Page 35 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus
“Nicole.”
She stops but doesn’t turn around.
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. Strong enough to love someone without losing yourself.” Letting my voice carry all the conviction I feel, I add, “I hope someday you’ll believe that too.”
I watch her walk away, every step taking her further from the best thing that’s happened to me in over two millennia. In the arena, I faced men twice my size with blades thirsting for my blood, but none of them left me this gutted. None of them ever walked away carrying my heart in their hands.
But this isn’t the arena. My enemy isn’t Nicole—it’s the ghosts she still carries, the phantoms of a past that still dictate her future. And sometimes the strongest thing a warrior can do is give ground, let the opponent reveal their true position.
She thinks she’s protecting herself from losing her identity. What she’s actually doing is throwing away the first person who’s ever wanted to enhance it.
The realization settles in my chest like armor—heavy but necessary protection for what comes next. This isn’t over. Not because I won’t accept her choice, but because that choice was made from fear rather than wisdom.
I’ve faced death itself and emerged victorious. Fear won’t defeat me now. The woman who’s been learning to fight for herself will eventually realize she’s worth fighting for.
Until then, I’ll do what gladiators do best—endure, survive, and wait for the right moment to strike.
Some battles are too important to lose. And surrender has never lived in me—not in the arena, and not now. This is not defeat, only the pause before the next advance.
Chapter Seventeen
Nicole
Seven days have crawled by. One week left in the program, one week to survive in the same space as Quintus while pretending he doesn’t exist. I’ve mastered the art of strategic avoidance.
I know Quintus’s schedule now—not because I want to see him, but because I need to know exactly where he’ll be so I can be anywhere else. Morning training while he’s checking equipment. Lunch when he’s at the stables. Evening walks when he’s safely tucked away in the gladiators’ quarters.
Despite my efforts to avoid him, I catch glimpses of him through windows—shoulders set with the kind of resignation I recognize from movies when fighters accept a fate they can’t change. The sight of his quiet suffering makes my chest ache, but I’ve dug this hole too deep to climb out gracefully.
It’s exhausting.
This morning, he’s walking toward the far end of the property with tools slung over his shoulder, heading to the garum processing facility where the pungent smell of fermenting fish sauce keeps most people away.
Laura’s doing him a favor, I realize. Assigning him to remote projects where he won’t have to see me either. The knowledge sits like a weight on my chest, another layer of guilt.
“You look like hell,” Jessica observes, falling into step beside me as I head toward the training yard.
“Thanks. Just what every woman wants to hear.”
“I’m serious. When’s the last time you slept?” She studies my face with the concerned expression I’ve been getting from everyone lately. “Two hours doesn’t count.”
Karen folds her arms, her tone softer. “Honey, you look like you’re running on fumes. This isn’t sustainable.”
“I’m fine.”
Jessica snorts. “Sure. You’re the dictionary definition of thriving.”
“You’re miserable. We all see it.” Karen chimes in, her usual cheerful demeanor replaced by genuine worry. “Want to talk about what happened with your gladiator?”
“He’s not my gladiator.”
The words taste bitter. Because he was mine, wasn’t he? For those stolen weeks when I let myself believe casual could stay simple, he was absolutely mine. And I threw it away because I was too scared to find out what forever might look like.
“Okay, but whatever’s going on between you two is affecting the whole compound.” Jessica’s voice is gentle but persistent. “The tension is thick enough to choke on.”
During training, I throw myself into the exercises with savage intensity. Every punch, every kick, every defensive sequence becomes a way to work out the frustration and longing that’s been building inside me.
But even exhaustion can’t quiet the voice in my head that whispers his name at random moments. He laughed at something I said two weeks ago, and the memory still makes me smile. Hishands carried gentle competence when he curried Moonbeam. And there was reverence in the way he touched me—as though I were something precious instead of something to be endured.
