Page 43 of Love of the Bladed Dove
“We don’t know this manor. Or these maids,” he said softly. “I’ll sleep right here. On the floor. Just in case.”
Of course he would.Layla sighed, but didn’t protest. She shifted toward the head of the bed, pulled the heavy blanket over her body, and reached out to tug the extra pillow from beside her. She held it up in offering. Theron just chuckled. “I’ll live,” he said, shaking his head, and made a small pallet beside her on the floor.
She listened to therustle of fabric and the quiet sound of his armor being removed. Then stillness as only the sound of the fire remained. Layla closed her eyes, breathing in the faint scent of smoke, rain, and leather. She was exhausted. But she was safe. Because Theron was here. And for just tonight…that was okay.
Chapter twenty
Theron.
Theron didn’t sleep. Even with Sparrow stationed at the foot of the stairs and the rest of his warriors rotating watch through the night, his body refused to rest. Every creak of the old manor stirred him. Every gust of wind clawing at the shutters made his hand grip for a blade. But more than that, it washer.Layla.
Each time he blinked awake, he found his gaze drifting to the bed above him. She lay there curled in the thick covers, her soft breaths steady, her face calm in a way he rarely saw anymore. Watching her sleep was the only thing that eased the war beneath his ribs. He didn’t deserve that peace. Still, each time he stoked the fire or shifted to ease the ache in his back from the hard floor, his eyes returned to her. He knew today would change everything. They were marching into the lion’s den, and Layla—fiery, stubborn, brave—would never stay behind. He understood now that she would walk straight into danger for her sisters and there was no convincing her otherwise, and that absolutely terrified him.
When the first brush of light ghosted across the distant hills, Theron rose. He stretched, the tension in his spine cracking down his back, then pulled aside the thick curtain to reveal the soft pink edge of dawn. The storm had broken at last. The sky was clear. Quietly, he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, one hand settling on Layla’s shoulder. Her skin was warm beneath his palm.
“Layla,” he said softly. “It’s time.” She stirred, groaning lightly, then rolled onto her back. Her lashes fluttered, eyes locking onto his before she winced and shut them again.
“Theron,” she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep. “You need to go. I’m fine.” He didn’t move. She opened her eyes again, this time sharp and guarded. “Theron, go,” she repeated, ice laced in her tone. “Send anyone else to worry about me. I’m not yours to worry about anymore.” The words hit like a sword’s edge. But still, a small, aching smile tugged at his mouth.
He stood and walked to the door, pausing in the frame. Without turning, he said, “I’ll always worry about you, Layla.” And then he was gone.
Downstairs, the manor was already stirring. Soldiers rearmed, Graystonian warriors donned their gear once again, and maids flitted about laying fruit and bread on the tables. Theron requested wedding attire from one of them, watching the confusion flicker in her eyes before she rushed away. Sparrow met his gaze without needing to be told. He slipped after her, heading up the stairs to ensure Layla remainedundisturbed. Theron sighed and sat by the fire, gingerly chewing an apple as his mind already began turning to what came next. How the hell he’d smuggle blades into dress clothes…how they’d find the princesses…how to keep Layla from getting herself killed.
Minutes passed. Then Sparrow, the maid, and Layla returned, arms loaded with garments. The maid laid down a navy dress with delicate white and gold accents. Layla studied it in silence, then turned and ascended the stairs once more, the gown folded carefully over her arm. Theron couldn’t help himself. He watched her climb, hoping for something—anything. And just before she disappeared from view, she looked down at him. Her gaze wasn’t cold. It wasn’t angry. It was…tender. His throat tightened.There it was.A flicker of hope. And he couldn’t ignore it. Without thinking, he grabbed his own dress clothes and sword, and took the stairs two at a time. He stopped at her door. Heart pounding. Then, before he could lose his nerve, he opened it.
Layla stood by the bed, the gown half slipped off one shoulder. She turned, startled, her lips parting as their eyes met. The curve of her bare shoulder, the way the soft morning light kissed her skin, it stole the air from his lungs. She didn’t scream. She didn’t yell. Her eyes dropped. Slowly. Tracing down his form, then catching on the swelling tension beneath the nightshirt he hadn’t yet replaced. When she looked back up, something in her eyes had changed. No hatred. No ice.Hunger.
Theron crossed the room in a heartbeat, his hand gliding down her arm, the other grazing the sleeve that taunted him. Her body tensed but she didn’t pull away. He bent, lips brushing the tender skin of her shoulder.
“I want you,” he whispered, low and raw. She turned slightly, her breath shallow, her eyes drifted to his mouth. Then, their lips crashed—desperate, fevered, starved. The kiss deepened, messy and all-consuming. His hand cupped her breast through the thin shift, feeling the curve of her against his palm. She moaned into his mouth, her body pressing back against his, arching for more. His control was fraying. He wanted her too badly. But as the fire within them raged higher, Layla suddenly pulled back, her fingers trembling slightly. And Theron froze. She looked at him—not with fear, but with conflict. Her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed. But her eyes… her eyes held weight. Theron stepped back, hands falling to his sides.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “If I could take it all back, everything, I would. I never meant to hurt you.” Her face softened, but she said nothing. “I know you might not forgive me,” he said, voice hoarse. “But I will never stop fighting for you. Never stop protecting you.” He took a breath. “I love you, Layla Eradellian.”
Silence. He didn’t expect a response. He didn’t need one. Just needed her to hear it…So he simply bent down and kissed her again—soft this time. A kiss of goodbye. Of apology. Of promise. He helped her steady herself, then turned, retrieved his clothes, and left the room.
Downstairs, the world spun on. Theron dressed in silence, carefully strapping knives beneath sleeves, into boots, along his beltline. He hated the tailored feel of the clothing, hated the vulnerability of it all. But if it got him into the castle, close to Layla and the princesses, it would have to do. His sword would have to be left behind and he despised that most. Then as he looked around. The other Antoninwarriors were dressed similarly—strange, stifled versions of themselves, each missing the steel that made them deadly. But they were ready.
Then came her. Layla appeared at the top of the stairs. The navy gown hugged her curves, the golden embroidery catching the morning light. Her hair was braided back from her face, her chestnut curls tumbling over her shoulders like waves of silk. The corset accentuated the rise of her chest, and her poise was straight from a queen’s lineage. She wasn’t a princess anymore. She was a weapon. Theron’s chest ached as he watched her descend. Gods help the kingdom that stood in her way. He loved her. Fiercely. And no matter what came next, he would keep her alive. Even if it meant dying at her side.
Layla.
She didn’t know what to think after the bomb he dropped on her before leaving the room. Her mind spun, emotions tangled in knots. Luckily, the day ahead demanded all her focus; she didn’t have time to sort through the storm inside her chest. As she descended the stairs to join her men, her eyes involuntarily sought out Theron’s. The love and adoration radiating from him were unmistakable. She sighed and quickly looked away. There were sisters to find. Love—and betrayal—would have to wait.
Layla crossed the grand room and gently pushed open the kitchen door to find the maids huddled together. They instantly stood taller, their eyes cast down as if awaiting orders.
“Thank you. We are leaving now. I pray you don’t get in trouble for the loss of clothing and food. I hope this will help.” She handed them a bundle of coins, offering a small nod before closing the door behind her.
Outside, the crisp morning air greeted them. Autumn had settled in, and the sun peeked over the treetops. One by one, they mounted their horses, ready to ride. They would travel as far as possible by road unless they encountered someone. Her soldiers, those not in Bartorian disguise, would veer into the forest to remain hidden, ready to ambush if needed.
After hours of galloping along the winding dirt road, the sharp breeze cooled Layla’s flushed cheeks. She had always loved the fall—crisp air, golden leaves, the sense of change on the wind. But as Theron gradually slowed his pace, she knew they were nearing Bartoria. The breeze faded, replaced by a stillness that clung to the skin, heavy and unnatural. And with it came a tension she could feel in her bones—tightening like a thread pulled taut, ready to snap.
As the city came into view, Layla turned to Sir Edwin. “Have our men stay close to this road, as near to the city edge as possible while hidden in the trees. We need to know where to find them, especially if we need a swift exit. Tell them to give us until morning if it comes to that. We don’t know how long it’ll take to find my sisters.” Sir Edwin nodded and rode ahead to relay her orders. She watched her soldiers veer right, leading their horses into the forest thicket, disappearing from sight. Sir Edwin returned shortly after, falling back in line with the Antonin warriors.
As they crossed into the southern edge of the city, the group slowed to a cautious trot. The narrow, crumbling streets wound between buildings that looked like they might collapse with the next strong wind. The air was thick with smoke, desperation, and the faint scent of rotting food. Layla’s gaze swept over gaunt faces peering from behind broken shutters, children with hollow eyes watching them pass in eerie silence. Her grip tightened on the reins.
Xaden and Theron rode several paces ahead, silent sentinels leading the way. Sparrow flanked her left side, his sharp eyes constantly scanning the tree line, while Sir Edwin kept pace on her right with one hand resting near his blade. Behind her, Kain lingered like a ghost, his presence as unmistakable as it was reassuring. She was surrounded—shielded on all sides by men who had fought for her, bled for her, defied orders for her. There was no safer place to be. And yet…
The guilt settled in her chest like a stone. These people watched from the wreckage of their lives as she passed with an armed escort, unable to offer anything more than a solemn glance. She couldn’t stop. Couldn’t promise salvation. Not yet. But gods, she wanted to. She let the words anchor her as they pressed on, the rhythm of hooves steady, unforgiving.
