Page 56 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
And soon, the world will finally hear it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Raven
The interview equipment sits packed and silent in the corner of the safe house living room, but the energy between us crackles like lightning before a storm. Lucius stands by the window, still marked with the ritual paint from the recording—white symbols stark against his pale skin, transforming him into something between man and myth.
We spent time reviewing the tape and we both concluded that not a word needed to be edited. His words, his revelations, his story, his way.
“It’s done,” he says quietly, his voice carrying the weight of the choice he’s just made. “No taking it back now.”
The vulnerability in his admission breaks something open in my chest. For the first time since I’ve known him, he’s chosen to be seen—truly seen—rather than hidden or exploited. The trust implicit in that choice, the faith he’s placed in me to handle his story with dignity, overwhelms me.
“You were magnificent,” I whisper, moving toward him. “Completely in control. You owned every moment.”
He turns from the window, those impossible eyes reflecting the dying light. The ritual markings on his face and neck catch the shadows, making him look like a pagan god stepped down from ancient friezes. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
The admission hangs between us, heavy with implication. We’ve crossed so many boundaries together—professional to personal, past to present, mistrust to faith. Only one remains.
“The paint,” I observe, reaching up to trace one of the symbols on his cheek. The mixture feels cool and slightly gritty beneath my fingertips. “You’re still wearing your armor.”
His smile holds a hint of darkness that sends desire flashing through me. “Perhaps I no longer need protection from you.”
“No,” I agree, stepping closer until I can feel the heat radiating from his skin and smell the spicy scent emanating from his pores. “Perhaps you don’t.”
His hand rises to capture mine against his face, those pale eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my heartbeat stumble. “Rosemary,” he says, using my real name like anincantation. “I want to claim you. Completely. The way Roman priests claimed their sacred vessels.”
The possessive edge in his voice should probably alarm me. Instead, it sends a surge of wet hunger through my blazing core, my nipples hardening beneath my shirt. “Yes,” I breathe without hesitation. “Whatever you want. However you want it.”
Something shifts in his expression—surprise giving way to raw hunger, careful control fracturing to reveal the predator beneath. For a moment, I glimpse the gladiator who survived impossible odds, the priest who commanded forces beyond mortal understanding.
“Dangerous words,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing my lower lip before pressing inside. “You don’t know what you’re offering.”
I close my lips around his thumb, sucking gently while maintaining eye contact. I lick the tip of his thumb in a slow, sensuous circle, then pull away just far enough to challenge, “Try me.”
His sharp intake of breath tells me I’ve found my mark. In one fluid motion, he spins me around, pressing my back against the wall. His body cages me in, hands braced on either side of my head as he leans down until his lips barely brush my ear.
“In Rome,” he whispers, his accent thicker with desire, “there were rituals for claiming what belongs to you. Sacred ceremonies that bound souls across the veil between worlds.Once marked, you would be mine in ways that transcend the merely physical.”
“Mark me,” I demand, arching against him until my breasts press against his chest. “Make me yours in every way.”
His laugh is low and dangerous. “Such a brave little death-walker. So eager to cross forbidden thresholds.”
His mouth crashes against mine in a kiss that’s pure possession—tongue claiming every inch as his hands tangle in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it. I moan into his mouth, my hands clutching at his shoulders as he consumes me like a man starved.
When he breaks away, we’re both breathing hard. “Strip,” he commands, stepping back. “Everything. Now.”
The authority in his voice makes my knees weak and my pussy clench with need. I comply, peeling away layers with trembling fingers as his eyes track every inch of revealed skin. When I’m finally naked, his gaze devours me with such intensity I feel branded by it.
“Magnificent,” he breathes, circling me slowly like a predator appraising his prey. “But incomplete.”
He moves to his bag, retrieving the ritual paint along with items I don’t recognize—small vials, dried herbs, what looks like incense. When he returns, his eyes hold an intensity that makes my core throb with anticipation.
“Give me your hands,” he instructs.
I extend them, and he begins painting intricate symbols up my arms. But this paint feels different—warmer, almost alive against my skin. Each stroke sends electric jolts of pleasure straight to my clit.
“What’s in this?” I gasp as he traces a spiral around my left breast, the mixture making my nipple tighten into an aching peak.
