Page 15 of Love of the Bladed Dove
“You need to hit something,” Xaden said, rising to his full, imposing height. Nearly as tall as Theron, Xaden’s frame was broad, sculpted muscle wrapped in skin the color of rich onyx. His coiled dreads were pulled back into a knot at the nape of his neck, and his tight, well-groomed beard framed a jaw sharp enough to wound. Tattoos snaked over every visible inch of his arms and collarbones, ancient Antonin markings that told stories only their warriors would ever understand. Unlike most, Xaden wore his lethality with a smile, a charismatic ease that made people forget just how many men he had laid in the ground. Brutally skilled, impossibly fast, and never afraid to finish a fight he didn’t start.
Theron gave a silent nod, already stripping off the outer vest of his leathers. “Circle?”
Xaden motioned to the packed earth sparring ring with a flourish. “After you, Commander.” Wordlessly, they stepped inside. Around them, warriors paused mid-task, falling into stillness as instinct kicked in. The Circle wasn’t a place for wasted movement and these two weren’t men to spar lightly. Even with Sparrow or Xaden, Theron rarely unleashed his full strength. And when he did, it was never for practice—it was because his demons demanded an outlet.
They entered the ring, dust swirling around their boots, the stones marking the perimeter already scuffed by countless battles. There was no need for formality. No salutes. No words. Two blades rang free in unison. They circled once, and then steel met steel with a force that rang across the compound. The crowd halted as the echo cracked through the air. Xaden slid back, feet sure and deliberate, absorbing the blow with fluid grace. But Theron didn’t relent. He came at him like a storm unleashed—shoulders tight, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body screaming to move, to strike, to punish. To punish himself.
Dirt kicked up around them, swirling with every strike. The clang of steel, the thud of boots, the rasp of breath—each sound a drumbeat in Theron’s ears. Xaden moved like wind, agile and sharp, always just out of reach. But Theron pressed forward, relentless. A tempest given form. He wasn’t sparring. He was punishing himself.
Since he’d stayed hidden in the shadows in Bartoria, watching broken women and starving children suffer—not at the hands of invaders, but from the very men meant to protect them. Guards who laughed as they stole, as they took. Their fear wasn’t of strangers. It was of their own.He hadn’t drawn his sword. He’d followed orders. Like always. Always follow, never question. Always obey.
Then there was Layla. From the moment he’d watched her fall into that pit on the first day, her body crumpling like a broken bird. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t fucking moved. Just stood there like some stone-hearted brute while they tossed her in like an offering to rot. And last night? Last night had nearly torn him apart.
Seeing her collapsed at the base of the tree sobbing, arms wrapped around herself as if she could hold the pieces of her body and mind together. Blood splattered all over her. Bruises already blooming like ink across her skin. Her face was dirty, lashes clumped from sweat and tears. And when her eyes finally lifted to meet his… Gods. That look. She stared at him like she didn’t recognize him. Like he was just another monster. Another captor. Another man who would hurt her and walk away. And it broke something in him. Because that was the same look he’d seen those days ago from those Bartorian women and children. It was the look of the hunted. Of the discarded.
So now, as he slammed blow after blow at Xaden, he wasn’t fighting for skill. He was trying to burn that look out of his memory. He was trying to bleed the guilt from his bones. Because if she ever looked at him like that again— He didn’t think he could bear it.
He let out a guttural yell and slammed his weight forward, battering Xaden’s defenses. Their swords clashed. A battle of strength now. Xaden held his ground, muscles straining as his boots dug into the dirt. He leaned in close, his voice low and even, not the least bit winded.
“You keep fighting like that, you’ll break something,” he said with a smirk. “Might be me. Might be you. But something’s giving out.” Theron growled in response and shoved harder.
“Say what you need to say, brother,” Xaden said. “Or swing until your anger burns itself out. Either way, I’m not the one you’re mad at.” Theron’s blade quivered in his grip. Not from fatigue. From fury. From grief. From everything he hadn’t said when he should’ve.
“She’s not yours to save. Stop punishing yourself.”
Theron froze, just for a breath. That’s all the opportunity Xaden needed, he swept Theron’s feet out from under him. Theron landed hard on his back, breath knocked out of him. He stared up at the open sky, his chest heaving.Fuuuuuck.He decided to just lay there for a moment, grounded by the pain, before he slowly sat up. Xaden offered a hand and Theron took it. No more words were needed. He didn’t thank Xaden. He didn’t have to. He just stood up and took his stance. Blood pumping, lungs burning, sweat coating his skin, his mind was just a little clearer but he needed more. He had failed Layla once. He wouldn’t again.
Layla.
Back at Illyada's hut, Layla stood awkwardly, trying not to breathe through her nose. The stench of blood, earth, and animal musk saturated the air. A massive deer hung from a thick wooden branch nearby, its body gutted open, entrails dangling. Several smaller creatures were piled on a long wooden table next to it. Knives of all sizes gleamed under the late morning sun, their sharp edges catching the light like tiny promises. Layla swallowed hard. She clutched her stomach, praying the small breakfastshe’d eaten earlier wouldn’t betray her. Her gaze wandered to the neat row of knives. They ranged from finger-length to forearm-sized. Something in her sparked—aflicker of hope? Of escape?Her hand twitched before a firm voice cut through the air.
"Graystonian." Layla’s eyes snapped up. Illyada stood near the table now, wiping her hands with a stained cloth. The woman’s muscles flexed beneath her sleeveless tunic, and her red hair was tied up in a loose braid that draped over one shoulder.
"I saw that look," Illyada said, not unkindly. She stepped closer and placed a hand on her hip. "You think one of those blades is your way out? Touch one without my say, and I’ll have to stop you. That’s not a threat. Just a truth." Layla gave a tight nod and lowered her gaze. Still, the knives shimmered in her peripheral vision.So close.
Illyada let out a short breath, less a sigh and more like an exhale of understanding. "I’m not here to make you suffer more than life already has. You got handed a shit deal, and you’re standing by my hut because of it. I won’t pity you, but I won’t be cruel either." Layla blinked. That… wasn’t what she expected.
"Now," Illyada continued, tying an apron around her waist. "You’re here to work. If you’re going to survive in this tribe, you pull your weight. You stink of perfume and politics, so I doubt you've cooked before. Am I right?" Layla stayed silent at first, then shook her head. No point in pretending.
"Didn’t think so. Doesn’t matter. I’ll teach you. Not out of charity, but because we don’t waste hands here. And we sure as hell don’t waste meat. Grab that bowl under the deer, scoop out the rest of what’s inside, and bring it over. Then we sort organs."
The deer’s insides were steaming in the morning chill as Layla worked her hands through slick organs and ropes of sinew. Blood painted her forearms up to the elbow. Her hair stuck to the sweat on her neck, yet she didn’t care. It was disgusting, exhausting, but oddly satisfying—because for once, she was doing something, not just enduring.
A slow crunch broke the rhythm. The sound of teeth sinking into an apple. Wet. Purposeful.
“You missed a piece,” a voice drawled behind her—low, smug, and entirely male. “Unless you were saving the liver for me. How romantic.”
Whoever it was, whatever new asshole thought he’d try his luck today, he wasn’t worth her time. She was elbow-deep in blood, sore from head to toe, and had well and truly reached her limit with men and their mouths. So she said nothing. Didn’t even look at him. Praying he would just go away.
The sound of another bite and more chewing continued.
“Didn’t think doves played with entrails,” he murmured as she heard him near, voice curling around her like tendrils of smoke. “You wear the mess well though… Kind of makes me wonder what else you’d look good covered in.”
Disgust curled through her.Was there no end to vile men and their imaginations?She was already bracing for the worst as she finally glanced toward the voice, glare set and tongue sharpened.
Gods. It was him. The tall, sunlight-haired brute from yesterday. The one who had offered her his daggers with a leer that had made her skin crawl and her stomach flip in equal measure. He stood at the edge of the clearing, half in shadow, apple in hand, watching her like she was dessert he hadn’t yet decided how to devour.
Their eyes locked and he smiled. Slow. Wicked. Inevitable. And then he moved—each step deliberate, a predator circling his prey not to strike, but to savor.
