Page 50 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

When she finally pulled back, she turned to Kain and hugged him hard.

“Thank you.” He looked surprised but held her gently.

Then she turned to Theron. Her eyes shimmered.

Her chest rose and fell with shaky breath as she stepped forward.

Time stilled as he held his breath looking down at her.

And then she hugged him. Hard. And Theron’s heart stuttered.

His arms went around her instinctively, holding her to him like she was the only real thing in the world.

She smelled like lavender and candle smoke and something wholly hers .

“Thank you, Theron,” she whispered. He closed his eyes. When she finally stepped away, smiling through the tears, she turned back to Aerilynn. But her brow creased with confusion.

“Wait... Where’s Ciana?” The room went still. Layla’s gaze flicked from Xaden to Sparrow to Theron. Then finally, to Aerilynn—whose face crumpled as fresh tears fell. And that’s when Layla knew. Her body tensed. One sister was safe. But one... One was still gone.

Layla.

Layla stared at her sister, her voice tense with urgency. “Aerilynn… where is Ciana?” Aerilynn's gaze dropped to the floor, clearly avoiding Layla’s gaze now. Layla stepped closer. “Aerilynn!” she hissed, her tone sharpening. “Tell me now—where is she?”

Aerilynn let out a shaky breath, still looking at the ground between them.

“A few days ago, the Bartorian guards brought us here. We overheard them joking about how the King planned to sell us off to the highest bidder. They said marrying us would give their heirs claim to Graystonia, claim to Serelai’s blessings…

and that we’d fetch a fortune...” La yla felt bile rise in her throat.

“But once we arrived,” Aerilynn continued, voice cracking, “everything changed. The King saw Ciana and… decided he wouldn’t sell her at all.

He wanted her for himself.” Layla’s stomach twisted.

“Aerilynn,” she said, already bracing herself, “what are you saying?”

“This ball…” Aerilynn whispered. “It’s her wedding feast. The King is marrying her .

Tomorrow .” The words hit Layla like a mortar shell—silent at first, then detonating through her chest with brutal force.

Her breath caught as she turned to Theron, whose jaw had gone rigid, eyes burning with the same fury she felt erupting inside her.

“We have to find her. Now.” Layla’s voice was raw, trembling with urgency. “We cannot let that wedding happen… Once they realize Aerilynn is missing, they’ll lock down the castle—Ciana will vanish behind walls we won’t be able to reach. We have to move. Now.”

“We’ll get her,” Theron said, his voice low and resolute, lethal calm coiled beneath each word.

Layla heard him—she did—but the panic was still clawing its way up her throat, tightening its grip.

But before it could fully take hold, Sparrow stepped forward, cutting clean through her spiraling thoughts and anchoring her back to the present.

“Let me get Aerilynn out now before the alarm is raised,” he offered quietly, already understanding what was unspoken. Just in case… they couldn’t risk losing both sisters.

Layla turned to him, eyes burning. “You make sure she gets out,” she said, voice cracking with ferocity. “Even if the rest of us fall, you get her home. ”

“I swore I’d protect you. I swear the same to her.” Layla knew he would. He hadn’t left her side even after it was no longer his duty. She knew that she could trust him to do the same for Aerilynn.

Xaden stepped up beside him. “I’ll go too. If things go sideways, I’ll make the noise.”

Layla frantically nodded, grateful for these warriors before she turned to Aerilynn and gripped her shoulders. “You can trust them. I’ll come for you after we get Ciana. I promise.”

“No! Layla, please don’t leave me again!” Aerilynn sobbed, latching onto her. Layla held her tightly, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“I came for you, didn’t I?” Layla said firmly. “Now trust these men. They’ll get you out safely before anyone realizes you’re gone. But you have to go. Now. Please.” Her voice was low, urgent—unyielding.

Aerilynn didn’t answer right away, and Layla felt her own breath hitch.

But then—finally—her sister gave a small, reluctant nod.

Hesitant, but it was enough. Layla saw the shift in her eyes: the quiet surrender, the unspoken trust. Aerilynn didn’t want to leave, not without her.

But she understood. She trusted Layla to make the impossible call, to carry the weight and see it through.

And gods, that trust burned like a brand in her chest.

Aerilynn wrapped her arms around her once more, holding tight before stepping back with red-rimmed eyes. “I love you,” she said, barely above a whisper, as Sparrow took her hand and guided her away. Xaden moved behind them, silent as a promise not yet spoken.

Sir Edwin slipped into the room, and they quickly brought him up to speed on the news about Ciana. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t waste time on shock or outrage—only strategy .

“If she’s truly the bride,” he said after a beat, “she’ll have to make an appearance. When she does, we track her—just like the others did with Aerilynn.”

Layla nodded, barely breathing. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

It had worked before—why not again? What Sir Edwin said made sense.

They couldn’t keep waiting in this room; the longer they stayed, the greater the chance someone would find them all huddled where they clearly didn’t belong.

At least out there, they had a plan. A chance.

She straightened. “Then we watch. And when she shows—we move.”

They righted their ridiculous attire and slipped back into the ballroom.

Layla took her place between Theron and Kain.

Her gaze snapped to the throne-like chair beside King Ivar that was still empty.

Her stomach dropped again. That seat… it was Ciana’s.

Theron gently slid his hand into hers. The warmth grounded her and she clutched it like a lifeline.

“The King’s still staring at you,” Kain whispered on her other side.

Layla glanced up. Ivar’s eyes were pinned to her—dark, possessive, entitled.

Her lip curled. “If he looks at me like that again, I’ll claw his eyes out and shove them down his royal throat.”

Kain let out a low, amused whistle. “There’s the dove with talons.”

She didn’t smile. Not this time.

The blare of trumpets split the air, sharp and jarring. Layla’s heart jolted, a stuttering beat against her ribs. She rose onto her toes, eyes sweeping the crowd in frantic search—until they found her. Ciana.

She stepped into the ballroom flanked by Bartorian guards, each step as poised as it was forced.

Her gown was a deep navy trimmed in ivory and gold, elegant and stately, her hair intricately braided with gilded threads that caught the torchlight like a crown.

To anyone else, she looked the part of a queen. But Layla saw past the illusion.

Her sister’s mouth was drawn tight, tension rippling down her neck with every step.

Her shoulders were squared in defiance, but her eyes—gods, her eyes—burned with silent wrath and barely contained terror.

And King Ivar? He watched her approach with grotesque satisfaction, his smile a curling mockery of triumph as Ciana was led to the throne beside him like a prize on display.

“She’s perfect, isn’t she?” King Ivar boomed to the crowd.

“My bride-to-be! Feast your eyes, nobles of the North!” Cheers erupted.

“I mean, look at that rack!” he crowed, waving a hand at Ciana’s chest. The room roared with laughter and whistles.

Layla’s anger built like thunder in her chest. Her nails dug into Theron’s hand.

He held on tighter in response, anchoring her.

“Ciana, stand! Let them admire you properly!” Ivar barked.

Ciana rose without a word. Tall. Proud. Unflinching.

Ivar stepped behind her and slid a hand around her waist—then upward, groping her breast in full view of everyone in the ballroom.

“Let me show you more of my prize!” he howled as the crowd surged with laughter.

Layla shook with violent, white-hot rage and stepped forward instinctively but Theron caught her.

No,” he whispered in her ear, wrapping her tightly in his arms. She fought him, thrashing in his grip, but he didn’t release her.

She knew she couldn’t cause a scene. Couldn’t lunge for the vile king and stop this horrific display—this grotesque parade of her sister—without dooming them all.

If she acted now, none of them would make it out alive.

But gods, how was she supposed to just stand there?

Her instincts screamed to protect Ciana, to put herself between her sister and that monster, to claw his eyes out for daring to touch her.

Yet logic—cold, brutal logic—held her in place like chains around her throat.

Her body quivered against Theron’s hold, eyes pinned on Ciana, a consuming fire burning so hot it nearly drowned her.

Across the ballroom, Kain stood like a statue. His gaze fixed on the King, eyes black with rage. It wasn’t a glare she saw—but a vow. A promise etched in fury.

Layla’s eyes flicked to him, and she remembered what he’d whispered to her earlier, just before they stepped into this gilded nightmare. And something in her—something fragile and fraying—steadied.

“Every last one,” she breathed, the words almost reverent. “Starting with him.”

Kain would do it. Of that, she was certain. And the calm that settled over her was as sudden as it was sure. So she inhaled slowly, grounding herself. Then, whispered softly to Theron, “I’m okay.” He hesitated, eyes scanning her face, before finally loosening his hold .

Her moment of vengeance-laced reprieve was short-lived. With grotesque flair, the King lifted a blade and sliced down the back of Ciana’s gown. The laces fell apart like severed sinew. Layla’s jaw clenched so tightly, she was certain something would snap.

Ciana stepped free of the tattered gown, now left standing in a nearly sheer ivory shift that did nothing to shield her from the leering eyes around the room.

The crowd erupted—jeering, howling like beasts scenting blood.

Then Ivar placed his hand on her again. Possessive.

Violating. As he laughed, deep and cruel.

As if this public humiliation were nothing more than theater for his amusement.

The King laughed, dark and vile. “The rest of the view,” he shouted, raising his goblet high, “is just for me!” He drained it in one gulp and hurled it to the marble with a shatter. The crowd roared in approval.

Layla couldn’t breathe. Her hand had latched onto Theron’s arm without realizing it, fingers digging in so tight she knew she’d leave bruises.

But she couldn’t loosen her grip. Couldn’t look away.

Her sister—stripped, displayed, degraded—and there was nothing she could do without risking all of them.

She didn’t realize she was crying until Theron’s thumb gently brushed beneath her eye, grounding her with the smallest touch. How in the hell were they going to get Ciana out of this?