Page 31 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus
“I learned from watching you fight for your dreams even when someone spent decades telling you they didn’t matter.” Ava’s smile is fierce with love. “You taught me that wanting more doesn’t make you selfish. Maybe it’s time you believed that too.”
After we hang up, I stare at my reflection in the darkened window. The woman looking back appears confident and strong, but inside I feel like that eighteen-year-old girl who got pregnant and let fear dictate every major decision that followed.
What if Ava’s right? What if the problem isn’t Quintus or my feelings for him, but my terror of trusting my own judgment about what I want and deserve?
That thought stays with me throughout the day, humming under the surface as I move through meals and training. Everyone here has their own scars, their own burdens, and still they find ways to laugh, to fight, to belong. Somehow, I’m part of that now—and the realization both comforts and terrifies me.
Later, alone in my room with anxiety gnawing at my stomach, I pull up my calendar and stare at the approaching end date for the intensive program.
Less than two full weeks left. Then what?
I could sign up for an additional four-week advanced session—I’ve already done the paperwork, though I haven’t submitted it yet. But that’s just postponing the inevitable decision. Eventually, I have to choose between the life I was building and whatever this is becoming.
My apartment lease runs through next summer. I’m registered for spring semester classes that require physical attendance. The nonprofit where I work part-time is counting on me for its grant application season.
Real life. Responsibilities. The careful structure I built to support my independence.
But now, lying here in the dark, listening to the Missouri breeze through my open window, I can’t imagine going back to that tiny apartment where I’d rattle around like a marble in a shoebox. I can’t picture returning to a life where my biggest excitement is a good grade on a paper nobody else cares about.
What if I give up everything and he decides I’m not worth it? What if I upend my carefully constructed independence, and he turns out to be just another man who wants to reshape me into something more convenient?
Or worse—what if I discover that I haven’t changed as much as I think I have? What if, faced with real love and partnership, I fall back into old patterns of making myself smaller to keep someone else happy?
My chest locks, breath shuddering out in shallow bursts. Heat crawls up my throat, shame and panic tangling until I can’t tell one from the other. My palms go clammy, my pulse pounding in my ears. This isn’t just a fear in my head—it’s in my body, in my bones, a muscle memory of erasing myself for someone else.
The fears circle like vultures, picking at my confidence until I’m left with nothing but doubt and the growing certainty that I need to protect myself before I lose everything I’ve worked so hard to build.
The silence where his music should be presses on me like a weight, every note he doesn’t play a reminder of how much space he already takes up inside me. I curl tighter beneath the covers, whispering a promise to myself I’m not sure I can keep: Tomorrow, I’ll remind Quintus this is temporary—even as terror coils low in my belly reminding me I might already have failed.
Chapter Fifteen
Quintus
Something has shifted, and I can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened. But the balance between us is wrong now—like a sword weighted off-center, every movement threatening to slip from my grasp.
During this morning’s self-defense training, I watch Nicole execute a perfect defensive sequence against Alaric, her technique flawless and her confidence evident. But when she catches me observing from across the yard, she offers only a brief nod before turning her attention back to Maya’s instruction.
A few days ago, that same accomplishment would have earned me a radiant smile, maybe even a subtle request for additional feedback later. Now she seems determined to keep our interactions purely professional during daylight hours.
“Excellent form today,” I tell her as the session ends and participants head toward the dining hall for lunch.
“Thank you.” Her response is polite but distant, like I’m any other instructor offering routine encouragement. The distance cuts sharper than steel, and I have no defense against it. “Maya’s been pushing us harder lately. It’s paying off.”
She falls into step with Jessica and Karen, immediately engaging them in animated conversation about their upcoming learning module. The message is clear—she has no interest in talking privately with me.
I study her interactions throughout the day, searching for clues to explain this gradual withdrawal. She’s present physically but emotionally absent, going through the motions of our arrangement while keeping her heart carefully locked away.
This evening, she comes to my quarters as she has for the past week. The sex is still incredible—if anything, more intense because of the emotional distance she’s trying to maintain. Her body yields with urgency, but the intimacy feels like combat where the rules keep shifting, every touch both an invitation and a withdrawal.
She takes me with fierce determination, like she’s trying to burn away her feelings through physical pleasure, but won’t meet my eyes when she reaches her peak. Afterward, she pulls away, dressing quickly, leaving silence where our conversations used to be.
“Stay,” I suggest as she reaches for her clothes. “We could talk.”
“I have an assignment due tomorrow. Need to get back to it.” Her smile is apologetic but firm. “Rain check?”
She’s gone before I can respond, leaving me staring at the door and wondering when passionate connection started feeling like a scheduled appointment she’s fulfilling out of obligation rather than desire.
The feeling isn’t entirely unfamiliar. This sense of being needed but not truly wanted.
