hands where they never should have been, his body poised to destroy.

The rage that had filled Theron then hadn’t roared.

It burned . White-hot. Silent. Absolute and deadly.

He hadn’t hesitated, just barrelled straight into Visen with the full force of his rage, knocking him off her and into the dirt.

The look on Visen’s face—a flicker of recognition, followed by pure terror—had done nothing to quell the need for blood. Theron had let it consume him.

Blow after blow, fist after fist, until Visen’s face was pulp and his own knuckles throbbed with pain. And still, it hadn’t been enough. Nothing would be. But then he had looked up, looked at her . Shivering. Mud-streaked. Tear-soaked. And recoiling… from him .

She had reacted as if he were no different than the monster he’d just torn from her.

Crawled away as if his hands could hurt her too.

And that had shattered him. He had stepped forward slowly, carefully, gathering her into his arms with a reverence that contradicted the blood staining his skin, and thank the gods she hadn’t fought him.

Just sobbed against his chest, too broken to speak.

He’d walked them back in silence, the weight of her small frame anchoring him, grounding him. He hadn’t spared Visen a second glance. Because he knew, if he looked back, he wouldn’t stop. No one touches her again. Not while I breathe.

Morning broke around them in a soft haze, but the calm did nothing to soothe him.

His body ached from staying motionless throughout the night, the tension gripping his muscles like iron.

He rose stiffly, stretching as quietly as he could, but she noticed.

He could feel her eyes watching him, hesitant but curious.

Her cheeks were bruised, both now, the color deepening in cruel contrast to her skin.

He had to look away. He wasn’t worthy of those hazel eyes, not after what she’d endured.

Not after what he had failed to prevent.

A soft cough just outside the hut drew his attention. Theron stepped to the entrance and pulled the flap back slightly. A bowl waited on the ground—fruit, bread, a strip of dried meat. He hadn’t asked, but someone had known. Likely Sparrow. He bent, picked it up, and returned to her side .

“Eat,” he said, his voice rougher than intended, but gentler than usual.

She obeyed without a word, snatching a piece of bread and tearing into it with quiet desperation.

He didn’t eat. Couldn’t. He needed to face his mother.

To figure out what came next. But part of him didn’t want to leave her side.

Not even for a moment. He lingered at the entrance, then glanced back.

"Come," he ordered, prepared to march off again. But her voice stopped him.

"Layla…" she whispered.

He froze. Then slowly turned to her, surprised, catching the defiance now back in her stare.

"My name," she said again, stronger this time. "It’s Layla." He met her gaze, something tugging deep in his chest and he nodded.

Come… Layla," he said, softer now. He already knew her name—but hearing it aloud, speaking it himself, struck something deep. It settled in his mind like a brand as he led the way.

As they approached the Circle, the dying moonlight etched faint lines across the awakening encampment.

His thoughts drifted briefly to the night before, and a fresh wave of fury welled up.

He remembered bursting into Frea’s hut, interrupting her mid passionate ride atop Kain without an ounce of shame …

"Leathers. Now." He demanded. Frea hadn’t even pretended to be embarrassed, simply pointed.

Kain, of course, had to add, "enjoying the show, brother?" He didn’t respond. Just took the damn leathers and ran.

Now, seeing Layla in Antonin leathers? Gods .

They clung to her body in ways that made his blood simmer.

The top barely contained her generous breasts, and the skirt—if it could even be called that—left her long legs and perfectly rounded ass far too visible for his peace of mind.

She looked like a warrior goddess. Strong.

Wounded. Infinitely untouchable. And his…

.No. Not his…. Bu t his to protect . Or at least, that’s what he wanted.

What he would do, if it were up to him. He had spoken the words.

Claimed her safety. Declared her protected.

And if it were his decision alone, he would honor that vow until his last breath.

But it wasn’t his decision. Not fully. The queen’s orders still stood above his own wants, no matter how fierce the need had grown to shield Layla from everything and everyone.

Lost in his thoughts, he momentarily glanced down and noticed she was barefoot.

For fucks sake! He cursed silently. He hadn’t thought of everything. That would be fixed. Immediately.

Today, he would face the queen. He would do his duty.

But gods willing, he’d find a way to keep Layla safe—even if he had to fight for it.

And Visen… if the bastard so much as looked at her again, Theron would put a blade through him without hesitation.

But first—first, he had to make sure she never looked at him with fear again.

That, more than anything, was what he couldn’t bear. Not from her. Not from Layla.

He shook his head. The gathering. Right.

He had to focus. He was the head warrior.

The one they looked to for leadership and control.

But ever since she’d fallen into his world, his thoughts had been anything but controlled.

Layla—gods, even her name was a distraction—was taking up far too much space in his mind.

And the worst part? He didn’t want her to leave it.

As they began to weave through the crowd, the warriors’ glances shifted in their direction.

Some confused, some assessing, some even admiring.

But no one dared question him aloud. Still, Theron saw the silent curiosity in their eyes, why she was in tribe leathers, why she was at his side.

Let them wonder. Let them burn with questions they’d never be brave enough to ask.

When they reached the front of the Circle, Theron came to a stop beside Sparrow.

Without a word, Sparrow turned his head slightly, their silent language clicking into place.

Years of battle, of blood and brotherhood, had taught them to speak without sound.

Theron looked down at Layla. As if sensing his gaze, her eyes met his—wide, cautious, intelligent.

“Stay with Sparrow,” he murmured low. She glanced between them, uncertain, her hesitation clear. But after a moment, she nodded. That small gesture gave Theron the tiniest breath of relief. She’d be safe. Sparrow would make sure of it. He turned toward his true challenge now- his mother.

Queen Okteria stood near the stone ledge that overlooked the Circle. She’d been watching them. The look she gave Layla was nothing short of venomous. But when her gaze met Theron’s, her face twisted into false warmth, a deception only a child of hers could see through.

“Theron,” she purred, her voice velvet over steel. But her eyes slid back to Layla like daggers .

“What exactly are your plans for Lay—the prisoner?” He quickly corrected himself. Forcing his voice to stay even. Okteria was slow to answer, as always when she wanted to wield control. Finally, she turned back to him, her words acid-dipped.

“She may no longer be our prisoner, but she will be our slave,” she said coldly. “As her kingdom crumbles, she will labor as a reminder of our victory. Every day she breathes among us, she will prove that Graystonia is no more.”

Theron’s stomach turned. A tight, furious knot tangled in his gut. A slave? He wanted to scream. To roar. To shove the word back down her throat. But he clenched his jaw and let the fire burn inward. His fists curled at his sides.