Page 41 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

Chapter nineteen

Theron.

A sharp twist of something unspoken knotted in Theron’s chest as he watched Kain lean in to help Layla onto her horse.

The easy way she smiled at his jokes. The light touch of her fingers on his shoulder.

The effortless laughter between them, like they’d known each other forever.

It caused him more anguish than he wanted to admit.

All his life, Theron had been the son who did everything right.

He had shaped himself into the embodiment of the ideal warrior—unquestioning, unbreakable.

The kind of leader others would follow without hesitation.

Whereas Kain had always been a wild card, good in a fight but impulsive and selfish.

Reckless, even. But now? Now Layla smiled for him.

She leaned into him. Trusted him … And for the first time, Theron couldn't help but wonder if Kain was the better man .

He tore his eyes away, fists clenched, and walked to his horse that was currently still tethered beside Xaden’s. The usually chipper warrior was halfway into his saddle, muttering curses through gritted teeth as he adjusted his balance.

“For the love of all the gods,” Xaden grumbled, pulling himself up with the grace of a wounded bear. “If I fall and break my neck, tell everyone it was in a blaze of glory. A duel. Something dramatic. Not death by horse.”

Despite everything, Theron huffed a small breath of amusement. “A bear is no longer sufficient?”

Xaden shot him a sideways glare but grinned as he steadied in the saddle. “Just make sure it’s badass okay.”

The clouds above rumbled, then broke open, spilling torrents of rain that drenched them within seconds.

Visibility dropped, and the road dissolved into a river of mud, but no one slowed.

They couldn’t afford to. Over half the day passed and the rain never let up, but still they trudged on.

Theron never taking his eyes off Layla’s dark green cloak.

Watching for any faulter in her horses steps. Thankfully it never came.

Lightning split the sky as they reached the Thornveil Run river that bordered Bartoria.

On a dry day, the current was treacherous.

Now, it was a churning monster. They had no choice but to attempt the crossing.

Theron’s gut twisted. He didn’t fear death, nor for himself.

But Layla? One misstep, one slip under those waters, and she’d be gone.

He kicked his horse forward, placing himself close behind her.

The cold water surged up the legs of his mount, rising fast. Just up ahead, he stared down that green cloak. His anchor in the chaos .

The front line of Graystonian soldiers had just made it to the midpoint when the river lunged.

A wall of water surged down from upstream, a muddy wave that crashed into the men and horses without mercy.

Screams cut through the storm as steel clanged and hooves flailed.

Theron saw a horse flip sideways, the soldier atop it vanishing beneath the current. Panic erupted.

“Layla!” he roared, but she was already reacting.

“We must go on!” she shouted, voice like thunder.

“Go now before it gets worse!” Gods, she was fearless.

Her voice viciously sliced through the roar of the river.

Even now—drenched, shivering, and death lurking beneath the torrent—she led them.

Theron pressed closer, his horse nearly nose-to-tail with hers.

The current was a beast clawing at their legs, dragging debris from the woods into the water around them. But they kept moving.

One agonizing moment at a time, they made it across.

By the time the survivors reached the far bank, Theron’s legs were numb from cold and tension.

He spun in his saddle, counting. Eight Graystonian soldiers were missing.

Swallowed by the river. Just... gone. He saw it on Layla’s face, the weight of it.

But she didn’t crumble, didn’t falter. And by the gods, he knew her well enough now to recognize the cracks in her armor.

She blamed herself. Theron ached to go to her.

To offer warmth, comfort, something. Anything.

But she stood tall, even soaked and brokenhearted, and issued orders with a voice that didn’t waver.

“Run the shoreline!”

Without delay, they scattered, hunting for signs of the missing men.

Theron and Kain moved faster than most, their Antonin training making them ghosts in the storm.

But it was no use. The river had taken what it wanted.

Eventually, all returned, sadly empty-handed.

And Layla, standing in the middle of it all, looked smaller somehow. Not weaker—just... more alone.

They kept moving, pressing forward through mud, wind and blistering rain. Theron rode beside her, just close enough to be near if she needed him but just far enough to give her space. However, it was getting dark and they needed shelter. Time out of the negative elements to plan and regroup.

As if the gods themselves offered a reprieve, a manor emerged in the distance, stone walls barely visible through the rain.

Layla turned in her saddle, commanding attention like a born queen. “Sir Edwin. How do you recommend we proceed?”

We could sneak around it through the forest,” Edwin offered, “but the terrain may be too dense—and with the weather turning, it’ll be even harder off the main path. If it is, we may have to leave the horses.

“Or,” Kain said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm, “we knock on the door, kill the noble inside, and warm ourselves by the fire…Just a thought.”

Layla shot him a dry glare, then seemed to weigh his words before she gave her final order.

“We’ll take the manor. Kill any Bartorian soldiers or nobles.

Spare the handmaids. They are not our enemy.

” Theron swallowed a grin. Even after hours in a storm, soaked to the bone, she was sharp, decisive.

Gods, she was continually surprising him.

They approached under cover of night, dismounting behind the stables.

The horses were quiet, perhaps too exhausted to even protest anymore.

The plan was swift and silent—neutralize the guards, secure the manor.

Theron moved into position beside Xaden at the door, sword drawn but hidden.

Xaden knocked and an older maid answered.

In a blink, Xaden yanked her outside before pinning her against the stone wall.

“Scream and you die,” he whispered, blade at her neck.

Terrified, the woman stuttered out that only she and a few other handmaids remained inside.

The guards were at the castle for a celebration.

Sir Norsden was gone, the noble of the household.

Theron stepped from the dim alcove and signaled for the others to approach.

Layla led them inside with calculated authority.

Her guards fanned out, clearing the manor room by room while the rest of the maids cowered together by the kitchen.

Theron watched Layla approach them, drenched but radiant. Her voice was calm, reassuring.

“We don’t want to hurt you. We only need shelter for the night and a small meal. If you can give us that, we’ll leave peacefully come morning.” The maids nodded, eyes wide, then hurried to the kitchen.

One lingered. “I can show you some rooms, ma’am,” she whispered, eyes on the floor.

Layla nodded once, regal as ever. Theron exhaled, tension slowly draining from his shoulders.

For tonight, at least, they were safe. But as he watched Layla disappear up the stairs, flanked by Sparrow and Kain, his heart stayed heavy.

She was just within reach yet still felt a thousand miles away… And he had no one to blame but himself.

Layla.

Layla thanked the petite red-headed maid, who looked barely younger than herself, and followed her up the creaking staircase.

A few of the Graystonian guards remained downstairs with Xaden and Theron.

While Sparrow, Kain, and a couple more soldiers accompanied her.

The maid moved quietly, almost timidly, down the hallway, opening room after lavish room, clear signs of a wealthy Bartorian lord.

Velvet curtains. Intricate rugs. Chandeliers that swayed gently from the vibrations of thunder outside.

At last, they reached the largest chamber, the Lord’s own quarters.

It had its own fireplace and was nearly double the size of the others.

Sparrow stood at the door, his broad form blocking the threshold as Layla stepped inside with the maid.

“Would you like me to start a fire?” the girl asked without meeting Layla’s eyes. Layla couldn’t help but notice the way she stood—small, cautious, as if waiting for permission to breathe. Was she this scared of her, or was this submissiveness bred into her by a cruel lord?

“No. Thank you. I can manage.” Layla offered a polite smile. “Where can I find dry clothes?”

The maid stepped toward two separate dressers and motioned, still avoiding her gaze. “Nightgowns here, daywear in this one.”

“Thank you. That will be all.” Layla nodded. The girl bowed quickly and exited. Sparrow gave Layla a subtle nod before shutting the door behind him, granting her a much-needed moment of solitude .

The stillness instantly pressed in, wrapping around her like a heavy cloak.

She leaned against the carved bedpost and exhaled slowly.

The ache in her muscles flared now that she’d stopped moving.

Her damp gown clung to her skin, making her shiver.

She knelt at the hearth and began stacking the wood.

Her hands moved by memory, striking flint until the first flickers of flame caught.

She cupped her palms around the growing fire, letting the warmth seep in.

Finally, something familiar. Something she could control.