Page 22 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

Theron stared up at the hut ceiling, tracing the faint beams of moonlight like they could spell out the answer to the turmoil brewing in his chest. He’d done worse things in war.

Captured worse men. Followed harder orders.

But none of them lingered in his thoughts the way she did.

Layla Eradellian . The woman he had unknowingly dragged from her fallen palace.

The woman who, despite everything, made him want to question orders for the first time in his life.

And yet, he couldn’t. He was a soldier forged by obedience.

And now, he was the weapon that had carved her life apart.

Theron shifted on the floor, his jaw clenching as guilt curled through him again like smoke.

She was here—injured, humiliated, alone—because of him .

Because when he’d found her climbing down from that tree covered in mud and royal blood, he hadn’t given a second thought to his duty in that moment.

He’d done what he was trained to do. Except now, every time he saw her, that decision haunted him a little more.

“Try to sleep,” he muttered after a long stretch of silence, his voice rougher than he intended.

He wasn’t sure if she heard him. Her breathing had evened, and he hoped she’d found some small pocket of rest in this nightmare of a place.

He watched the soft rise and fall of her chest from the corner of his eye, the moonlight casting her face in a silvered glow.

She looked almost peaceful now. Almost .

Theron closed his eyes again, willing his mind to settle.

But it didn’t. Instead, images flared behind his eyelids—Layla, crumpled on the forest floor…

Layla, trembling in his arms… Layla, smiling softly at Illyada before catching his eye and dropping her gaze…

The light dimming like she remembered exactly who he was.

The queen’s son . The man who stole her freedom.

The man who couldn’t stop thinking about her even though every part of him screamed that he should .

In the dead of night, Theron’s instincts flared to life, tearing him out of his dreams. A soft broken cry ripped through the silence of the hut like a dagger to the gut.

His eyes flew open as he shot upright, one hand already on the hilt of his sword as his pulse pounded in his ears.

The moonlight cast pale streaks across the floor, just enough for him to scan the room and locate the source of the sound.

Layla . Still in the cot, but not at peace.

Her body jerked and twisted beneath the thin blanket, breath ragged as muffled whimpers escaped her lips.

She was dreaming- no, reliving . Theron knew that look.

Knew that sound. Knew that kind of haunted.

His grip loosened from the sword as he moved closer, crouching at her side with careful, practiced steps.

His fingers hovered above her arm for a moment, uncertain, then rested lightly against her skin.

“Layla,” he said, voice low but steady. She didn’t wake.

Her brow furrowed, a soft gasp catching in her throat as her legs pulled tighter under her.

Theron leaned in closer, his hand giving her arm a small shake.

“Layla.” This time, firmer. Her eyes shot open.

She jolted upright, crawling backwards against the cot as if trying to make herself disappear into the wood behind her.

Her chest heaved, eyes wild, the raw edge of panic still alive in them.

She stared at him as though unsure whether he was friend or foe.

His heart cracked under the weight of it.

Then, gradually, she blinked. Recognition flickered there hesitant, then full .

“Theron,” she breathed, her voice soft and quivering, like she couldn’t quite believe he was real.

He let out a slow exhale, every muscle still strung tight.

She relaxed against the cot with an audible sigh, rubbing her face and pushing damp hair away from her eyes.

“Sorry,” she muttered, glancing away. “Must’ve had a nightmare. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Theron said nothing at first, just studied her face. The way the moonlight hit her cheekbones, the exhaustion etched into every line. Gods, she’d been through so much. And it was his tribe, his command, that put her here. That had taken her.

He nodded once. A quiet, almost reverent motion.

Then he stood and walked the short distance back to his place on the floor, sinking down onto his bundled shirt.

His hands went to his hair, fingers dragging back through the strands as he fought to calm himself.

He could feel her eyes on him, even before he turned to meet her gaze.

There they were—those eyes he could lose himself in, watching him like she didn’t quite know what to make of him.

He held her gaze, just long enough to feel his heart twist in his chest again.

What was she doing to him? She was a prisoner.

She was Queen Okteria’s leverage. She was Graystonian.

And still… he wanted nothing more than to protect her.

He couldn’t explain it or the war going on within him constantly throughout this past week. The war he never saw coming.

“Theron...” her voice came again, quieter now.

He turned his head slightly, facing her.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For what you did earlier.” Theron didn’t move, didn’t speak—just gave a small nod.

Because if he tried to say anything else, he might confess to everything he wasn’t ready to admit, everything he still didn’t completely understand.

So he just closed his eyes as he acknowledged that he was so completely fucked.

Layla.

Layla couldn’t fall back asleep. The nightmare had jolted her violently from the fragile thread of rest she’d managed to cling to, and now it was gone entirely—scattered into the black corners of the hut like ash.

Her chest still heaved with remnants of panic, the raw ghost of the dream clinging to her like a second skin.

She had been back at the castle. Not as it was the night of the invasion, but eerily still.

Silent at first, that unnatural kind of silence that presses into your skull and sets your teeth on edge.

She recalled that she had moved through the halls, barefoot, weightless, as though her feet barely touched the ground.

And then, just as she had reached the long dining hall—the one where they’d shared royal banquets, birthday feasts, and endless political performances—the fire had begun. It had erupted everywhere.

Flames had crawled along the mahogany walls, surged up the heavy curtains, and danced across the vaulted ceiling like they’d been summoned straight from the bowels of hell.

The air had thickened with smoke. The stone floor beneath her had pulsed with heat, slick with melted varnish.

She hadn’t been able to breathe—every gasp had scorched her lungs, fire clawing down her throat.

But the fire hadn’t been the worst part.

It hadn’t been the destruction. It had been her family.

Her mother had stood at the head of the table, clutching her two younger sisters to her chest, screaming Layla’s name again and again.

Their dresses had been smoking, the flames licking hungrily toward their feet as they scrambled back.

And her father—gods, her father—had been trapped in the corner, blade in hand, held behind a wall of roaring fire.

Their eyes had caught across the blaze, his filled with helpless torment and a silent, desperate plea.

She had tried to run. She had screamed at herself to move.

But her limbs had betrayed her. Her body had turned to stone. And then the fire had reached her.

First the hem of her emerald dress, then her arms, her legs, the heat racing up her body, devouring everything in its path.

She had opened her mouth to scream, but only smoke had poured out.

The fire had consumed her, and still, she had seen them.

Her sisters’ shrieks had turned shrill, inhuman.

Her mother had sobbed her name. Her father had bellowed like a man being torn apart.

She had burned. Helpless. Useless. Watching everything she loved turn to ash.

And then, Theron. His voice. His hand. The deep rumble that shook her awake like a thunderclap. She remembered gasping for breath as she stared into his face, dripping with sweat, her pulse racing with terror. She hadn’t expected to feel relief at seeing him, but she had.

Now, hours later, Layla lay motionless on the cot, her eyes pinned to the rafters above her, listening to the quiet rise and fall of Theron’s breath.

He had saved her. Again. Her gaze shifted to his sleeping form.

Even on the ground, he looked like something carved from stone-solid, unmoving, reliable.

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. That he could be this - kind, gentle even, in rare moments- and still be one of them .

Still be the reason she was here. Still be the son of the woman who held her in chains without even touching her.

The same woman who had issued a silent death sentence to her kingdom.

Layla’s stomach turned with nausea that had nothing to do with the stew earlier.

She couldn’t forget who Theron really was.

No matter how soft his voice had been when he’d said her name.

No matter how gentle his hands were when they roused her from darkness.

He wasn’t on her side. None of them were.

And if she ever wanted to see her family again—if there was a family left to save—she would have to act.