Page 20 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus
Real relationship was never possible—I was property, not a person. Feelings were uncharted terrain, left unexplored. Desire itself was forbidden, stamped out before it could grow. In theludus, wanting was weakness, and weakness was dangerous.
But she’s not asking me to want things I can’t have. She’s offering something mutual, something chosen.
The problem is, I already know this can’t stay only physical for me—no matter how much she tries to approach it like another lesson to master.
“I sense you’re protecting yourself from something,” I say gently, testing whether honesty will drive her away or draw her closer.
Her step falters slightly, and for a moment I think I’ve miscalculated. But then she nods, looking ahead rather than at me.
“Twenty-five years of learning that wanting things for myself was selfish. That my needs were inconvenient complications.” She glances at me sideways. “I’m still figuring out how to want something without apologizing for it.”
The pieces click into place—her careful approach, the way she’s treating this like a skill to be mastered rather than a feeling to be explored. She’s recovering from being with someone who taught her not to trust her own desires.
Whoever taught her that lie deserves the arena’s lessons—and I’d volunteer to give them. But that impulse won’t help her now.
What she needs is patience. Gentleness. Someone who can follow her lead while staying honest about what this means to me.
Because it already stirs more in me than she expects, and pretending otherwise would only build a lie between us.
“Wanting is not selfish,” I tell her as we pause near a bench beneath ancient oak trees. “Wanting is human. Whoever taught you such a thing sought only their own comfort, not your good.”
Her breath catches audibly, and when she looks at me, there’s something raw and grateful in her expression that makes my chest ache.
“How do you know exactly the right thing to say?”
“Experience with having my humanity questioned. I recognize the wounds.”
We’re standing close now, close enough to see the pulse at her throat, close enough that the air feels heavy with possibility.
Rather than sit on the bench, as I thought she might, she continues along the path that will take us back to the compound.
We walk in comfortable silence, listening to the soft noises of the night.
“Would you like to come in?” The invitation comes out slightly breathless as we approach her quarters. “Just… to talk more privately.”
The offer hangs between us, loaded with meaning. This is her choice, her invitation, her decision about what happens next.
For a moment I just look at her, memorizing the curve of her mouth, the heat in her eyes, the courage it takes to ask. “Are you certain?”
She meets my gaze directly. Her confidence this time feels real, not rehearsed.
“I’m certain I want to find out what this is.”
The honesty in her voice decides it for me. Not desire alone, but curiosity. Not mere attraction, but a true wish to explore what grows between us.
“Then yes. I would like that very much.”
Her smile is nervous and excited and beautiful, and when she opens her door and steps inside, I follow without hesitation.
The small room feels intimate in lamplight, transformed by intention from simple accommodation to private sanctuary. Her space, her rules, her choice.
The door closes behind us with a soft click that sounds like everything changing.
She turns to face me, and the awareness crackling between us suddenly has nowhere to hide. No more casual conversation, no more public spaces requiring careful behavior. Just the two of us and whatever we decide to make of this moment.
“I should probably mention,” she says, voice almost shy despite the bold invitation, “I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing here.”
“Neither am I,” I admit, which earns me another one of those transformative smiles.
