Page 24 of Love of the Bladed Dove
The battle ended minutes later. They won—if it could be called that. Theron hadn’t celebrated. Hadn’t even stood. He just knelt there as the river roared on.
When they returned home, Queen Okteria wasted no time. She demanded blood. A debt owed. Kain delivered it himself—an arrow straight through the heart of the Lumiren king’s eldest son. A message that echoed across kingdoms. The Lumiren king had wept. Pleaded ignorance. Swore it would never happen again. Lies. Every word. Theron still remembered the cold calculation behind his eyes.
Next came Bartoria. Okteria and Theron stood before their high council, demanding answers. A Lumiren sword had pierced her husband’s heart—by way of Bartorian lands. And still theydenied. No orders. No permissions. No alliance. No fault. The queen left with her chin high and her wrath buried—but never silenced.
Theron had known what she was doing. She was choosing politics. Choosing to mourn with her sons rather than force the tribe into open war with the North. The death of the Lumiren prince was a message—brutal and final. A blood-for-blood sacrifice meant to satisfy justice. It was a hard choice. The wise one. But it wasn’t the typical Antonin one. And yet… they accepted it. They accepted her.
“We have the blood of a prince,” she told Theron afterward, her voice forged from ice and iron. “Let it be enough. For now.” He hadn’t argued. He hadn’t had the strength. He was supposed to become king that week. The tribe had waited. The council had prepared. But Theron refused.
“I am a weapon,” he told her. “Let me be one.” And Okteria, burning with grief, had agreed. She would rule and he would remain what he had always been—a shield for his people. A sword for their enemies. But deep down, Theron had known the truth. He had never felt worthy to rule. Not like his father. And wasn’t sure if he ever would.
And now, with war again looming, Theron couldn’t stop the ache in his chest. He missed him. Gods, he missed him. His voice, his laughter, the way he never wavered even in the face of death. Theron had never needed his counsel more than he did now.
He stopped just outside his hut, staring at the hide that covered the entrance. He could still feel the weight of it all pressing against his ribs. And now Layla. Her father—the king of Graystonia—was dead. Just like his own father. Her home overrun. Her family likely gone. Her pain… it would mirror his. He hadn’t even told her yet. The woman he couldn’t stop thinking about. The one whose body had nearly pressed into his just hours before. Whose scent still lingered on his skin. Who had apparently thrown knives like a goddess of war and then whispered his name like a prayer.
His hand clenched the edge of the hide, fingers digging into the leather. His heart beat like a drum inside his chest, a sound only he could hear. And for the first time since meeting her, he was afraid to see her eyes because he didn’t want to be the one to shatter them.
Theron ducked beneath the hide and stepped into the quiet of his hut. The flickering moonlight cast soft silhouettes along the walls, and there—sitting upright on the cot—was Layla. Her eyes snapped to his the moment he entered, filled with a desperation that pierced straight through him.
"What did you find out about my family?" she asked, her voice already trembling. "Are my people okay? Please… please tell me." Theron froze mid-step. His gaze dropped to the dirt floor between them, jaw tight, chest constricting with the weight of the truth he couldn’t speak. Orders were orders, no information outside the command circle, not until the official gathering.No exceptions. He had abided by that law his entire life. But this was Layla. And his silence was a betrayal all the same.
Her breath hitched. "No… no, no. Don’t do that. How many people have we lost? Is it my sisters? My mother?!" Her voice climbed, panic lacing every word. She stood now, eyes wide with raw fear. Theron couldn’t bring himself to lift his head. Couldn’t find the words. Every instinct in him screamed to hold her, to fix this, but how did you fix the destruction of a world?
Then her voice cracked, nearly splintered. "It’s my father, isn’t it?!" Her cry hit him like a blade to the gut.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze. She deserved that much. The moment his eyes met hers, whatever fragile hope she had been clinging to, splintered, She saw it all in his face—grief, sorrow, guilt. He didn’t need to speak, the truth was etched into the very core of his eyes…And then, she broke.
Her legs gave out, and Theron surged forward, catching her just before she hit the ground. She sobbed, loud and unrestrained, as her fists curled against his chest. He lowered them both to the floor and wrapped his arms tightly around her, cradling her like she was made of glass. Her cries echoed through the small space, ripping him apart one piece at a time. Theron pressed his cheek to the crown of her head, eyes closed, jaw clenched against the powerless anguish building inside him. He couldn't bring her father back. He couldn’t silence her sorrow. All he could do was hold her. Shield her. Anchor her. And he did. For as long as she needed.
Minutes bled into an hour before her sobs began to fade, her body growing heavy with exhaustion. When she stirred, gently pulling away, Theron loosened his hold. He didn’t want to. Gods, he didn’t want to.But he let her go. She stepped back, wiping her swollen eyes, her face pale and hollow. Theron’s heart ached at the sight.
"Sleep," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. She hesitated, then gave a tiny nod and curled onto the cot, curling into herself. Her gaze was vacant now as if she had nothing left to feel. Theron turned away, forcing himself to give her space. He tugged off his vest and rolled it beneath his head as he lowered to the ground. The moment his body touched the floor, he felt the overwhelming pull to reach for her again. To hold her. Protect her. Tell her she wasn’t alone. His muscles twitched and his fists clenched. He couldn't do that. Not when she needed something no arms could provide. But what he could do—what hewoulddo—was make the bastards who caused this to suffer.
He stared up at the ceiling of the hut, rage simmering beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. Death would become his offering. His promise. Every Bartorian responsible would bleed. For Layla. For her family. For the silent scream now carved into her soul. He would become vengeance incarnate. And no one would be left standing. Now to only convince his mother…
Layla.
Layla rolled onto her back, the cot’s rough fabric scratching at her damp skin, but she barely felt it. She didn’t feel much of anything now. Her chest ached, but even that pain was muted, distant, like it belonged to someone else.Her father was dead.The words reverberated through her skull, an endless echo of finality. Her father—the strongest, kindest man she had ever known—was gone. Murdered by Bartorian hands. Andshe hadn’t even been there to fight beside him. To protect him. To say goodbye.
Tears threatened again, but her eyes were dry. She had cried herself empty. Instead, all that remained was a strange stillness—numb and cold, like winter settling into her bones. She turned her head and glanced over at Theron, now asleep on the ground beside her, his broad chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. He’d held her through the storm, his silence saying more than words ever could. For that, she was grateful.
He was a good man. And that made everything worse. Her stomach twisted. Because she was going to miss him. Her heart already did. But she couldn’t let that stop her. Not now. Not when her people—her sisters, her mother, her kingdom—might still be alive and waiting for her. Depending on her. Layla turned back to face the ceiling. She needed to leave. Tonight.
She counted the seconds. The minutes. Giving Theron time to drift deeper into sleep. She waited until his breathing evened out, slow and steady, the weight of exhaustion finally claiming him. Then she moved. Slowly, quietly, she reached into her waistband and closed her fingers around the small knife hidden there, the hilt warm against her palm. It had been a lifeline once. Now it would be her ticket home. And maybe… Sparrow’s death sentence.
The thought made her stomach roll.Sparrow. Loyal. Quiet. Watchful. He’d never hurt her. He’d never done anything but follow orders. But if she was going to escape, he was the obstacle between her and the forest. Her hands slightly shook as she tightened her grip on the blade.Do it for your sisters,she told herself.For your mother. For Graystonia.She sat up, slow and soundless, and glanced toward Theron. Still asleep,thank Freyric. She stood from the cot as lightly as she could, every muscle tense as a drawn bowstring. Her bare feet touched the dirt floor without a sound. The knife tight in her quivering fingers. She inched forward, careful to move around Theron’s form without waking him. One step. Another. She kept her gaze flicking between the flap of the hut and the warrior lying still at her feet.Just a few more steps…
“What are you doing?”
The voice—low, rough, laced with sleep and suspicion—froze her blood. Layla stopped mid-step. Her heart thundered in her chest as she dared a glance down. Theron was no longer asleep. His eyes were open now, dark and locked on hers. No trace of drowsiness remained. Only something sharp. Controlled. Dangerous.
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She gripped the knife tightly, her breath catching as she watched him rise, slow and fluid, like a predator narrowing the distance to its prey. The small space between them vanished in a single step. He stood before her now, towering and unreadable. She couldn’t run. Not with him standing in her way.
“I asked. What are you doing?” He was still mostly in shadow, but she could feel the heat of his gaze scorch across her skin. Her mind panicked. She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. But then something surfaced. A memory. Her mother’s voice, soft but pointed:“Men are ruled by many things, Layla. But desire is always at the helm. Learn when to use it.”Before she could second-guess herself, her eyes dropped from his eyes to his lips. She rose onto her toes, leaning forward to close the now miniscule space between them, and pressed a kiss to his mouth. A short, startled kiss—but a kiss nonetheless.
She stepped back, heart racing. “I… I’m sorry. I just—sorry.” She couldn’t meet his eyes now. Her cheeks burned with the shame of her impulsiveness, her recklessness, but before she could turn away, his hands were on her, cupping her face and tilting it up.
His lips met hers again, but it was no tentative graze this time. This was fire. His kiss was demanding, ravenous, like he’d been starved and she was the only remedy. His arms wrapped around her, dragging her flush against his body. She gasped against his mouth as heat flared through her chest, her stomach, her thighs. His presence consumed her. She let go of the blade and it fell unnoticed to the ground. All her plans, thoughts, everything went out of her mind as she was engulfed in this moment with him. She kissed him back with the same desperate hunger, wrapping her arms around his neck as his mouth claimed hers again and again. When his hands slid to her lower back, drawing her hips forward, she felt the undeniable evidence of his desire pressing into her. Her pulse roared in her ears.
