Page 50 of Love of the Bladed Dove
She straightened. “Then we watch. And when she shows—we move.”
They righted their ridiculous attire and slipped back into the ballroom. Layla took her place between Theron and Kain. Her gaze snapped to the throne-like chair beside King Ivar that was still empty. Her stomach dropped again. That seat… it was Ciana’s. Theron gently slid his hand into hers. The warmth grounded her and she clutched it like a lifeline.
“The King’s still staring at you,” Kain whispered on her other side.
Layla glanced up. Ivar’s eyes were pinned to her—dark, possessive, entitled.
Her lip curled. “If he looks at me like that again, I’ll claw his eyes out and shove them down his royal throat.”
Kain let out a low, amused whistle. “There’s the dove with talons.”
She didn’t smile. Not this time.
The blare of trumpets split the air, sharp and jarring. Layla’s heart jolted, a stuttering beat against her ribs. She rose onto her toes, eyes sweeping the crowd in frantic search—until they found her.Ciana.
She stepped into the ballroom flanked by Bartorian guards, each step as poised as it was forced. Her gown was a deep navy trimmed in ivory and gold, elegant and stately, her hair intricately braided with gilded threads that caught the torchlight like a crown. To anyone else, she looked the part of a queen. But Layla saw past the illusion.
Her sister’s mouth was drawn tight, tension rippling down her neck with every step. Her shoulders were squared in defiance, but her eyes—gods, her eyes—burned with silent wrath and barely contained terror. And King Ivar? He watched her approach with grotesque satisfaction, his smile a curling mockery of triumph as Ciana was led to the throne beside him like a prize on display.
“She’s perfect, isn’t she?” King Ivar boomed to the crowd. “My bride-to-be! Feast your eyes, nobles of the North!” Cheers erupted. “I mean, look at that rack!” he crowed, waving a hand at Ciana’s chest. The room roared with laughter and whistles. Layla’s anger built like thunder in her chest. Her nails dug into Theron’s hand. He held on tighter in response, anchoring her.
“Ciana, stand! Let them admire you properly!” Ivar barked. Ciana rose without a word. Tall. Proud. Unflinching. Ivar stepped behind her and slid a hand around her waist—then upward, groping her breast infull view of everyone in the ballroom. “Let me show you more of my prize!” he howled as the crowd surged with laughter. Layla shook with violent, white-hot rage and stepped forward instinctively but Theron caught her.
No,” he whispered in her ear, wrapping her tightly in his arms. She fought him, thrashing in his grip, but he didn’t release her.
She knew she couldn’t cause a scene. Couldn’t lunge for the vile king and stop this horrific display—this grotesque parade of her sister—without dooming them all. If she acted now, none of them would make it out alive.But gods, how was she supposed to just stand there?Her instincts screamed to protect Ciana, to put herself between her sister and that monster, to claw his eyes out for daring to touch her. Yet logic—cold, brutal logic—held her in place like chains around her throat. Her body quivered against Theron’s hold, eyes pinned on Ciana, a consuming fire burning so hot it nearly drowned her.
Across the ballroom, Kain stood like a statue. His gaze fixed on the King, eyes black with rage. It wasn’t a glare she saw—but a vow. A promise etched in fury.
Layla’s eyes flicked to him, and she remembered what he’d whispered to her earlier, just before they stepped into this gilded nightmare. And something in her—something fragile and fraying—steadied.
“Every last one,” she breathed, the words almost reverent. “Starting with him.”
Kain would do it. Of that, she was certain. And the calm that settled over her was as sudden as it was sure. So she inhaled slowly, grounding herself. Then, whispered softly to Theron, “I’m okay.” He hesitated, eyes scanning her face, before finally loosening his hold.
Her moment of vengeance-laced reprieve was short-lived. With grotesque flair, the King lifted a blade and sliced down the back of Ciana’s gown. The laces fell apart like severed sinew. Layla’s jaw clenched so tightly, she was certain something would snap.
Ciana stepped free of the tattered gown, now left standing in a nearly sheer ivory shift that did nothing to shield her from the leering eyes around the room. The crowd erupted—jeering, howling like beasts scenting blood. Then Ivar placed his hand on her again. Possessive. Violating. As he laughed, deep and cruel. As if this public humiliation were nothing more than theater for his amusement.
The King laughed, dark and vile. “The rest of the view,” he shouted, raising his goblet high, “is just for me!” He drained it in one gulp and hurled it to the marble with a shatter. The crowd roared in approval.
Layla couldn’t breathe. Her hand had latched onto Theron’s arm without realizing it, fingers digging in so tight she knew she’d leave bruises. But she couldn’t loosen her grip. Couldn’t look away. Her sister—stripped, displayed, degraded—and there was nothing she could do without risking all of them.
She didn’t realize she was crying until Theron’s thumb gently brushed beneath her eye, grounding her with the smallest touch.How in the hell were they going to get Ciana out of this?
Chapter twenty-three
Theron.
Theron was ready to spill blood. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the King—not when Ivar had the gall to humiliate Ciana like that, to touch her with lecherous hands in front of a roaring crowd. The same rage that once surged in battle now coiled like a viper in his chest. And Layla… Layla was barely holding it together. He could feel it in the tremor of her fingers. In the way she gripped his arm like a tether to keep herself from lunging across the ballroom. The guilt, the helplessness, the white-hot rage—it surged through him. He would kill Ivar. He didn’t know how or when. Only that the bastard would pay for what he’d done—slowly, brutally, and without mercy.
The King finally collapsed into his seat, laughing hoarsely as he gestured toward Ciana like a drunk displaying his spoils. Theron didn’tmove. Couldn’t. The weight of restraint pressed against every muscle. He looked down at Layla—her eyes were fixed on her sister, wide with urgency, desperation etched in every line of her face. She was barely keeping herself upright. And still, she didn’t break. She didn’t run. She waited—burning with the need to act, to save. So he would act for her. Somehow. Now. Before the last thread holding her together snapped.
“Come with me,” he murmured. “Let’s dance.” Layla blinked at him, confused, resisting his gentle tug. He nodded toward Ciana, then back to Layla. “Trust me.” Realization dawned and she nodded.
They stepped into the swirl of dancers. Theron pulled her close and twirled her with practiced ease. They blended seamlessly into the chaos, gliding among silk and satin and drunken nobles. He kept one eye on Ciana the entire time. She endlessly just stared ahead, distant and cold. Theron gritted his teeth, this wasn’t working. He racked his brain, then had another idea.
“Follow my lead,” he whispered. He spun Layla, then lifted her high above his head, slowly rotating her so Ciana would have a clear view of Layla. Layla wrapped her arms around him as he held her suspended a moment longer, then gently brought her back down. Her smile was radiant, even if forced. Once grounded, she instantly glanced over her shoulder at Ciana’s direction. Theron followed her gaze.
