Page 26 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

“I was asking,” Xaden said, leaning forward like a curious drunk child, “where the hell did you learn to throw knives like that?”

Layla chuckled, flustered. “My father. King Aiddeon. He believed the daughter who would one day marry the future king and bear the heir, should know how to defend herself. God forbidden someone ever try to harm me.” She gave a knowing glance around the table.

The ale giving her the giggles at how ridiculous it was now to say that allowed.

“Sir Charles, our Head Guard, helped train me.” She finished, a fond smile on her face at he memories of training with her father and Sir Charles.

However, at her words, the mood around the table shifted. Sparrow stiffened. Theron’s shoulders tensed. Xaden, oblivious, grinned and clapped the table.

“Well, sounds like dear old dad did something right. Remind me never to stand across from you at the practice ring.” Layla laughed softly, grateful for the recovery as she noticed the change in everyone else’s demeanor.

Her eyes hesitantly drifted back to Theron, just in time to catch him rising to his feet.

Their eyes connected again. He tipped his head ever so slightly toward the path.

An invitation to leave with him. Her heart pounded.

She didn’t know why she felt this was something special, intimate even.

When he escorted her everywhere most days these feelings made no sense.

Yet she couldn’t help the nervous knot forming in her stomach.

She turned to Sparrow and Xaden. “Thank you for the laughs, Xaden. Goodnight.”

As she stood, Xaden called out, “Goodnight, princess. I plan to keep my heart intact by staying on your good side!” He waggled a small dagger in the air, and Layla burst into laughter before following Theron into the trees.

The tankards of ale still buzzed faintly in her veins but the soft breeze was clearing her foggy brain slightly. Her thoughts and emotions were everywhere as they walked, but one question kept trumping everything else on her mind in this hazed state.

“Theron…” Layla’s voice was tentative as they walked side by side, the moonlight speckling the forest floor in ghostly patches. Her hands aimlessly fidgeting before her. “Is there any way I could… wash?”

Silence.

She winced, instantly regretting it. Of course not. What prisoner asked for luxuries? What captive deserved comfort? She bit her lip and kept her gaze fixed on the dirt path beneath her boots.

“I know I probably can’t,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… I’m disgusting. I can’t even stand myself anymore.”

Still, no answer.

Her chest tightened, the liquid courage doing nothing to dull the humiliation surging through her.

She risked a glance up—only to find him no longer walking.

He had stopped in the path, his broad back rigid.

The silver light kissed the sharp angles of his shoulders, the coiled tension in his frame.

Slowly, he turned his head, casting her a look over one shoulder.

His expression was unreadable, his eyes shrouded in the dark—but something flickered there.

As if he was weighing something. Something he wasn’t sure he had the right to give.

Something she wasn’t sure she had the right to ask.

“Come,” he said simply, then turned off the path and headed into the trees.

Confused but hopeful, Layla followed, quickening her pace to stay close.

The forest thickened around them, cloaked in dusk, her heart thudding louder with every step.

He wouldn’t hurt her. Would he? Surely not.

...Right? Still, a voice in the back of her head whispered: Dirty is at least still alive. .. She kept walking anyway.

Eventually Theron slowed, and Layla’s breath caught as she glanced past his shoulder, not at all knowing what to expect in this part of the forest. Well away from the main hub of their village.

She was met with a vision pulled from a forgotten dream.

A crystal-clear pond stretched before her, rimmed in silver by the rising moonlight.

Fireflies danced over the water’s shimmering surface like drifting stars, casting glimmers of magic into the night.

A soft gasp escaped her lips. It was stunning.

Ethereal. The kind of place songs were written about.

Had she stumbled upon this pond as a free woman, she might have considered it her favorite place in all the kingdoms. But she wasn’t free.

And that truth twisted like a knife in her gut.

Theron stopped ten paces from the edge and turned toward her, his expression still so unreadable, especially in the dark. “Don’t try anything,” he said, voice rough but calm. Then, without another word, he turned his back to her. A silent offering of privacy.

For a heartbeat, Layla stilled. The pond beckoned her, but it was the gesture that sent a strange warmth trickling through her chest. She rose on her toes and leaned toward him. “Thank you,” she whispered, soft as the breeze, then padded to the edge of the water.

She kicked off her boots and reached for the laces of her leather top.

The material fell to the ground with a soft thud.

Her skirt followed, and then she stood bare beneath the moon.

She paused, casting one last glance over her shoulder.

Theron hadn’t moved. A mix of relief and disappointment fluttered in her chest. Part of her wanted him to look.

Part of her wanted to want him to. She quickly blamed those thoughts on the ale and slipped into the water with a hiss of breath .

It was cool, but not cold—just enough to send a shiver up her spine as she submerged, scrubbing frantically at her hair and skin.

She worked the blood, ash, and grime from her limbs as though she could also strip away the weight of the last few days.

When she emerged, breathless and cleaner than she’d been in a week, she felt like herself again… almost.

The air bit at her damp skin as she stepped out.

Water traced rivulets down her curves as she moved.

Layla swiftly gathered her clothes and slipped into her skirt.

She reached for the thick leather top and hesitated.

There was no way she could lace it herself…

well probably not .... Clutching it tightly to her chest, she turned toward Theron.

He still faced the trees, motionless as a statue.

“Um… Theron?” She called, her voice soft and apprehensive.

He shifted, glancing over his shoulder just barely, clearly trying to respect her privacy.

“I—could you help me again?” She asked, holding up the top so he’d understand.

Theron turned fully now. His eyes dropped to the garment pressed against her chest as his jaw tensed.

The muscle on the side of his neck flexed as his gaze slowly dragged upward to meet hers.

Gone was the familiar glacial blue in his eyes.

What looked back at her now was molten and dark, burning with something far more dangerous than annoyance or irritation.

He didn’t speak. Instead, he moved toward her, slow and deliberate.

Layla’s breath caught as she turned to offer him her back.

Her heart pounded as she felt the heat of him at her spine in and instant.

Then—his touch. Barely there, like a whisper of wind against her skin.

His fingers brushed her neck as he swept her wet hair forward over her shoulder, letting it fall in damp waves across her chest. Goosebumps erupted down her arms. He didn’t say a word as he laced the top, but she could feel every measured breath he took behind her.

The leather tightened slowly, cinching against her breasts, each pull of the cord making her gasp softly.

His hands grazed her shoulders, feather-light but searing.

Her nipples tightened against the cold leather.

Theron’s breath brushed her ear. “Turn,” he murmured.

Layla did—slowly. Her chest brushed against his abs as she faced him, forced to look up to meet his gaze.

He was so close, towering over her. Every part of her buzzed with awareness of him.

He reached for the warrior strap, hands skimming up her arms until they hovered near her throat. Her heart skipped in response.

Theron lifted her heavy hair and let it fall again in a single sensual motion, fingertips dragging down her spine as he fastened the strap in place.

Every inch of her skin burned with his nearness.

And then she felt it. His hardness—pressed against her stomach.

Bold. Unapologetic. Layla’s breath hitched.

Her thighs squeezed together instinctively, trying to quiet the pulse of aching want that bloomed deep inside her.

Theron’s hands slid down, brushing her bare sides—touching the soft skin between her skirt and the cinched leather top.

His calloused thumbs rested against her hips as he looked down at her like he was drowning in her.

Everything inside her said yes . She parted her lips and nodded—wordlessly begging him to kiss her.

To end the agony of this tension they kept pretending didn’t exist.

Then— “Ahem.” The sound shattered the moment like a stone through glass. Layla and Theron snapped their heads toward the voice. Kain. Of course it was Kain . He stood a few yards away, arms crossed, a smug smirk tugging at his mouth .

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked, absolutely delighted to be doing just that. Theron’s hands fell from her hips as he stepped back, his jaw tight with frustration. Layla was still breathless, her body burning and unsatisfied.

"Mother sent me to find you,” Kain continued, keeping his eyes on Theron. “She says we’ve got a lot to discuss.”

Layla watched Theron nod curtly. He strode past her, the fire in his eyes shuttered.

Kain glanced over his shoulder and caught her stare—then winked.

Layla’s cheeks flushed, not with embarrassment this time, but frustration.

She followed them in silence, the ache between her thighs a cruel reminder of what almost happened.

And what, gods help her, she was starting to want to happen far too badly.