Page 17 of Love of the Bladed Dove
After a brutal day of sparring and drills, all Theron wanted was an ale and a few hours where no one expected him to command anything but his bed. But first, he had to fetch Sparrow and… Layla. He hated how that thought sent a charge through his chest.
Theron walked the worn path between the huts, nostrils flaring as the rich scent of Illyada’s rabbit stew hit him. As he neared her post, his gaze instantly found Layla, crouched near the tree where the deer had been hung earlier. She was elbow-deep in blood and entrails, her arms smeared with gore and her hair stuck to her face in sweaty strands. Still, she looked fierce. Alive. Tempting. She turned to stand, and their eyes caught—just for a breath—and he swore something flickered behindhers.Was that… joy?Then it vanished, replaced by that tight, guarded wall she wore too damn well.
“Come,” he said. She bent over to grab a bowl, and his body betrayed him- again. That leather skirt was far too short, the curve of her thighs testing every shred of discipline he had left. He clenched his jaw, trying to think about anything other than how good she looked even when covered in blood and gods know what else.
Illyada gave him a knowing look and arched a brow. “She needs to help me set the tables first. Then she’s all yours.”Yours.Theron didn’t like the possessiveness that word stirred inside him. Or maybe he did. He leaned against a tree and waited, arms crossed, keeping his expression unreadable. When Layla finished and approached, still avoiding his eyes, Illyada handed him two bowls of stew. He grunted his thanks and turned with a flick of his head. She followed in silence.
As they reached the communal tables, the usual bustle of evening mealtime surrounded them—clinking bowls, roaring laughter, the screech of children darting between fires. Theron usually ate fast, drank faster, and retired to the quiet of his hut. But tonight felt different. He gestured for Layla to sit beside Sparrow, who looked up from his drink and gave her a polite nod. Theron dropped into the seat across from her and studied her subtly over the edge of his bowl. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.Was something wrong? He shook the thought away as he noticed the stares around them. Not everyone approved of a Graystonian sharing their table- least of all the drunken warrior slurring two seats over.
“And now the Graystonian whore’s eating with us?” Visen sneered, too loudly. “What’s this tribe coming to?” The second he heard it, Theron saw red. He was up and across the space before anyone else couldmove, grabbing Visen by the collar and slamming him down onto the table. Dishes clattered. Ales spilled. Conversations stopped.
“I should’ve killed you last night,” Theron growled. Then came the blade. He rammed the tip of his knife into Visen’s gut, just enough to twist it and cause agony without killing him. Visen choked on his own scream as Theron cut off his air with a hand around his throat. Blood pooled across the table. Silence echoed around them, save for the squelch of pain and Theron’s labored breathing. When Visen finally passed out cold, Theron dropped his limp body to the dirt.
“We do not disrespect women,” he barked. “Get him out of here.”
Two warriors moved to drag Visen’s body away as Theron returned to his seat and downed what remained of the ale before him.
“I mean that one was mine, but sure,” Xaden drawled, plopping into the seat next to him. “You can steal my drink and my dramatic entrances. No big deal.” Theron shot him a glare but said nothing. Xaden smirked and leaned forward, eyes twinkling as he looked to Layla. “That must’ve been a hell of a show for someone like you, huh?”
Layla glanced up, arching a brow. “Someone like me?”
“I mean, you’re not exactly from around here.” Xaden chuckled and took a long swig of a new ale. “Sorry. That sounded worse than I meant it. I just mean—here, respecting women isn’t optional. It’s law. Shit like what he said doesn’t get put up with around here." He shrugged then went on slightly more chipper, “My name’s Xaden by the way.”
Layla let out a cold laugh and stirred her bowl. “Oh, is that what this is? Respect?” Her voice dripped venom. “Guess I missed that memo somewhere between being left in a pit to starve to death, forced to kill a man just to survive, and ending up elbow-deep in deer intestines.” Shepaused as she lifted her spoon. “And just when I thought the welcome couldn’t get any warmer, your friend over there assaulted me under the stars last night. Truly—” she looked up, deadpan, “—I’ve never felt more cherished.”
Sparrow choked on his ale.
“Oh and nice to meet you Xaden.” She said with feigned politeness.
Xaden blinked. “For Fucks sake,” he muttered as his eyes went wide to her admission. His fork hovered midair as he glanced from Layla to Theron. Theron hadn’t moved, but he was practically vibrating with tension, his knuckles white around his mug of ale, clearly about to crush it.
Xaden leaned back with a dry chuckle and acted as though he was deep in thought stroking his chin. "Noted. Next enemy princess we capture- we'll skip the pits and fists, and go straight to wine, silk robes, fine furs. Wouldn't want anyone thinking us savages." He winked at her as the mock sincerity broke through her nerves.
Layla’s mouth parted slightly before she threw her head back and laughed—truly laughed. The sound was unexpected, bright and unguarded. Theron loved it. He could’ve lived in that sound, if only it weren’t born from the nightmare she was recounting.
“Thank you,” she said, still giggling as she shook her head. “I would’ve much preferred that kind of welcome.”
As Layla finally calmed herself, she swiped a mug of ale and took a long drink. Theron blinked. Xaden blinked. Even Sparrow looked vaguely impressed.
“Well then,” Xaden said, slowly grinning. “Didn’t have you pegged for the ale type. You might survive here after all.”
Layla wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yeah, I would have much preferred wine but when you’re with savages...” She shrugged her shoulders and took another gulp.
Her raw retelling struck Theron like a fist to the ribs. His throat tightened. She wasn’t just talking about Visen—she was talking about all of it. About him. About the night he’d captured her, and every moment since. She was suffering because he’d brought her here. Because he hadn’t stepped in when he should have, even when his instincts screamed at him to act. Because he always followed orders.
Theron’s fists curled beneath the table, knuckles white. He stared down at his untouched bowl, unable to look at her—unwilling to let her see the maelstrom unraveling behind his eyes. Guilt twisted low in his gut, sharp and relentless. Without a word, he stood, pushing back from the table with enough force to make the wood shudder.
“Let’s go,” he snapped. Layla blinked but rose without protest. Sparrow silently stood as well, falling into place behind them.
As they passed through the rows of huts, Theron kept his eyes forward but his thoughts knotted tight. Something had been weighing on her all evening. The sharpness in her voice, the hollowness in her stare—it had started before Visen’s taunt. He wanted to ask. To help. But the words caught in his throat like thorns. Deep down, he knew he didn’t deserve her explanation. Not after what she’d endured. Not after the part he played. So he didn’t dare press her. They reached his hut, Sparrow falling back a few paces. Theron turned to him.
“Watch the hut tonight.” Sparrow nodded once, arms folding across his chest as he leaned against the outer wall. Theron lifted the hide and gestured for Layla to step inside.Layla immediately walked overand sat on the cot, her shoulders slumped as she stared down at her feet, seemingly lost in a world far from this one. No sharp words. No fire in her eyes. Just a heavy, echoing silence that wrapped around her like a second skin.
Theron lingered near the wall, his jaw tight. He would never take a cot from a woman, especially not from her. So the ground would have to do. He reached up and unfastened his leather armor, peeling it away with a quiet exhale. The hide shirt followed, damp with the sweat and weight of the day. As he stripped it off, he caught the slightest flicker of movement—Layla, peeking up through her lashes, momentarily drawn from her trance. Her eyes dipped to his chest, lingering, before she blinked and looked away just as quickly. Theron swallowed hard.Keep it together.
He crouched beside the cot and bundled the shirt beneath his head. The cold earth beneath him was a welcome contrast to the fever that licked at his skin whenever she was near. A chill against the heat she stirred without even trying. The muscle in his body began to ease, tension slowly uncoiling from his spine as he listened to her move—slow and hesitant—before she finally settled into the cot.
Theron stared up at the hut ceiling, tracing the faint beams of moonlight like they could spell out the answer to the turmoil brewing in his chest. He’d done worse things in war. Captured worse men. Followed harder orders. But none of them lingered in his thoughts the wayshedid.Layla Eradellian. The woman he had unknowingly dragged from her fallen palace. The woman who, despite everything, made him want to question orders for the first time in his life. And yet, he couldn’t. Hewas a soldier forged by obedience. And now, he was the weapon that had carved her life apart.
