Page 8 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

Chapter four

Theron.

E ach morning, before the first blush of dawn kissed the treetops, Theron Drakaren rose.

Like clockwork, he embarked on his territory patrol, a daily ritual carved into the fabric of his life as head warrior of the Antonin tribe.

The eastern stretch of the border was always his- dense forest, silent and veiled in the light of dawn.

It took nearly half the day to complete the circuit, but Theron didn’t mind.

The solitude suited him. Out here, with only the rhythm of his boots and breath, he didn’t have to be the unshakable pillar his people demanded.

Out here, he could just be a man with a blade and a duty.

The path was well-worn beneath his feet, moss-covered roots rising like old bones through the soil.

The morning air was crisp and damp; every surface gleamed with dew.

Beams of tentative sunlight broke through the thick canopy above, lighting his path in scattered golden shards.

It was peaceful- the kind of peace that felt like a secret in a world built on tension and survival. But today, peace felt like a lie.

His mind was still knotted with what he and his scouts had seen in Bartoria the days prior.

They had returned just the night before from a scouting mission, dispatched by his mother, the queen, to verify the growing unrest in one of the borderlands.

Rumors had been spreading that King Ivar, the vile Bartorian ruler, was looking to expand.

And if that expansion pushed south-west, it would mean Antonin lands.

Theron had witnessed the truth for himself, and it had made his blood boil.

Bartoria was a corpse of a kingdom, decaying from the inside out.

Beyond the gilded walls of the capital, the rot was everywhere.

The slums reeked of death- bodies left to rot, stripped of dignity and forgotten.

The living were little better. Women and children, gaunt and hollow-eyed, wandered the streets like ghosts, ribs protruding through torn rags.

And the guards… They didn’t protect. They pillaged.

Theron could still hear their laughter echoing off crumbling walls, their hands taking whatever they pleased—coin, food, flesh.

He clenched his jaw. The screams haunted him most. It had taken every shred of control not to leap from the shadows and strike them down. His blade had ached to be drawn. But orders were orders- observe only, no engagement. And Theron never disobeyed a command, especially not one from his mother.

When he’d returned the night before, the rage still burned in his blood.

But rage had no place in his report. He gave it plainly, without flourish, each brutal detail sharpening the lines of the queen’s face.

She had ruled their territory for five years with a blade’s edge—cold, precise, and unyielding.

From her, Theron had learned the long game.

The patience of a predator. How to wait, watch, and strike only when the outcome was certain.

Not because it was easy, but because it was necessary.

And necessity always came before desire.

Even when every part of him had wanted to paint Bartoria’s streets red, he hadn’t.

Because he was a warrior. Because he was her son. Because duty came first. Always.

After his conversation with the queen had ended, sleep abandoned him. Slipping through his grasp like smoke no matter how still he lay. Theron had tossed and turned on the rough cot, its bear hide stretched tight over bundled branches, every movement stiff with unresolved outrage.

His hut—simple but solid, its walls packed with mud and timber, its seams lined with hide—offered warmth but no solace.

The thick bison fur folded neatly in the corner waited for the frost of winter, and all Theron could do was stare at it aimlessly as he waited for the sleep that never came.

By morning, the fire inside him still crackled, banked just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.

As he continued on his morning patrol, he tried to shake the memories loose, focusing on the subtle movements in the underbrush and the calls of waking birds.

Hoping the brisk walk of duty, the simple act of doing something, would simmer that anger.

But it didn’t. And all he knew was that if Bartoria brought war to Antonin, Theron would be ready.

And this time, he wouldn’t be observing.

As Theron refocused on the rhythmic stillness around him, a sudden rustle broke through the serenity, a sharp disturbance in a nearby chestnut tree.

Instinct surged through him. In one fluid motion, he stepped silently behind a pine, fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword.

Every muscle in his body coiled with readiness, his senses honed to a razor’s edge.

Peering around the tree’s rough bark, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dappled light piercing the forest canopy.

What he saw next was not what he expected.

A woman, clad in a deep emerald gown, was descending the tree’s wide limbs with the grace of someone desperate, not practiced.

Confusion flickered in Theron’s sharp gaze.

No one should have been this deep into their territory, especially not alone. Not unarmed. Not dressed like that.

As she reached for a lower branch, her dress caught, and in an instant of unintentional exposure, the hem pulled upward- far too far- until the fabric was tangled above her hips.

The sight it revealed was... distracting.

Impossibly so. Theron blinked once, then again, trying, and failing, to ignore the view: porcelain skin kissed by morning dew, the perfect curve of her ass silhouetted by sunlight.

The moment hovered between obscene and divine.

He dragged in a breath through his teeth. Gods, what a view.

Then— thud. She fell hard, gracelessly, into the mud below with a muffled grunt.

Theron winced in reflexive sympathy. He took a step forward, but she sprang to her feet faster than expected.

He immediately melted back into the covers of tree and brush, swift and silent.

She began stripping off the soiled gown with a frustrated efficiency, revealing a white shift clinging to her curves.

It was soaked, nearly transparent from dew and sweat.

Revealing perfectly large and inviting breasts that he couldn’t look away from.

Her long, curling chestnut hair sticking to damp skin.

She looked both wild and regal- like a forest spirit caught between fleeing and fighting.

Theron bit down, his jaw tense as desire warred with duty.

His body reacted before his mind could wrestle back control, the heat rising, unmistakable and unwanted.

This woman was trouble- an outsider, possibly a spy, or worse.

And yet his thoughts betrayed him, imagining her curves pressed against him, his hands spanning her waist, her thighs clenched around him like a vice.

He forced the fantasy away, furious with himself.

Focus, warrior. This isn’t some tavern seduction—this is a breach of the border.

She is a threat. He exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his damp hair, realigning his thoughts. It’s time to act.

Without a sound, Theron advanced, gliding through the underbrush with predatory ease.

She hadn’t noticed. He closed the distance- one step, then another- until he was just behind her.

She turned, not seeing him before it was too late as she promptly collided with the wall of his chest. She staggered back with a startled gasp, her eyes lifting slowly to meet his.

Wide, hazel eyes framed in panic. And something else.

“You don’t belong here,” Theron growled, voice low and edged with authority. He stepped forward deliberately, letting his towering presence loom over her like a stormfront. Her lips parted, but no words came. She tried to look past him, scanning the trees, searching. For allies? Or an escape route?

“Is someone with you?” His tone sharpened, demanding.

Yet she remained silent. “Tell me now,” he warned, menace curling around every syllable.

“This is your only chance.” Then he saw it before it happened—the tightening of her shoulders, the flicker of rebellion in her gaze.

She swung, but he caught her wrist easily.

She gasped, surprised. He swiftly seized her other arm before she could react further, holding her in place with firm, unshakable control.

“Stop,” he commanded, his voice a growl of restraint.

He brought her closer, his face inches from hers now.

Her breath hitched, but her eyes met his with defiance rather than fear.

She’s got fire, he thought, not without a thread of admiration.

“Who. Is. With. You?” he demanded again, drawing each word like a blade.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she tried to headbutt him.

He pulled back just in time, the attempted strike missing him by inches.

He chuckled, the sound dry and unexpected.

“Spirited,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Her stubborn silence made it clear, he would get no answers here.

Fine. He spun her around, seizing her by the shoulder.

With precise force, he propelled her forward, back in the direction of the village.

Fortunately, he hadn’t made it too deep into the borderlands yet.

Still, the fact that she’d gotten this far without detection disturbed him.

He’d need to interrogate the guards and possibly himself, later.

To no surprise, she resisted, planting her feet in the dirt and pounding against his grip.

“Unhand me now!” she cried.