Page 20 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

S ince he’d stayed hidden in the shadows in Bartoria, watching broken women and starving children suffer— not at the hands of invaders , but from the very men meant to protect them.

Guards who laughed as they stole, as they took.

Their fear wasn’t of strangers. It was of their own.

He hadn’t drawn his sword. He’d followed orders.

Like always. Always follow, never question. Always obey.

Then there was Layla. From the moment he’d watched her fall into that pit on the first day, her body crumpling like a broken bird.

He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t fucking moved. Just stood there like some stone-hearted brute while they tossed her in like an offering to rot.

And last night? Last night had nearly torn him apart.

Seeing her collapsed at the base of the tree sobbing, arms wrapped around herself as if she could hold the pieces of her body and mind together.

Blood splattered all over her. Bruises already blooming like ink across her skin.

Her face was dirty, lashes clumped from sweat and tears.

And when her eyes finally lifted to meet his…

Gods. That look. She stared at him like she didn’t recognize him.

Like he was just another monster. Another captor.

Another man who would hurt her and walk away.

And it broke something in him. Because that was the same look he’d seen those days ago from those Bartorian women and children.

It was the look of the hunted. Of the discarded.

So now, as he slammed blow after blow at Xaden, he wasn’t fighting for skill. He was trying to burn that look out of his memory. He was trying to bleed the guilt from his bones. Because if she ever looked at him like that again— He didn’t think he could bear it.

He let out a guttural yell and slammed his weight forward, battering Xaden’s defenses. Their swords clashed. A battle of strength now. Xaden held his ground, muscles straining as his boots dug into the dirt. He leaned in close, his voice low and even, not the least bit winded .

“You keep fighting like that, you’ll break something,” he said with a smirk. “Might be me. Might be you. But something’s giving out.” Theron growled in response and shoved harder.

“Say what you need to say, brother,” Xaden said. “Or swing until your anger burns itself out. Either way, I’m not the one you’re mad at.” Theron’s blade quivered in his grip. Not from fatigue. From fury. From grief. From everything he hadn’t said when he should’ve.

“She’s not yours to save. Stop punishing yourself.”

Theron froze, just for a breath. That’s all the opportunity Xaden needed, he swept Theron’s feet out from under him.

Theron landed hard on his back, breath knocked out of him.

He stared up at the open sky, his chest heaving.

Fuuuuuck. He decided to just lay there for a moment, grounded by the pain, before he slowly sat up.

Xaden offered a hand and Theron took it.

No more words were needed. He didn’t thank Xaden.

He didn’t have to. He just stood up and took his stance.

Blood pumping, lungs burning, sweat coating his skin, his mind was just a little clearer but he needed more.

He had failed Layla once. He wouldn’t again.

Layla .

Back at Illyada's hut, Layla stood awkwardly, trying not to breathe through her nose. The stench of blood, earth, and animal musk saturated the air. A massive deer hung from a thick wooden branch nearby, its body gutted open, entrails dangling. Several smaller creatures were piled on a long wooden table next to it. Knives of all sizes gleamed under the late morning sun, their sharp edges catching the light like tiny promises. Layla swallowed hard. She clutched her stomach, praying the small breakfast she’d eaten earlier wouldn’t betray her.

Her gaze wandered to the neat row of knives.

They ranged from finger-length to forearm-sized.

Something in her sparked—a flicker of hope?

Of escape? Her hand twitched before a firm voice cut through the air.

"Graystonian." Layla’s eyes snapped up. Illyada stood near the table now, wiping her hands with a stained cloth. The woman’s muscles flexed beneath her sleeveless tunic, and her red hair was tied up in a loose braid that draped over one shoulder.

"I saw that look," Illyada said, not unkindly. She stepped closer and placed a hand on her hip. "You think one of those blades is your way out? Touch one without my say, and I’ll have to stop you. That’s not a threat.

Just a truth." Layla gave a tight nod and lowered her gaze.

Still, the knives shimmered in her peripheral vision. So close.

Illyada let out a short breath, less a sigh and more like an exhale of understanding.

"I’m not here to make you suffer more than life already has.

You got handed a shit deal, and you’re standing by my hut because of it.

I won’t pity you, but I won’t be cruel either.

" Layla blinked. That… wasn’t what she expected.

"Now," Illyada continued, tying an apron around her waist. "You’re here to work. If you’re going to survive in this tribe, you pull your weight.

You stink of perfume and politics, so I doubt you've cooked before.

Am I right?" Layla stayed silent at first, then shook her head. No point in pretending.

"Didn’t think so. Doesn’t matter. I’ll teach you. Not out of charity, but because we don’t waste hands here. And we sure as hell don’t waste meat. Grab that bowl under the deer, scoop out the rest of what’s inside, and bring it over. Then we sort organs. "

The deer’s insides were steaming in the morning chill as Layla worked her hands through slick organs and ropes of sinew.

Blood painted her forearms up to the elbow.

Her hair stuck to the sweat on her neck, yet she didn’t care.

It was disgusting, exhausting, but oddly satisfying—because for once, she was doing something, not just enduring.

A slow crunch broke the rhythm. The sound of teeth sinking into an apple. Wet. Purposeful.

“You missed a piece,” a voice drawled behind her—low, smug, and entirely male. “Unless you were saving the liver for me. How romantic.”

Whoever it was, whatever new asshole thought he’d try his luck today, he wasn’t worth her time. She was elbow-deep in blood, sore from head to toe, and had well and truly reached her limit with men and their mouths. So she said nothing. Didn’t even look at him. Praying he would just go away.

The sound of another bite and more chewing continued.

“Didn’t think doves played with entrails,” he murmured as she heard him near, voice curling around her like tendrils of smoke. “You wear the mess well though… Kind of makes me wonder what else you’d look good covered in.”

Disgust curled through her. Was there no end to vile men and their imaginations? She was already bracing for the worst as she finally glanced toward the voice, glare set and tongue sharpened.

Gods. It was him . The tall, sunlight-haired brute from yesterday.

The one who had offered her his daggers with a leer that had made her skin crawl and her stomach flip in equal measure.

He stood at the edge of the clearing, half in shadow, apple in hand, watching her like she was dessert he hadn’t yet decided how to devour .

Their eyes locked and he smiled. Slow. Wicked. Inevitable. And then he moved—each step deliberate, a predator circling his prey not to strike, but to savor.

Layla rolled her eyes, not hiding her disgust in the least before she returned her attention to the carcass before her. “Gods, it’s you.”

“I get that a lot,” he said without shame. “Usually right before I’m asked to stay.” She didn’t dignify that with an answer.

She felt him more than heard him close the distance between them.

Once he was standing directly behind her, she quicky realized she didn’t like the feel of him towering over her.

So Layla promptly stood up, emanating confidence as she crossed her arms over her chest and glared up at him.

He was now so close that she could smell the apple on his breath and the leather at his collar.

His green eyes roved her face…then lower.

“I’ve been picturing you just like this,” he went on, voice dropping, “elbow-deep in blood, cheeks flushed, mouth set in that little scowl you think makes you look scary… You don’t by the way. You just look like sin served rare.”

Layla’s scowl deepened, but she didn’t let his words affect her. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “I’m sure I’m not far off in guessing most women find you as revolting as I do.”

His smirk deepened, slow and self-assured. “Maybe,” he said, taking another bite of his apple, letting the juice run down his fingers. “But most of them don’t stop at just looking.” He winked at her. Clearly trying to get under her skin.

He stepped in, close enough for her to feel the heat coming off him as she had to tilt her head completely up to even still see his face.

“What about you, Dove?” His voice dipped, rough velvet.

“You curious?” That wolfish grin back on his face as his eyes dragged over her like a physical touch.

“Because I sure as hell am curious about you.”

“Curious? Ha. Please. I don’t waste my time on mangy mutts.” She gave him a slow once-over, her gaze dripping with judgment.

His grin only widened. “Careful, Dove. This mangy mutt might just bite.”

“I’m counting on it,” she said coolly, as she dropped her gaze to her nails, pretending her blood covered hands were so interesting at this moment in time before peering up through her lashes.

“Bite me, and I’ll shove that apple so far down your throat, you’ll be coughing up seeds in the afterlife. ”

His’s eyes twinkled, and then he barked out a laugh. The sound so rich as it burst from his chest. “Spirited. No wonder my brother can’t stop brooding.”

She stilled. “Your brother?”

He leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper, his breath warm against her ear.

“You didn’t know? Theron. My big, broody, bashful brother.

Son of our ever-terrifying queen.” Layla blinked, stunned.

Th warrior leaned back, giving her a slow once-over.

“Careful, Dove. You’re surrounded by more wolves than you think. ”

He tossed the apple core into the brush and turned, already striding off with that maddening ease. Just before the trees swallowed him, he glanced back over his shoulder, winked, and whistled low. “See you around, little one. ”

Layla stared after him, her whole body pulsed—not with fear, but with blazing rage. She didn’t realize she was gripping the deer’s organs in her hands until they squelched.

Illyada’s voice snapped her out of it. “Looks like someone got under your skin.”

Layla exhaled sharply and shook her head. “Like a tick,” she muttered.

Illyada laughed as she dropped a squirrel’s head into the stew bucket. “You’ll get used to him….Now, back to work."

“Doubtful.” Layla muttered before dropping back down to continue to work on the deer.

The hours passed in blood, sweat, and heat. Layla learned far more than she ever wanted to about animal guts. She’d hunted before, sure, but she never touched what came after the kill. That had been servants’ work. Here, it was survival.

By midafternoon, her skin was sticky, her muscles sore, and her pride battered.

Sweat dripped from her temple, only to be smeared around her face with bloody hands.

She caught her reflection in a bowl of water—feral, red-streaked, and somehow.

.. hardened. Then she saw him. Her giant.

Theron. He walked up the path shirtless, sweat glistening across his chest and arms. The intricate tattoo on his left shoulder wrapped down his arm and across his pectoral like a woven flame.

His abs were chiseled, his expression unreadable.

Layla’s eyes snapped away before she let them drop too far down his body.

She hunched over a rabbit, pretending to focus as footsteps approached. As she heard him slow to a stop, she hesitantly peeked up. He stood in front of her now, holding up a pair of worn leather boots.

“Here,’ is all he said as he handed them over to her.

"Oh… uh. Thank you," she murmured. Their eyes met. Blue crashing into hazel. His intensity made her stomach twist, and for once, it wasn’t nausea. He nodded once and turned, walking away without another word. Illyada chuckled from the squirrel she was skinning. Layla’s cheeks instantly flushed crimson as she tried to shake the warm feeling off.

Layla’s head jerked up. "What?" Illyada just laughed and shook her head.

Layla looked back down at the small boots in her hands, still warm from his grip.

Her fingers tightened around them slightly, heart thudding louder than she liked.

That small act—simple, thoughtful—shouldn’t have affected her like this.

But it did. It stirred something dangerous in her chest. Confusion?

Weakness? A trembling hope she had no right to feel.

He was the enemy. She had to remind herself, force herself to remember that Theron wasn’t just some mysterious, brooding warrior who’d saved her.

He was Queen Okteria’s son . Son of the woman who had stolen her freedom, and now kept her caged like livestock while her people were scattered, likely slaughtered or worse.

He bore the blood of the very line that is aiding in destroying her life.

So why did his touch feel like safety? Why had his voice, commanding yet soft, made her want to obey, just for a second ?

She looked up in the direction he’d walked, catching the broad line of his back as he disappeared between the huts, and it stung.

He wasn’t cruel like the other brother, whose smugness oozed like spoiled wine.

Theron had carried her. Protected her. Given her boots so her feet wouldn’t bleed.

But kindness didn’t erase allegiance. Just because the wolf didn’t bare its teeth didn’t mean it wouldn’t still bite.

Her grip on the boots tightened. No matter how tender his voice, how intense those eyes, or how her stomach fluttered when he looked at her like that- he was still the son of her enemy.

And she couldn't afford to forget it. Not now.

Not when her kingdom still needed her. Not when she still had to escape.