Page 34 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus
Her jaw visibly clenches, and I realize she’s been waiting for this conversation, dreading it, knowing it was inevitable.
“Fine. But somewhere private.”
I lead her toward the stables, past the main buildings to a quiet area near the equipment shed where we won’t be interrupted. The pounding in my chest is the same rhythm I carried into the arena before a fight that could decide my life.
“What are we doing here?” I ask without preamble, abandoning the careful diplomacy I’ve maintained for weeks. “Because this isn’t casual anymore, at least not for me.”
The directness hits her. She tries to mask it, but the flicker in her eyes betrays her. No gentle leading up to the topic, no careful phrasing. Just the truth she’s been avoiding.
“We agreed. No complications, no expectations.” She crosses her arms over her chest, building barriers. “You said you understood.”
“I tried to follow your rules.” My voice cracks with the frustration I’ve been swallowing for too long. “But I can’t pretend I don’t want more. Can’t pretend this is just sex when you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I sleep.”
Panic flashes across her face—exactly what I was afraid of, the moment when casual becomes complicated, when someone starts wanting more than she feels safe giving.
“This was supposed to be simple!” Her voice cracks, panic breaking through the brittle calm she’s tried to maintain.
“Simple for who?” My hands clench at my sides. “You get everything you want—the physical connection, the emotional safety of someone who won’t push for more than you’re willing to give. And I get what’s left over.”
“That’s not entirely true, Quintus.”
“Isn’t it? You come to me in the night, take what you want, and then leave before the sun. You treat me like a shadow—summoned when convenient, dismissed when daylight comes. Not a man of flesh and bone who aches for more than sweat and release.” The admission rips free like tearing sinew, more raw than any wound I ever carried from the sand.
She flinches as if I’ve struck her, and I realize the accusation hit home. She has been treating me like a convenience, something she can control completely. Did it never occur to her how this has touched me?
“I told you from the beginning this was temporary. I’m leaving when the program ends.”
“Are you? Because I heard Maya mention you were talking about staying for a second session. You’re taking online classes that don’t require you to be somewhere else.” I study her face, seeing the truth she won’t admit. “Sometimes it seems like you’re looking for reasons to stay.”
The observation lands hard because we both know it’s true. But admitting that means acknowledging she doesn’t want to leave, which leads to conversations she’s clearly not ready for.
“My life is in another state. I have commitments, responsibilities—”
“Excuses.” The word cuts through her protests. “What is it you fear from me, Nicole?”
Her mouth opens, then shuts, her jaw tightening like she’s holding back a scream. Finally, the words rip free, ragged and sharp: “That I’ll disappear again. That I’ll build my world around you and lose myself the way I did before—becoming what you need instead of who I am. I just found myself again. I can’t lose that.”
The confession slams into me with the weight of a mace I never saw coming. At last her fear has a name—and it’s me.
“I seek not your surrender, but your partnership,” I say gently. “To share in your triumphs, not diminish them.”
“You don’t understand.” Her voice cracks despite her efforts to stay controlled. “When I love someone, I disappear. I become what they need instead of who I am. I just found myself again—I can’t lose that.”
The pain in her voice hits me harder than any gladius ever did. No wonder she’s terrified of vulnerability.
“So you’ll throw away something real because you’re afraid it might not be perfect?”
The question hangs between us like a challenge. I watch her internal battle—the part that wants to trust warring with the part that remembers being broken.
“We should end this.” The words seem to tear something essential from her chest. “Clean breaks heal faster than drawn-out endings.” The moment splinters between us, sharp and jagged, leaving me bleeding though no wound mars my skin.
The pronouncement steals my breath, crushing my chest with the weight of loss, but I force myself to remain still—because in the arena, showing weakness invited death, and here, showing desperation would confirm her worst fears.
“If that’s what you truly want,” I say, each word deliberate and weighted. “But understand—I am not accepting this because I agree with your reasoning. I am accepting it because I respect your right to choose, even when that choice breaks both our hearts.”
The words scrape my throat raw, because all I want is to beg her to stay. To drop to my knees like a gladiator broken in the sand, stripped of everything but pain. But gladiators don’t beg—they bleed in silence. And the silence now feels louder than any Colosseum crowd I ever faced.
Something flickers in her eyes—surprise, maybe even doubt—but she nods once and turns toward the path back to the main buildings.
