Page 45 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

As they crossed into the southern edge of the city, the group slowed to a cautious trot.

The narrow, crumbling streets wound between buildings that looked like they might collapse with the next strong wind.

The air was thick with smoke, desperation, and the faint scent of rotting food.

Layla’s gaze swept over gaunt faces peering from behind broken shutters, children with hollow eyes watching them pass in eerie silence. Her grip tightened on the reins.

Xaden and Theron rode several paces ahead, silent sentinels leading the way.

Sparrow flanked her left side, his sharp eyes constantly scanning the tree line, while Sir Edwin kept pace on her right with one hand resting near his blade.

Behind her, Kain lingered like a ghost, his presence as unmistakable as it was reassuring.

She was surrounded—shielded on all sides by men who had fought for her, bled for her, defied orders for her.

There was no safer place to be. And yet…

The guilt settled in her chest like a stone.

These people watched from the wreckage of their lives as she passed with an armed escort, unable to offer anything more than a solemn glance.

She couldn’t stop. Couldn’t promise salvation.

Not yet. But gods, she wanted to. She let the words anchor her as they pressed on, the rhythm of hooves steady, unforgiving.

The city transformed the closer they drew to the castle.

Crumbling alleyways gave way to pristine stone homes.

Tidy storefronts gleamed with imported wares.

Finely dressed citizens lingered at fruit stalls and flower carts, laughing softly, their blissful ignorance cutting sharper than any blade.

They were only minutes from a starving district, yet lived as if untouched by suffering.

The divide was stark. Revolting. Layla straightened in her saddle, chin high, every inch the princess in disguise.

People nodded politely as the group passed, none the wiser that the riders among them were foreign invaders. And then, just as the castle gates came into view, a cold jolt of panic struck her. They didn’t have an invitation. Shit!

As they came to a halt before the towering gates, a Bartorian guard stepped forward, his eyes drifting first to Theron. Layla wasn’t surprised—Theron carried himself with quiet authority, a commanding presence even in the heart of enemy territory.

“Invitation,” the guard demanded, voice rough with suspicion.

Layla tensed. She caught the way the guard’s hand hovered near his weapon, the flicker of doubt behind his eyes.

Then, almost instinctively, her mother’s words surfaced: “Men are ruled by many things, Layla… but desire is always at the helm. Learn when to use it.” Thinking fast, Layla turned toward Theron, her mind already racing…

“Honey, I think you gave it to me. Hold on.” She addressed Theron loudly enough for the guard to hear as she began patting herself down, feigning panic.

“Oh no… I can’t seem to find it!” Her hands raked over her dress as she turned to the guard, wide-eyed.

“My good sir, would you mind helping me down from my horse so I can look through this dress more thoroughly?” He didn’t respond, just walked past Theron toward her.

As he lifted her down, her hands rested on his shoulders, positioning her chest inches from his face.

While skillfully letting her fingers slide down his arm, her voice becoming soft and flirtatious .

“Oh wow, you’re so strong. What a lucky king to have you protecting him.

” She mused as she resumed patting her sides, pretending to search.

Her hands drifted up to her waist, then her chest, grazing over her breasts before she met the guard’s eyes again.

“Oh no. I must’ve dropped it on our ride here.

And I was so looking forward to seeing you inside later…

” She bit her lip, tilting her head. “Maybe for a dance?”

The guard coughed and subtly adjusted himself. “We cannot dance. We are here to guard the sacred house of Bartoria,” he muttered stiffly.

She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear.

“Well, maybe we don’t have to dance then.

Just come find me later, and we can do other things.

” When she pulled back, a smirk had bloomed across his face.

He then smugly turned and nodded to the guards at the gate.

Without a word, the gate began to open. Layla smiled sweetly, internally rejoicing at her triumph.

“Would you be so kind as to help me back onto my horse, my good sir?” The guard obliged, placing his hands on her backside and giving it a firm squeeze as he hoisted her back atop her horse.

Her jaw clenched, but she forced that placated smile to remain and waved as they trotted through the gate. She caught Sparrow smirking beside her.

“What? I got us in, didn’t I?” she muttered dryly.

Sparrow lifted both hands in mock surrender, clearly amused.

Layla faced forward again but couldn’t help the quick glance toward Theron.

His jaw was tight beneath his beard, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

She knew he was pissed by his rigid composure.

Of course he hated what he’d just seen .

And just like that, the flicker of triumph she'd felt crumbled…

They were never on the same page—not really.

He had some idea of who she was supposed to be, how she should act…

and no matter what she did, it always seemed to b e the wrong version of her.

Layla gave an exasperated sigh and faced forward once again.

As they reached the front steps, a row of neatly dressed maids and stable hands stood waiting.

Their group dismounted briskly, handed off their reins, and followed a maid up the wide staircase.

The grand doors swung open, revealing a castle more beautiful than Layla had expected—soaring arches, polished stone floors, and vibrant tapestries lining every corridor.

And yet, with every gilded detail, her anger flared .

All this splendor… while the rest of Bartoria was in absolute ruin.

As they made their way through the entry hall, the maid spoke without turning.

“The wedding festivities are in the back courtyard. The ball will be this evening. King Ivar wants everyone to celebrate his soon-to-be wife.”

Layla couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Of course he did.

Annoyance simmered beneath her composed expression, but deep down…

there was a flicker of dark satisfaction.

He had ruined her Lammas festival, ruined her life and the lives of so many others.

Now she would return the favor. Only her revenge would be quiet, calculated, and so exquisitely earned he wouldn’t see it coming until it was far too late.

They all stole quick glances down corridors as they passed. The castle was vast. Finding her sisters in this place would be like threading a needle in the dark—slow, dangerous, and one wrong move from bleeding.

Two towering glass doors swung open, spilling music and laughter into the hall.

The courtyard beyond teemed with nobles.

Jousting matches clashed beside hand-to-hand combat rings, an entertainer juggled gleaming swords, and a lavish spread of food shimmered beneath glasses of champagne catching the afternoon sun.

Layla stopped at the threshold, eyes scanning the battlefield before her as Kain stepped to her right, Theron to her left.

Both extended an arm. An Offering. She hesitated only a moment.

Then, without a word, she slid her hands through the crooks of their elbows—steady, grounded.

Not a choice. Not a question. Just the silent strength she needed, drawn from both, as the weight of what lay ahead settled on her shoulders.

Surrounded by the two deadliest men she knew, Layla walked into the lion’s den. Not just protected, but empowered.

As they strolled through the crowd, she couldn’t help but notice the many women fanning themselves or staring open-mouthed at the Drakaren brothers.

Apparently, men like them were rare in Bartoria.

If she was being honest, there weren’t any like them in Graystonia either.

She bit back a smile as they scanned the crowd, hopeful eyes searching for her sisters or the king.

Any hint of a way to get to them… After two laps, there was still no sign of either.

Theron leaned in just enough for both her and Kain to hear and whispered, "We're going to have to split up and mingle. We need to find out as much as possible about tonight." Theron’s voice was low but firm as he placed his hand over Layla’s and slowly pried her fingers from his bicep. She blinked, instantly confused as she dropped her arm. Her other hand still resting delicately on Kain’s arm.

Theron gave her a small nod—curt, almost apologetic—before turning and walking away into the crowd.

As muddled as things were between them, Layla couldn’t deny that she didn’t like watching him walk away.

It unsettled her, more than she was ready to admit .

“Come on, Little Dove,” Kain murmured beside her, his breath brushing her ear. “We’ll see him again shortly. Let me teach you how to mingle.”

Layla scoffed at the assumption, “I know how to mingle.”