Back in my room, I lean against the door, heart racing. All I can think about is the way his voice wrapped around those Latin words, his big calloused fingers gently plucking and stroking the strings of the lyre like he was bleeding music instead of blood.
The last time I felt attraction like this was when Scott courted me a quarter of a century ago. This feels different, though. Terrifying. Stronger. Hungrier. Like something I won’t be able to rein in even if I try. Every red flag in me waves, screaming not to surrender, not to let myself be consumed. But the part of me that’s been starved for something real… doesn’t want to stop.
I crawl into bed, but rest doesn’t come. Every time I close my eyes, I hear his voice—rich and raw, a lullaby and a confession all at once. It winds around me like invisible hands, holding me too close. And instead of pushing it away, I find myself clinging tighter.
Quintus—with the voice of an angel, the soul of a poet, and the steady hands of a man who fixes what’s broken.
The safe attraction to Flavius suddenly feels ridiculous—like swooning over a paint-by-number when there’s a masterpiece hanging right next to it. Flavius makes me feel young and silly. But Quintus makes me feel like a woman worth being serenaded under the stars.
I’m in so much trouble. And God help me, I’m not sure I want to be saved.
Chapter Seven
Quintus
Something in the air feels charged, like the hush before a storm.
I can’t pinpoint what exactly, but change hums through my pre-dawn routine. Hours before sunrise, my instincts prickle—like in the arena when the crowd turned restless before I could see why.
The horses sense it too. Apollo nickers softly as I pass his stall, ears pricked forward like he’s listening for something just beyond hearing. The morning feels expectant, as if waiting for something I can’t name.
I complete my circuit of the compound—testing gear, noting what needs repair. The same ritual I’ve performed every day since awakening in this strange new world. But today, familiar patterns feel somehow significant.
By the time the sun rises over the Missouri countryside, I’ve tightened the latches on the tack room door and realigned a loose fence post in the paddock. Although the work is complete, satisfaction doesn’t come. My mind drifts elsewhere.
To hazel eyes that catch flecks of gold in sunlight and spontaneous laughter. To the way she pressed her lips together while concentrating yesterday. To the memory of working in lamplight while she watched from her bed, asking questions that showed genuine interest rather than polite patience. And then—her voice soft with intent—saying she wanted to know the man, notthe legend. The way my own reckless answer slipped free:Then see me.Those words echo louder than any hammer on iron.
The dining hall fills with morning energy as I sit down for breakfast. Voices blur around me, but I’m scanning for one face.
Nicole enters with her training group, and suddenly the hall feels smaller, pressure building behind my ribs as if the air itself recognizes her before I do.
She looks the same—brown hair catching sunlight, stride steady with growing confidence. But the way her eyes dart around the room sets off every instinct I’ve honed in the arena.
She’s nervous.
Our gazes meet across the dining hall, and she quickly looks away, color rising in her cheeks like she’s been caught at something. The reaction is so sharp I nearly rise to ask what’s wrong.
But she’s already turning toward the food line, shoulders set like she wants distance.
Something happened. Something that involves me, judging by the way she can’t quite meet my eyes. Did I say something wrong last night? Do something that made her uncomfortable?
I replay our conversation—window repaired, comfortable talk, …and the startling intimacy of her words. The way her gaze lingered like she was torn between fear and desire. Her gratitude had been real, yes—but so was something deeper I don’t dare name.
What changed between then and now?
The question follows me through morning training. Usually, teaching younger gladiators quiets my mind. Today, I keep glancing toward the neighboring area where Nicole trains with Maya’s group. She throws herself into every movement as though she’s fighting something inside her.
I know that trick. Used it myself during the worst days in theludus—drive the body hard enough andthe mind goes quiet.
“Your head’s not in this today,” Cassius observes during a water break. He follows my gaze and smirks. “Ah. The brunette.”
“Her name is Nicole.” The smirk on his face reminds me that he was the one who told me her name yesterday.
“And she’s got you distracted.”
“Something’s wrong,” I admit. “She won’t look at me.”
“Maybe that’s good news. When a woman won’t meet a man’s eyes, it usually means she noticed more than she meant to.”
