Page 13 of Love of the Bladed Dove
“Wait here,” he said gruffly, disappearing through the hide flap. Layla huddled on the cot, heart racing. She stared at the empty space he’d just filled, fear slowly crawling back into her lungs.What if someone else came in? What if the other man found her again?But barely a minute passed before the hide flap lifted, and Theron stepped back inside. He held a bundle of folded leather garments under his arm.
“Dress.” His command was short and clipped. He placed the clothes beside her and didn’t move. Layla blinked.Was he... going to just stand there and watch?She looked from the pile of clothes to him, and back again. When she stood, clutching her tattered shift to her front, he still didn’t budge and her pulse spiked. But then, thankfully, understanding seemed to dawn in his eyes. With a low grunt, he turned his back and Layla exhaled in relief. She unwrapped the last of her ruinedshift and let it fall in a heap on the floor. Her skin prickled in the cool air, goosebumps rising. She worked quickly, rifling through the clothes. The skirt was simple, fitted around her waist and layered in strips of hide. The top—some kind of leather corset—was more of a challenge. It strapped over one shoulder and laced at the back. Layla tried and failed to secure it herself. Her bleeding arm made the task nearly impossible.
“Um…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Can you… please help me?” Theron turned at the sound of her voice. His eyes moved from her to the corset she clutched helplessly to her chest. Without hesitation, he stepped toward her, his massive form consuming the space between them. She tilted her chin up as he looked down at her, those impossible blue eyes holding her captive. Gently, he took the strap from her shoulder and tied it into place, his fingers grazing her collarbone.
“Turn,” he murmured. She obeyed. His hands were sure and steady as he laced the back, pulling the cords tight. The top cinched around her ribs and lifted her breasts higher, more than she was used to. When he finished, his hands lingered for just a breath, then fell away. Layla turned back to face him, cheeks flushed with heat. He didn’t look away, not this time. Instead he reached down, tore a strip from what was left of her shift, and wound it tightly around her bleeding arm. His touch was efficient, focused, but careful.
“Eir will re-stitch you in the morning,” he said roughly. “This will work ‘til then.” Layla swallowed, her throat dry.
“Thank you,” she whispered. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at her so fiercely it was as if he were trying to memorize her. Brand her into his vision. Her breath caught as her body reacted, tight, tense, and wanting. Wanting something she didn’t understand.What ishappening to me?She broke the gaze and turned away, trying to suppress the flutter in her chest, the ache under her skin. Theron stepped back, retreating to his usual place against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw hard. Her shoulders sagged slightly in... disappointment? No. No, that was insane.
She dropped onto the cot, confusion clouding her mind. Then she remembered the other warrior. The hands. The weight. The helplessness. Her head jerked toward the entrance of the hut. Fear slammed back into her like a slap. She must have made a sound, or maybe he sensed it, but Theron stood straighter.
“No one will come in here,” he said darkly, voice full of gravel and heat. “This is mine. No one touches what’s mine.” Layla's heart stopped at the admission. She stared at him, breath lodged in her throat.Did he mean the hut? Or... her?Shecouldn’t ask. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Chapter nine
Theron.
Theron hadn’t slept. Not truly. Not since the moment he found her. He sat in silence, his eyes flicking over to her again. She lay still, almost too still, her chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths. But her eyes were wide open, unfocused, fixed on the ceiling above her as if she were trying to find some escape in the wood and shadows. He knew she wasn’t resting. No, she was likely trapped in the prison of her own mind, reliving every gut-wrenching moment of the night before. And he—he was the one who had failed to stop it.
The knot in his stomach hadn’t eased. If anything, it had festered and grown, wrapping tight around his insides like a serpent. Seething anger, guilt, loathing, all of it boiled just beneath the surface of his skin.How could I have let this happen? He hadn’t just failed his duty as a warrior. He had failed her.
The memory struck with brutal clarity—the empty cot, the cold imprint of where she should have been. Panic had slammed into him like a hammer to the chest. He’d shot upright, already reaching for his sword, heart pounding with the certainty that something was wrong. He had torn out of the hut without hesitation, instincts clawing their way to the surface, feral and blinding. The moment the scream had sliced through the darkness—herscream—something inside him had snapped clean in half.
He had run like a man possessed, trees whipping past in a blur, branches clawing at his skin as if the forest itself tried to hold him back. But all he could see, burned behind his eyes, was her. And then he’d reached the clearing.
He’d seen Visen—that bastard—hovering over her, ripping away what little remained of her dignity, his hands where they never should have been, his body poised to destroy. The rage that had filled Theron then hadn’t roared. Itburned. White-hot. Silent. Absolute and deadly. He hadn’t hesitated, just barrelled straight into Visen with the full force of his rage, knocking him off her and into the dirt. The look on Visen’s face—a flicker of recognition, followed by pure terror—had done nothing to quell the need for blood. Theron had let it consume him.
Blow after blow, fist after fist, until Visen’s face was pulp and his own knuckles throbbed with pain. And still, it hadn’t been enough. Nothing would be. But then he had looked up, looked ather. Shivering. Mud-streaked. Tear-soaked. And recoiling… fromhim.
She had reacted as if he were no different than the monster he’d just torn from her. Crawled away as if his hands could hurt her too. And that had shattered him. He had stepped forward slowly, carefully, gathering her into his arms with a reverence that contradicted the blood staining his skin, and thank the gods she hadn’t fought him. Just sobbed against his chest, too broken to speak.
He’d walked them back in silence, the weight of her small frame anchoring him, grounding him. He hadn’t spared Visen a second glance. Because he knew, if he looked back, he wouldn’t stop.No one touches her again. Not while I breathe.
Morning broke around them in a soft haze, but the calm did nothing to soothe him. His body ached from staying motionless throughout the night, the tension gripping his muscles like iron. He rose stiffly, stretching as quietly as he could, but she noticed. He could feel her eyes watching him, hesitant but curious. Her cheeks were bruised, both now, the color deepening in cruel contrast to her skin. He had to look away. He wasn’t worthy of those hazel eyes, not after what she’d endured. Not after what he had failed to prevent.
A soft cough just outside the hut drew his attention. Theron stepped to the entrance and pulled the flap back slightly. A bowl waited on the ground—fruit, bread, a strip of dried meat. He hadn’t asked, but someone had known. Likely Sparrow. He bent, picked it up, and returned to her side.
“Eat,” he said, his voice rougher than intended, but gentler than usual.
She obeyed without a word, snatching a piece of bread and tearing into it with quiet desperation. He didn’t eat. Couldn’t. He needed to face his mother. To figure out what came next. But part of him didn’t want to leave her side. Not even for a moment. He lingered at the entrance, then glanced back.
"Come," he ordered, prepared to march off again. But her voice stopped him.
"Layla…" she whispered.
He froze. Then slowly turned to her, surprised, catching the defiance now back in her stare.
"My name," she said again, stronger this time. "It’s Layla." He met her gaze, something tugging deep in his chest and he nodded.
Come… Layla," he said, softer now. He already knew her name—but hearing it aloud, speaking it himself, struck something deep. It settled in his mind like a brand as he led the way.
As they approached the Circle, the dying moonlight etched faint lines across the awakening encampment. His thoughts drifted briefly to the night before, and a fresh wave of fury welled up. He remembered bursting into Frea’s hut, interrupting her mid passionate ride atop Kain without an ounce of shame…
"Leathers. Now." He demanded. Frea hadn’t even pretended to be embarrassed, simply pointed.
Kain, of course, had to add, "enjoying the show, brother?" He didn’t respond. Just took the damn leathers and ran.
