Page 19 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

“I want confirmation that the Bartorians have taken the city,” she added, flicking her wrist like the conquest of a nation was nothing.

“Send a group. And teach the girl our food. If she runs… she’ll wish she were dead.

” And just like that, the conversation was over.

Queen Okteria turned away, leaving a trail of bitterness in her wake.

Theron closed his eyes and exhaled a slow breath to keep himself from exploding.

Then he turned to address the warriors, shaking the tension from his arms like a cloak he couldn’t shed.

“Routes remain the same,” he barked. His voice rang sharp across the Circle.

“Kain—you’re leading the group to Graystonia.

Confirm the state of the city.” He knew without looking the kind of expression that order would put on Kain’s face.

Surprise, likely followed by that ever-familiar smirk.

He always sent Sparrow. But Sparrow had a more important duty now- watching Layla.

Protecting her. He wasn’t leaving her unguarded again.

As he scanned the warriors, Theron’s gaze landed on Visen.

The sight of him was both satisfaction and poison.

Visen was barely recognizable, his face a patchwork of swelling, bruises, and blood.

Two blackened eyes. A broken nose. A split lip.

Theron’s knuckles still ached from the memory.

But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

If tribe law didn’t forbid him from executing a warrior without trial, he’d have gutted the bastard himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his mother watching him.

Her smirk was all-knowing. She hadn’t missed the tension, the bruises.

She didn’t need to ask what had happened.

But Theron had no intention of offering explanations.

If anyone tried to dig, they’d find nothing but silence and a death glare.

He tilted his head toward a nearby warrior.

“Garrun. Take my eastern route.” Then to Sparrow: “Get some sleep. I want you on guard tonight.” Sparrow gave a short nod—nothing more was needed.

His eyes flicked to Layla, then back to Sparrow.

He understood where exactly he was needed tonight.

With those orders done, Theron gave one last sweeping look at the gathered warriors, jaw set.

“You have your orders.” And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away—no further words, no room for questions.

As the group began dispersing, Theron headed back to her. She had been watching him intently. There was something in her eyes—something questioning, something almost trusting. He hated how much it affected him.

“Come,” he said simply, leading her toward Eir’s hut once again. At least Eir’s would be quiet.

As they dipped back within the comfort of Eir’s hut.

He could see the older woman preparing her tools inside.

When she saw them, the reopened gash across her arm, the new bruises and cuts across Layla’s face and body.

Eir didn’t say anything once again. Just simply gestured to the same cot as yesterday.

This time Layla didn’t waver to accept her assistance.

That was until Eir offered her the same drink as yesterday.

“No thank you,” she said softly, yet firmly. “I will endure.”

Theron turned slightly at the tone. There was strength in it.

He respected that. Eir didn’t argue, only began to clean the wound, then handed Layla a piece of bark when the time came.

Layla gritted through the stitching without a sound, and Theron felt something strange rise in his chest. Pride?

Guilt? Maybe both. He should’ve thought to clean her up himself, but it hadn’t occurred to him.

He wasn’t used to caring for others. Only commanding them.

When they left for Illyada’s hut, Layla looked cleaner, her eyes brighter, despite the bruises.

The image of her yesterday, bloodied and sobbing in the dark, still haunted him.

Illyada was already elbow-deep in dressing a deer when they approached.

Her blade slicing effortlessly through muscle and hide.

She was the tribe’s best chef. A warrior in her own right, but preferred to slice up animals over others when she had the choice.

She paused only briefly as they approached, waiting for instructions.

Her strength and silence were things Theron respected.

She wouldn’t question this task, and more importantly, she wouldn’t mistreat Layla.

“She’s yours during daylight,” he told Illyada.

“Train her well.” Illyada gave a single nod, no questions asked.

Theron looked at Layla, just once, but it was enough to make something tighten in his gut.

He stepped in, close enough to catch the scent of her skin—clean now, soft and earthy, but still laced with that same trace of lavender he’d caught the first day she fell into his path.

He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, his voice low enough for only her to hear.

“Don’t run,” he whispered—more plea than command.

Then he turned away before the temptation to stay could override his sense.

He needed to move. To breathe. To do something.

His blood simmered beneath his skin, too hot, too volatile.

The loathing festering in him over Visen, the confusion twisting his thoughts every time Layla looked at him like he mattered—it was too much.

He had to do something or he would snap.

Just then, his gaze caught on Kain near the trees, streaked with mud like the rest of the scouts.

His brother stood tall and smug, arms crossed, bow slung over his back.

“Kain, just scouting, nothing more.” Theron barked.

Kain raised a brow. “Just scouting?” he repeated mockingly. “Funny. I thought you came over to ask about last night.” Theron stiffened. Kain leaned in, whispering with a wicked grin, “You know, I didn’t know watching was your thing, but hey no judgement. Whatever gets you off.”

The snarl that escaped Theron’s throat was involuntary. He shoved Kain backward with force. Kain just laughed, throwing his arms up.

“Relax. I’m going. Scouting only. I swear. ”

He gave that mischievous wink that told Theron that Kain was not going to follow a damned word he commanded.

But Theron turned away before he did something he couldn’t walk back.

Theron knew he needed to work off some of this anger, fear, and, if he was being honest with himself, sexual frustration.

His body was coiled tight, his mind chaotic.

So he sought out the one thing that always grounded him—Not war.

Not bloodshed. But controlled, focused combat.

He desperately needed that. Needed the violence with rules, the fight with purpose.

He found Xaden by the outer ring of the Circle—seated on a sun-warmed boulder, sharpening his blade as if he had all the time in the world.

The rhythmic scrape of stone over steel was the only sound between them for a moment.

Xaden looked up, his dark eyes sharp and knowing, catching the storm raging behind Theron’s usually unreadable face.

A slow, cocky grin crept across his lips. He knew that look. Everyone did.

“You need to hit something,” Xaden said, rising to his full, imposing height.

Nearly as tall as Theron, Xaden’s frame was broad, sculpted muscle wrapped in skin the color of rich onyx.

His coiled dreads were pulled back into a knot at the nape of his neck, and his tight, well-groomed beard framed a jaw sharp enough to wound.

Tattoos snaked over every visible inch of his arms and collarbones, ancient Antonin markings that told stories only their warriors would ever understand.

Unlike most, Xaden wore his lethality with a smile, a charismatic ease that made people forget just how many men he had laid in the ground.

Brutally skilled, impossibly fast, and never afraid to finish a fight he didn’t start .

Theron gave a silent nod, already stripping off the outer vest of his leathers. “Circle?”

Xaden motioned to the packed earth sparring ring with a flourish.

“After you, Commander.” Wordlessly, they stepped inside.

Around them, warriors paused mid-task, falling into stillness as instinct kicked in.

The Circle wasn’t a place for wasted movement and these two weren’t men to spar lightly.

Even with Sparrow or Xaden, Theron rarely unleashed his full strength.

And when he did, it was never for practice—it was because his demons demanded an outlet.

They entered the ring, dust swirling around their boots, the stones marking the perimeter already scuffed by countless battles.

There was no need for formality. No salutes.

No words. Two blades rang free in unison.

They circled once, and then steel met steel with a force that rang across the compound.

The crowd halted as the echo cracked through the air.

Xaden slid back, feet sure and deliberate, absorbing the blow with fluid grace.

But Theron didn’t relent. He came at him like a storm unleashed—shoulders tight, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body screaming to move, to strike, to punish. To punish himself.

Dirt kicked up around them, swirling with every strike.

The clang of steel, the thud of boots, the rasp of breath—each sound a drumbeat in Theron’s ears.

Xaden moved like wind, agile and sharp, always just out of reach.

But Theron pressed forward, relentless. A tempest given form.

He wasn’t sparring. He was punishing himself.