Page 9 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

“Come. Or die.” He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to.

His voice, calm as steel and just as cold, held all the threat in the world.

She paused, staring at him, weighing her options.

Good. She wasn’t a fool. Her fists stopped flying, though her eyes burned with resentment as he resumed the march.

Theron glanced down at the woman beside him- barefoot, mud-splattered, fierce-eyed.

He wondered, for the first time in many moons, just what the gods were playing at.

As Theron marched steadily back toward the heart of the Antonin stronghold, he noted with faint relief that the woman, though clearly reluctant, did her best to keep pace.

Occasionally, he glanced down, observing the tension etched across her features.

Her expression was not one of panic, but calculation.

She was thinking- possibly strategizing her next futile escape attempt.

She was tall for a woman, he guessed around five-foot-seven, but her frame was slender, almost fragile when compared to his broad, battle-hardened form.

If she tried to fight him again, he wasn’t sure whether he’d laugh aloud or simply shake his head.

Still, he gave her credit- she had the fire to try.

Theron kept his thoughts to himself as they traveled, but unease began to stir in the back of his mind.

What would his mother do with her? Queen Okteria Drakaren was no brute, not to her own people.

But when it came to outsiders? Trespassers?

Theron had seen firsthand what her wrath looked like.

And it wasn’t loud. It was quiet, sharp, and absolute.

He cast another sidelong glance at the woman just as her body shifted.

Her fingers curled into a tight fist, and she began to draw her arm back.

Not this time . In a single, seamless movement, he swept his left arm around her waist and hoisted her over his shoulder.

With his right, he secured her legs against his chest, iron-willed and immovable.

She wriggled, fists beating weakly against his back, but her strikes were wasted against the wall of muscle that bore her weight.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest before he could stop it.

Her persistence was—if nothing else—admirable.

He paused only to remove the blades sheathed at his back and repositioned them along his front, safely out of reach.

She may not have landed a punch, but he wasn’t about to underestimate her a second time.

As he carried her, his senses sharpened.

At this proximity, her scent enveloped him-delicate, intoxicating: lavender and vanilla.

It caught him off guard. Some of his favorite herbs—ones he'd ground with his own hands to treat the wounded.

Lavender reminded him of summer in the wilds, of peace before battle, of simplicity.

Get your head straight, he told himself again.

She is not a damned flower. She is a trespasser.

The forest path gave way to a more worn trail.

The edge of the Antonin tribe’s settlement rose ahead of them like a fortress carved from nature itself.

The trees thinned slightly, revealing the woven structures and open-circle training grounds that marked their home.

Two warriors stood watch at the threshold, where wild gave way to worn earth and structure.

Theron gave them a curt nod. They didn’t move to stop him. None ever would.

“Inform the queen. An immediate gathering is required,” he ordered without slowing.

One of the young guards took off at a sprint, disappearing into the heart of the settlement.

As Theron pressed deeper into the village, all eyes turned to him and the woman hanging over his shoulder.

A ripple moved through the people like wind through leaves: curiosity, concern.

.. and something darker. It had been years since an outsider crossed into Antonin land and lived to speak of it.

Longer still since one had been carried into the tribe by its head warrior.

The Antonin people were born of the forest. Men and women alike were taught from their earliest days to survive, to fight, and to honor the land that gave them breath.

They worshipped Varyn, the God of Blood and Valor, in all things.

they bled for him in battle, whispered to him before every hunt, and taught their children that valor was sacred.

They took only what they needed and wasted nothing.

Their way was simple, ancient, and unyielding.

“Antonin” meant one with the trees , and it was a name earned through discipline.

Though every member was trained for combat, few women joined the ranks of the active warriors.

Those who did were forces of nature. Chief among them was Queen Okteria.

As they neared the central gathering ground, known simply as the Circle , the crowd thickened.

Word had spread fast. Warriors from every division emerged to see what had drawn their commander from his patrol.

Then Theron’s instincts tensed. The men weren’t looking at the woman over his shoulder with suspicion.

They were looking with hunger. His jaw locked as he realized the thin white shift she wore was still damp from her fall, clinging to every curve with an unintentional allure.

She was virtually bared to the eyes of men who had not seen a stranger in years.

A surge of something feral had torn through him the moment that she had slammed into his chest and looked up at him—bruised, trembling, yet still burning with defiance.

Now, with her in his arms and his men raking their eyes over, it hadn’t faded.

If anything, it burned hotter. His grip tightened on her thighs, fighting for control, and he shifted her subtly, shielding more of her from view without even thinking.

Antonin women never needed his protection—they were warriors born.

Even the broken women of Bartoria hadn’t stirred this instinct in him.

But she had. A fragile outsider with fire in her gaze and no strength in her bones.

She wasn’t his. She wasn’t his to protect.

And yet the need to shield her clawed at the core of him, loud and unruly.

For Fucks sake, he needed to get his head on straight.

As they reached the Circle’s core, Theron promptly bent and released her. She hit the ground before him with a soft grunt and a thud. He winced, just slightly. He hadn’t meant to drop her that hard. Not really. But he had meant to get her off his shoulder and out of sight.

Every muscle in his jaw tensed as he stood over her, watching as she scrambled to push herself upright.

Then, instinctively, he lifted his gaze.

His eyes swept over the warriors assembled—men who were still staring too long, too openly.

Theron’s expression darkened as his gaze swept the warriors.

Most had the sense to look away. The few who didn’t, met a stare sharp as flint.

His fists clenched at his sides, tension still thrumming in his blood as he forced it down.

There wasn’t room for whatever this was. Not now. Not here.

Queen Okteria ascended the stone platform at the head of the Circle, her commanding presence needing no introduction.

She was flanked by the tribe’s fiercest warriors, save for one—her eldest son, Theron himself, who stood below, shoulders square and blade ready.

As head warrior of the Antonin tribe, his place in their hierarchy was unquestioned.

No one matched his skill in hand-to-hand combat or his ruthless precision with a sword.

He had never tasted defeat—and he never intended to.

Beside the queen stood Kain, Theron’s younger brother.

Though he shared the same sharp jawline and chiseled features, Kain stood slightly taller, his long, sun-bleached hair brushing past his shoulders, green eyes glinting with mischief.

His build was leaner, his body a weapon of agility rather than brute strength.

And though Theron could easily overpower him in a close fight, he couldn’t deny that Kain’s bow was deadly—his arrows landing silent and precise from distances most warriors wouldn’t dare attempt.

But for all his talent, Kain's loyalty was... flexible. While Theron lived by discipline and duty, Kain indulged in defiance. He questioned their mother’s every decree, contributed only when it suited him, and spent most of his time bedding women or loosing arrows at trees out of boredom.

Theron didn’t bother hiding the disdain in his glance but looked away before it turned into a glare.

Queen Okteria stood tall atop the stone, her presence as formidable as any battle-forged leader.

With hair dark as tree bark after rain, cascading over thick, muscular shoulders and golden skin that shimmered in the sunlight.

She looked every inch the warrior-queen, one who had seized her crown in the midst of heartbreak, yet never once faltered.

Her green eyes, matching Kain’s, narrowed sharply the moment they landed on the foreign woman.

The crowd stilled. Twenty paces from the stone, the trespasser stood alone in front of Theron.

He observed as his mother’s posture shifted subtly—shoulders straightened, chin tilted.

He recognized the stance. Predatory. Regal. Ready.