Page 18 of Love of the Bladed Dove
Theron shifted on the floor, his jaw clenching as guilt curled through him again like smoke. She was here—injured, humiliated, alone—because ofhim. Because when he’d found her climbing down from that tree covered in mud and royal blood, he hadn’t given a second thought to his duty in that moment. He’d done what he was trained to do. Except now, every time he saw her, that decision haunted him a little more.
“Try to sleep,” he muttered after a long stretch of silence, his voice rougher than he intended. He wasn’t sure if she heard him. Her breathing had evened, and he hoped she’d found some small pocket of rest in this nightmare of a place. He watched the soft rise and fall of her chest from the corner of his eye, the moonlight casting her face in a silvered glow. She looked almost peaceful now.Almost. Theron closed his eyes again, willing his mind to settle. But it didn’t. Instead, images flared behind his eyelids—Layla, crumpled on the forest floor… Layla, trembling in his arms… Layla, smiling softly at Illyada before catching his eye and dropping her gaze…The light dimming like she remembered exactly who he was.The queen’s son.The man who stole her freedom. The man who couldn’t stop thinking about her even though every part of him screamedthat he should.
In the dead of night, Theron’s instincts flared to life, tearing him out of his dreams. A soft broken cry ripped through the silence of the hut like a dagger to the gut. His eyes flew open as he shot upright, one hand already on the hilt of his sword as his pulse pounded in his ears. The moonlight cast pale streaks across the floor, just enough for him to scan the room and locate the source of the sound.Layla. Still in the cot, but not at peace. Her body jerked and twisted beneath the thin blanket, breath ragged as muffled whimpers escaped her lips. She was dreaming- no,reliving. Theron knew that look. Knew that sound. Knew that kind of haunted. His grip loosened from the sword as he moved closer, crouching at her side with careful, practiced steps. His fingers hovered above her arm for a moment, uncertain, then rested lightly against her skin.
“Layla,” he said, voice low but steady. She didn’t wake. Her brow furrowed, a soft gasp catching in her throat as her legs pulled tighter under her. Theron leaned in closer, his hand giving her arm a small shake. “Layla.” This time, firmer. Her eyes shot open. She jolted upright, crawling backwards against the cot as if trying to make herself disappear into the wood behind her. Her chest heaved, eyes wild, the raw edge of panic still alive in them. She stared at him as though unsure whether he was friend or foe. His heart cracked under the weight of it. Then, gradually, she blinked. Recognition flickered there hesitant, then full.
“Theron,” she breathed, her voice soft and quivering, like she couldn’t quite believe he was real. He let out a slow exhale, every muscle still strung tight. She relaxed against the cot with an audible sigh, rubbing her face and pushing damp hair away from her eyes. “Sorry,” she muttered, glancing away. “Must’ve had a nightmare. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Theron said nothing at first, just studied her face. The way the moonlight hit her cheekbones, the exhaustion etched into every line. Gods, she’d been through so much. And it washistribe,hiscommand, that put her here. That had taken her.
He nodded once. A quiet, almost reverent motion. Then he stood and walked the short distance back to his place on the floor, sinking down onto his bundled shirt. His hands went to his hair, fingers dragging back through the strands as he fought to calm himself. He could feel her eyes on him, even before he turned to meet her gaze. There they were—those eyes he could lose himself in, watching him like she didn’t quite know what to make of him. He held her gaze, just long enough to feel his heart twist in his chest again.What was she doing to him?She was a prisoner. She was Queen Okteria’s leverage. She was Graystonian. And still… he wanted nothing more than to protect her. He couldn’t explain it or the war going on within him constantly throughout this past week. The war he never saw coming.
“Theron...” her voice came again, quieter now. He turned his head slightly, facing her. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For what you did earlier.” Theron didn’t move, didn’t speak—just gave a small nod. Because if he tried to say anything else, he might confess to everything hewasn’t ready to admit, everything he still didn’t completely understand. So he just closed his eyes as he acknowledged that he was so completelyfucked.
Layla.
Layla couldn’t fall back asleep. The nightmare had jolted her violently from the fragile thread of rest she’d managed to cling to, and now it was gone entirely—scattered into the black corners of the hut like ash. Her chest still heaved with remnants of panic, the raw ghost of the dream clinging to her like a second skin.
She had been back at the castle. Not as it was the night of the invasion, but eerily still. Silent at first, that unnatural kind of silence that presses into your skull and sets your teeth on edge. She recalled that she had moved through the halls, barefoot, weightless, as though her feet barely touched the ground. And then, just as she had reached the long dining hall—the one where they’d shared royal banquets, birthday feasts, and endless political performances—the fire had begun. It had erupted everywhere.
Flames had crawled along the mahogany walls, surged up the heavy curtains, and danced across the vaulted ceiling like they’d been summoned straight from the bowels of hell. The air had thickened with smoke. The stone floor beneath her had pulsed with heat, slick with melted varnish. She hadn’t been able to breathe—every gasp had scorched her lungs, fire clawing down her throat. But the fire hadn’t been the worst part. It hadn’t been the destruction. It had been her family.
Her mother had stood at the head of the table, clutching her two younger sisters to her chest, screaming Layla’s name again and again.Their dresses had been smoking, the flames licking hungrily toward their feet as they scrambled back. And her father—gods, her father—had been trapped in the corner, blade in hand, held behind a wall of roaring fire. Their eyes had caught across the blaze, his filled with helpless torment and a silent, desperate plea. She had tried to run. She had screamed at herself to move. But her limbs had betrayed her. Her body had turned to stone. And then the fire had reached her.
First the hem of her emerald dress, then her arms, her legs, the heat racing up her body, devouring everything in its path. She had opened her mouth to scream, but only smoke had poured out. The fire had consumed her, and still, she had seen them. Her sisters’ shrieks had turned shrill, inhuman. Her mother had sobbed her name. Her father had bellowed like a man being torn apart. She had burned. Helpless. Useless. Watching everything she loved turn to ash.
And then, Theron. His voice. His hand. The deep rumble that shook her awake like a thunderclap. She remembered gasping for breath as she stared into his face, dripping with sweat, her pulse racing with terror. She hadn’t expected to feel relief at seeing him, but she had.
Now, hours later, Layla lay motionless on the cot, her eyes pinned to the rafters above her, listening to the quiet rise and fall of Theron’s breath. He had saved her.Again.Her gaze shifted to his sleeping form. Even on the ground, he looked like something carved from stone-solid, unmoving, reliable. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. That he couldbethis- kind, gentle even, in rare moments- and still be one ofthem. Still be the reason she was here. Still be the son of the woman who held her in chains without even touching her. The same woman who had issued a silent death sentence to her kingdom.
Layla’s stomach turned with nausea that had nothing to do with the stew earlier. She couldn’t forget who Theron really was. No matter how soft his voice had been when he’d said her name. No matter how gentle his hands were when they roused her from darkness. He wasn’t on her side. None of them were. And if she ever wanted to see her family again—if therewasa family left to save—she would have to act.
She turned her thoughts toward Illyada’s hut. The knives laid out in rows. She remembered seeing one particularly small blade with a black handle. Sharp. Light. Easy to hide.That one.Tomorrow, she would take it. Discreetly. Illyada was tough but not infallible, there would be a moment. Plus Layla had nimble fingers, always had. The question now was what came after.Would she kill someone to get out of here?
Her gut twisted as her mind echoed with the image of Sparrow’s kind face, who now stood guard outside this hut. His quiet, steady presence beside her lately. His attempts at gentleness. His clear loyalty to Theron.Could she kill him if she had to? So that she could slip out tomorrow night while Theron was sleeping?The rational part of her, the queen-in-waiting, the strategist, told her yes. If it meant getting out, reaching her people, finding her mother, her sisters,her father, then yes. She could do anything. But the girl inside her, the one who had never killed another living soul until that horrible day with Tynan. That girl wasn’t so sure.
Layla turned onto her side, wrapping her arms around herself tightly. She thought back to the blood on her hands that day.What would it be like this time? Worse?She stared at the wall in front of her, muscles taut, her nails digging crescents into her forearm. Her heart hammering even in the stillness.You can do this,she told herself.You must do this.And she would. Because if she didn’t, her kingdom would be nothing more than ashes and screams in a nightmare that she would never wake from. But gods help her, it was going to destroy whatever piece of innocence she had left. She closed her eyes, but sleep never came.
Theron slowly stood and stretched, the early morning light catching on the ridges of his muscled torso. Layla, still wide awake but feigning sleep, let out a deliberately timed yawn and sat up slowly. Brushing her hair from her face as if she’d just stirred too. She watched as Theron bent to retrieve his leather armor and shirt from the ground, shook them out, and pulled them on with deliberate ease. The movements pulled every muscle in his arms and chest tight. She didn’t mean to watch, but she couldn’t seem to look away. And gods help her,it was a really nice view.
Once dressed, Theron grunted and gestured for them to go. Layla followed silently, her limbs stiff with exhaustion. As they emerged from the hut, Sparrow stood exactly where they’d left him the night before—posted by the entrance, waiting with quiet patience. She glanced at him-still, silent, loyal- and a pang of guilt flickered through her chest. If her plan worked, he might be the first casualty. She reminded herselfwhy she had to do this.Her people. Her kingdom. Her family.Still, it hurt more than it should have.
The three made their way to the morning gathering. As they stepped onto the main path, Layla felt the weight of every eye on her. Same as yesterday. Same judgment. Same distrust. She held her chin high and kept her spine straight. She wouldn’t let them see her shrink.
Sparrow’s arm reached out in front of her, and she stopped beside him once again. Clearly, this was her place during these assemblies. She obeyed without argument, eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on Queen Okteria, perched with calculated poise and that same expression of cold satisfaction. The queen’s lips twisted ever so slightly. Layla could only assume she found satisfaction at the sight of Layla’s blood-smeared face and filthy clothing. The message was clear:Good. Let them see what you are now.But Layla wasn’t going to give her the gratification. She wasn’t going to try to hide. She was going to stand tall as ever.
Theron stepped forward. “No news. Go on,” he said simply, then turned without another word. Layla blinked, startled by how brief it was. Then again, he didn’t seem like the type to waste words.
He swiftly escorted her to Illyada’s station without ceremony, nodding once before striding off toward the training grounds. Illyada barely looked up from the massive turkey sprawled across the table. She pointed a bloodied blade toward a bowl of innards for Layla to start sorting.
Layla sighed and stepped up. Her stomach turned at the sight and smell, but she just took a deep breath and got to work. Still caked in yesterday’s grime, she must have looked feral. Face streaked with dirt and blood, hair sticking in messy clumps around her cheeks. But no one had said anything. And she hadn’t dared ask for water to wash. Until Illyadadropped a wooden bucket of clean water beside her with a soft grunt and handed her a rag.
“Here. So you can clean off,” Illyada said without fanfare, then turned back to her chopping.
Layla stared down at the clear water like it was holy. She blinked, overwhelmed by the simple kindness. “Thank you,” she said softly, genuinely, turning to face Illyada fully.
Illyada didn’t look at her though, just got straight back to work. “The queen wanted to see you humiliated. Bloodied. Letting you stay filthy was the easiest way to keep her content. But I figured one day was enough.” Layla almost laughed.Of course. Strategic cruelty, disguised as obedience.Clever.She crouched and scrubbed herself raw, relishing the feeling of blood and dirt sliding off her skin. When she stood again, damp and cleaner than she’d been in days, she gave Illyada a small but sincere smile. Feeling a bit lighter as she returned to the task at hand.
