Page 12 of Love of the Bladed Dove
Layla.
Layla jolted upright, panic tightening her chest as the outlines of the unfamiliar crowded her vision. Her breath hitched, heart pounding as she strained to see through the dimness. Relief washed over her in a hesitant trickle when she realized she could see out both eyes. Barely, but it was something. Then she saw him. Her captor. Sitting not more than a few feet away, legs crossed at the ankle, silent, watching her.
She scrambled backward until her spine met the wall of the hut, breath shallow, instincts flaring. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched her. There was no cruelty in his expression, no amusement either. But there was no comfort. Only unreadable stillness. As the secondsstretched, and no harm came, her fear settled into wary awareness. Layla’s eyes darted around the small hut. It wasn’t the healer’s, no warm hearth, no gray-haired woman with soft hands and kinder eyes. This one was cramped, bare. A cot. A single bowl. No windows. Just a woven hide hung over the doorframe.
Their way of life was so different. Rough. Sparse. Efficient. A constant reminder she was deep in the belly of enemy lands. Movement snapped her focus back. Layla watched as he stood slowly, his frame stretching to impossible height in the confined space. She shrank instinctively. But he stepped closer and then dropped to one knee in front of her. His sea-glass eyes didn’t hold the sharpness she expected. They flicked to the floor, where he picked up a familiar bowl- salve, it looked to be the same kind the old healer had used. He extended it to her. Layla hesitated, but eventually reached out, their fingers brushing for just a moment. The spark that jolted through her fingertips made her stomach clench. She looked up sharply, both confused and furious with herself for the reaction.
“Use this for the next few days,” he said, his voice gravelly and low, too low for this tiny hut. It rippled over her skin like a command and a caress all at once. She hated that her body responded before her mind could stop it.
“I’ll be alive for the next few days? That’s shocking,” she replied with as much sass as her broken body could muster, trying to hide the waver in her voice. His jaw flexed, the faintest crack in his mask. But his silence returned like a wall. Ice-cold.Right. That answered that. Her stomach turned. She looked at the bandage wrapping her stitched bicep. Her head didn’t hurt nearly as much. The medicine had worked. Herbruises had dulled to a deep ache rather than a scream of agony.But what was the point in mending her?She was still a prisoner. The reminder caused her to set the salve aside.
Without another word, he rose and dipped out the door. “Don’t let anyone in. I’ll be back," he said to someone outside. “Sparrow. Watch my hut.” Footsteps shifted. Then stilled.
Layla sat frozen, eyes fixed on the hide-covered entrance.Run, her instincts whispered. But logic was louder. She wouldn’t make it ten feet, not like this. Her entire body sagged, the fight momentarily draining out of her.What now?She gripped her bicep gently, grounding herself, blinking away the heat stinging her eyes. She didn’t want to cry. She couldn’t. She was a princess—trained to endure, to survive the worst with her head held high. And this… this was not the end. Not yet. She was still breathing. Still alive. That meant she still had a chance. She reminded herself of that truth as she shoved the hopelessness back down where it belonged. She couldn’t let it take root. Couldn’t let it win. When the moment came, she’d run like hell. So she drew a breath. Then another. She could do this. She had to.
A few minutes later, the hide lifted and he dipped back in.Theron, she thought. She didn’t even know how she remembered his name. Probably from that awful whisper of a woman, the queen. He stepped inside, dropped a bowl beside her, then leaned against the opposite wall. She watched him pick up a piece of meat from his own bowl and bite into it. He chewed slowly, never breaking eye contact. Layla’s nose twitched at the scent of food. Her stomach growled violently. She looked down, meat and corn. Her mouth instantly watered.
“Eat,” he commanded. She hesitated. Just for a moment. The food hadn’t killed her yet. And the way he stared… he didn’t seem the type for trickery. Just bluntness. Brutal honesty. She could work with that. She picked up the meat and took a small bite. The flavor exploded across her tongue and she couldn’t stop the small, relieved moan that escaped her lips. She finished the meal quickly, grateful but still tense. Unsure of what came next.
He tossed her a water pouch. She nearly wept at the sight of it. Layla downed it quickly, greedy for the cool liquid. When she finished, she sat the pouch down gently on the ground and exhaled. Her body hummed with warmth and, for the first time in what felt like forever, a shred of comfort.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She didn’t expect a response. He just watched her, always watching it seems. The silence wrapped around them, heavy but not hostile. She wanted to ask him what came next. What he wanted. What the queen wanted. But something in his demeanor said now was not the time. Or maybe… maybe he didn’t even know himself. Her eyelids drooped. She fought it, but her body demanded rest. Real rest. So she curled back up on the cot, arms wrapping instinctively around herself. She’d survived another day... She was still alive… For now.
Hours had passed by when Layla's eyes fluttered open again. She blinked through the pitch-black haze of the hut, her breath catching as she satupright. It took her a moment to register where she was. Realizing she was still within the confined space of her captor’s dwelling. Her body was stiff, sore, but less agonizing than before. She glanced to the side—and froze. He was there.Theron.But not looming, not watching. Asleep. He sat slumped on the floor, legs outstretched, head tilted back against the wall. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
A silent thrill of adrenaline surged through her. Her heart thundered in her ears. He was asleep and this was her chance.Now or never.
Moving inch by inch, Layla slid her legs off the cot and pushed herself upright. Her eyes never leaving the sight of him. Her bare feet kissed the packed dirt floor without a sound as she tiptoed to the entrance. Carefully, she pulled back the hide with slow, practiced fingers. Moonlight filtered through the trees in scattered patches, offering just enough to see as she leaned out.
Warriors lingered near a fire thirty yards away, laughing, drinking. Their attention nowhere near the hut. She turned her head once more to glance back at Theron. He hadn’t stirred. So she slipped out. Skimming the hut's outer wall, she crept to the back where trees loomed. Her heart thudded louder with each step.
Once within the cover of the forest, Layla broke into a run. She didn’t care where she was headed. North, south- it didn’t matter. Anywhere was better than here. Branches snapped beneath her feet. Wind lashed her skin. Her lungs burned. But it didn’t matter. Freedom. She could finally taste freedom….
A hand yanked her backward so hard her feet left the ground as her right shoulder slammed into the trunk of a tree. Scorching pain tore through her bicep and down her side. Her scream caught in her throatas she took in the sight of the man before her. It wasn’t Theron. It was a stranger. An Antonin warrior she hadn’t seen before. With short dark brown hair, black eyes, and a menacing smile carved across his face like a scar. His body pressed against hers, pinning her to the bark.
"How am I so lucky," he purred, hot breath curling against her cheek, "to look up from the fire and see a little white nightgown slip away into the trees?" His eyes raked her body. She fought to turn away, heart seizing in her chest, but his hands were clamped tight on her arms. She couldn’t break free.
He leaned closer, nosing down her neck. She shuddered in revulsion and fought against him harder. Her body screamed from the effort. "This is going to be fun," he whispered with sick delight, and true terror surged.
But that terror unlocked something within her and her training kicked in. Sir Charles's lessons echoed in her mind as she struck forward with her knee, catching him square in the groin. He yelped, doubling over causing his grip to loosen. She followed with a sharp upward knee to the face. A crunch echoed as his nose exploded in a spray of blood. She ran. Or tried to. Her wounded arm screamed as he snatched it, dragging her back before she could escape. He hurled her against another tree. Air left her lungs in a sharp gasp. She couldn’t breathe. He slammed his forearm across her chest, pinning her.
"You’re not going anywhere, you little Graystonian bitch!" He shouted, spit and blood flying with the words. One hand pinned her as the other tore at her nightgown. She screamed and shoved against him, clawing and crying, but it was no use. He was stronger and fueled by rage. Tears blurred her vision as he struck her across the face and the worldwent sideways.No. Not like this. Please not like this.Layla’s head lulled as she squeezed her eyes shut.
Then, the weight vanished. His grip. His breath. His body—gone. She collapsed to the ground in a heap, sobs racking her as confusion and fear collided. Blinking through the tears, she saw them—two bodies, one atop the other. A blur of fists. A roar of pain. Then silence. Her attacker crumpled, and the other man stepped into view. Massive. Unrelenting. A silhouette carved from night.Her captor…Theron.He had come for her.
Layla’s breath hitched violently. She scrambled back across the floor, instinct overriding reason. Her limbs quivered, her palms slick with cold sweat.What now?The last time she’d seen him, he had brought her food. Sat silently nearby while she ate. Taken her to be mended with strange, unspoken gentleness, and then let her sleep while he stood guard. And now, he stood above her —Antonin, like the others. A man of war. A man ofthisplace. Her heart thrashed wildly in her chest. She didn’t know what he was going to do. After what she had just endured, how could she trustanyof them?
She stared up at him, half-expecting violence, betrayal, anything but what came next… He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Didn’t offer false comfort. He simply bent down and lifted her into his arms and Layla reluctantly sagged against him, too dazed and broken to resist. Her tears streamed freely now, soaking into his leathers. Her bruised body shuddered in his grip. She expected harsh hands. Cold indifference. But instead… he held her gently like before. As if she were made of something delicate. As if she mattered.
She dared to glance up at his face. His jaw was clenched tight, his brow drawn in unspoken torment. His grip was strong—but careful. Protective. And despite everything, despite the pain, the terror, the betrayal of her body and dignity—something inside her sparked with desperate relief. He had come for her. He had saved her. And behind them, the man who had tried to break her whimpered on the ground, broken and bleeding. Theron didn’t look back. And Layla, shattered but breathing, let him carry her into the night.
Back in the safety of the hut, if such a word still held meaning. Theron dipped through the hide flap and gently set her down on the cot like she might shatter. He dropped to one knee before her, eye-level with her once more. Layla’s breath caught in her throat at the intensity of his expression. Fury still swam in his piercing blue eyes. But now, something else had overtaken it.Concern?
He stared at her bleeding arm, his brows furrowed so tightly they nearly touched. Then his eyes slowly drifted upward, and for the first time, he seemed to register the new damage to her face. His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked. Without a word, he reached up and brushed his calloused fingers to her swollen cheek. Layla winced, a quiet hiss escaping her lips from the contact, but she didn’t pull away. His hands were rough. Worn. Lined with the kind of strength that came from war and wood and weather, but they were warm. So warm. That warmth curled into her skin, melting past the bruises and bone and straight to somethingfar more fragile. She absentmindedly closed her eyes. A breath she didn’t know she was holding slipped free, shaky and exhausted.
It made no sense, but for the first time in days, she felt safe. When she opened her eyes, she found his gaze still fixed on hers- softened now, no longer hard or unreadable. Something almost reverent lingered there. And then, like a gust of wind slamming shut a door, he pulled his hand away and stood, turning his back on her. Her stomach instantly dropped. Utterly confused, she looked down and understood.
Her shift was barely hanging on, the last remnants of fabric bloodied, torn, and twisted around her waist. Her chest was entirely bare. She sucked in a sharp breath and grabbed at what was left, clutching it to herself as humiliation surged like a tidal wave. He glanced back over his shoulder just as she managed to pull the fabric up high enough to cover herself.
