The thought hits like a punch. Attraction. Real interest.
But her nervousness suggests fear, not desire.
“Or,” I say slowly, “she decided I was overstepping last night. Helping with her window, being in her room. Maybe she’s not comfortable now.”
“Did she seem uncomfortable when you were there?”
I think back to the lamplight on her face, to the moment her words stripped me bare. To the silence after mine, heavy and dangerous.
“No. She seemed… pleased.”
“Then it’s probably the other thing.”
His words echo long after training ends, feeding the fire I keep trying to smother with reason. The idea lodges like a splinter: maybe he felt it too. Maybe this isn’t one-sided.
Her avoidance calls up another memory—my mother’s lullaby, a song she said could preserve hope when everything else was stripped away. In theludus, music kept me human when I was meant to be only a weapon. Now Nicole’s gaze threatens to do the same.
What draws me to her grows stronger daily. It started before our first official meeting in the barn. It was hard not to notice how her independence grew with each training session. Or hergenuine laughter that lights up whatever room she’s in. The way she’s begun to walk in power instead of shrinking into corners. Her intelligence and curiosity—always asking thoughtful questions instead of just accepting surface answers.
And yes, the physical pull too. The grace she’s developing as her confidence builds. The delicate column of her throat when she tilts her head back to drink water. The warmth of her smile when she forgets to be cautious.
But it’s more than that. Last night, she pierced through everything I hide behind and asked to knowme.And I—like a fool or a man too starved for truth—invited her to look closer. The danger of that invitation coils within me still.
I’ve spent so long being the reliable one, the problem-solver everyone comes to, that I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be seen as just… a man. Not a weapon. Not a savior. Just a man—with wants, needs, and the capacity for connection.
She’s clearly not looking for romance. Came here for herself, for her own growth and empowerment. The last thing I want is to complicate her journey with expectations she hasn’t invited.
But the way she looked at me today suggests maybe the attraction isn’t entirely one-sided. Perhaps she saw something new, something that caught her off guard.
Dinner brings another charged moment when our gazes meet across the communal hall. Her gaze lingers, tracing the scar at my temple, sliding lower as if caught by the line of my mouth. Awareness sparks under my skin, hot and immediate, before I even let myself breathe.
When she finally breaks contact, the flush in her cheeks is unmistakable.
Maybe Cassius was right. Maybe her nervousness isn’t rejection—it’s recognition. The beginning of something neither of us expected.
The thought sends a dangerous warmth through me. I’ve faced men twice my size in the arena, stared down blades with deathin their edges, but the idea of Nicole wanting me—truly seeing me—unsettles me more than combat ever did.
I go to sleep that night with a new feeling coiled tight beneath my ribs. Not just hope. Not just attraction.
Hunger. The kind that makes sleep shallow and sharpens every sense. The dizzying possibility that, after waiting two millennia, I might finally be seen—not as a weapon, not as a protector, but as a man.
Chapter Eight
Nicole
Two days since I heard Quintus singing under the Missouri stars, and I still can’t stop thinking about his voice—low and unguarded, a sound that crawls under my skin and refuses to leave. The memory hits me at the most inconvenient moments. During self-defense drills, while reviewing grant proposals, even brushing my teeth, for crying out loud. He’s everywhere.
This wasn’t the plan. The plan was simple: learn to kick ass, feel strong in my body, maybe have some harmless fun fantasizing about the charming redhead who makes me laugh. The plan definitely didn’t include developing complicated feelings for a man whose voice could make angels weep.
“Nicole, you’re telegraphing your moves.” Maya’s sharp observation cuts through my distraction. “Whatever’s got your head in the clouds, park it outside the training room.”
Heat floods my cheeks as I reset my stance. Focus. This is about building strength and confidence, not fixating over midnight serenades I was never supposed to hear.
“Better. Now, Quintus is going to demonstrate the counter to that combination. Pay attention to hand placement.”
Of course he is. The universe clearly has a twisted sense of humor. The man who has consumed every waking (and some dreaming) thought for the last two days has suddenly been enlisted to help teach my class.
Quintus steps into the center of our practice area, and my mouth goes dry. In daylight, wearing workout clothes instead of the casual jeans and T-shirt I’m used to seeing him in, the man is… substantial. Broad shoulders, arms that speak of decades wielding heavy weapons, movements both controlled and predatory.
